Shroud for a Nightingale (25 page)

Sergeant Masterson, the more furious because he knew the rebuke to be justified, controlled himself with difficulty. He found any criticism difficult to take; from Dalgliesh it was almost impossible. He stiffened to attention like an old soldier on a charge, knowing full well that Dalgliesh would be exasperated rather than mollified by this punctilio, and contrived to sound at the same time both aggrieved and contrite.

“Greeson is a good searcher. I haven’t known Greeson miss anything before. He can use his eyes all right, sir.”

“Greeson has excellent eyesight. The trouble is that there’s no connection between his eyes and his brain. And that’s where you come in. The damage is done now. There’s no point in holding a post mortem. We don’t know whether this tin was in the bucket or not when Fallon’s body was discovered this morning. But at least we’ve found it now. The laboratory has the viscera by the way. Sir Miles called in with it about an hour ago. They’re already putting some of the stuff through the gas chromatograph. Now that they know what they’re looking for it should speed things. We’d better get this tin off to them as soon as. possible. But we’ll have a look at it first”

He went over to his murder bag for the finger-print powder, insuffilator and lens. The squat little tin became sooty under his careful hands. But there were no prints, only a few amorphous smudges on the faded label.

“Right,” he said. “Find the three Sisters, will you Sergeant? They’re the ones most likely to know where this tin came from. They live here. Sister Gearing is in her sitting-room.”

The others should be somewhere around. And if Sister Brumfett is still on her ward she’ll have to leave it Anyone who dies in the next hour must do so without her assistance.“

“Do you want to see them separately or together?”

“Either. It doesn’t matter. Just get them. Gearing’s the one most likely to help. She looks after the flowers.”

Sister Gearing arrived first. She came in jauntily, her face perked with curiosity and flushed with the lingering euphoria of a successful hostess. Then her eyes lit on the tin. The transformation was so immediate and startling that it was almost comic. She gasped, “Oh, no!”, shot her hand to her mouth and sank into the chair opposite Dalgliesh, deadly pale.

“Where did you… ? Oh my God! You’re not telling me that Fallon took nicotine?”

“Took, or was given. You recognize this tin, Sister?”

Sister Gearing’s voice was almost inaudible.

“Of course. It’s my… isn’t it the tin of rose spray? Where did you find it?”

“Somewhere about the place. Where and when did you see it last?”

“It’s kept in that white cupboard under the shelf in the conservatory, just to the left of the door. All my gardening stuff is there. I can’t remember when I saw it last”

She was on the edge of tears; happy confidence completely dissolved.

“Honestly, it’s just too awful! It’s frightful! I feel dreadful about it. I really do. But how was I to tell that Fallon would know the stuff was there and use it? I didn’t even remember about it myself. If I had, I’d have gone to check that it was still there. I suppose there’s no doubt about it? She did die of nicotine poisoning?”

“There’s a great deal of doubt until we get the toxicology report. But taking the common-sense view, it looks as if this stuff killed her. You bought it when?”

“Honestly, I can’t remember. Sometime early last summer, just before the roses were due. One of the other Sisters might remember. I’m responsible for most of the plants in. the conservatory here. At least, I’m not really responsible; it’s never been an official arrangement But I like flowers and there’s no one else to bother so I do what I can. I was trying to establish a small rose bed outside the dining-room, too, and I needed the stuff to kill pests. I bought it from Bloxham’s Nurseries on the Winchester Road. Look, you can see the address stamped on the label. And I kept it with my other gardening things, gloves and string and the watering cans and trowels and so on, in the corner cupboard in the conservatory.”

“Can you remember when you last saw it?”

“Not really. But I went to the cupboard for my gloves last Saturday morning. We had a special service at the chapel on Sunday and I wanted to do the flowers. I thought I might be able to find some interesting boughs, bits of autumn foliage or seed pods in the garden to help the decoration. I don’t remember seeing the tin there on Saturday but I think I might have noticed if it were actually missing. But I’m not sure. I haven’t used it for months.”

“Who else knew that it was there?”

“Well, anyone could have known. I mean, the cupboard isn’t locked and there was nothing to stop people looking inside. I suppose I ought to have locked it but one doesn’t expect… I mean if people are going to kill themselves they’ll find a way somehow. I feel-absolutely awful but I wont be made to feel responsible. I won’t! It isn’t fair! She could have used anything. Anything!”

“Who could?”

“Well, Fallon. If Fallon did kill herself. Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Did Nurse Fallon know about the nicotine?”

“Not unless she looked in the cupboard and found it. The only people I can say for certain who did know are Brumfett and Rolfe. I remember that they were sitting in the conservatory when I put the tin into the cupboard. I held it up and said something daft about having enough poison there to kill the lot of them, and Brumfett told me that I ought to lock it up.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Well, I put it straight away in the cupboard. There isn’t a lock so I couldn’t do anything about it Anyway, the tin’s labeled clearly enough. Anyone can see that it’s poison. And one doesn’t expect people to kill themselves. Besides, why the nicotine? Nurses have plenty of opportunity to get hold of drugs. It’s not fair to blame me. After all, the disinfectant which killed Pearce was just as lethal. No one complained because that was left in the lavatory. You can’t run a nurse training school like a psychiatric unit. I’m not going to be blamed. People here are supposed to be sane, not homicidal maniacs. I won’t be made to feel guilty. I won’t!”

“If you didn’t use the stuff on Nurse Fallon there’s no reason why you should feel guilty. Did Sister Rolfe say anything when you brought in the tin?”

“I don’t think so. Just looked up from her book. But I cant really remember. I can’t even tell you exactly when it was. But it was a warm sunny day. I do remember that I think it was probably in late May or early June. Rolfe may remember, and Brumfett certainly will.”

“We’ll ask them. In the meantime I’d better have a look at this cupboard.”

He left the tin of nicotine for Masterson to pack for dispatch to the laboratory, told him to send Sister Brumfett and Sister Rolfe to the conservatory, and followed Sister Gearing out of the room. She led him down to the ground floor, still muttering her indignant protests. They passed into the empty dining-room. The discovery that the door into the conservatory was locked shook Sister Gearing from her mood of frightened resentment.

“Damn! I’d forgotten. Matron thought we’d better keep it locked after dark because some of the glass isn’t too secure. You remember that a pane fell out during the storm? She’s afraid someone could get in this way. Usually we don’t bother to lock it until we do the final locking up last thing at night The key will be on the board in Rolfe’s office. Wait here. I won’t be a jiffy.”

She returned almost immediately and fitted the large old-fashioned key into the lock. They passed into the warm fungoid smell of the conservatory. Sister Gearing unerringly reached for the switch, and the two long tubes of fluorescent light, suspended from the high concave ceiling, flickered erratically, then burst into brilliance, revealing the arboreal jungle in all its rashness. The conservatory was a remarkable sight. Dalgliesh had thought so on his first tour of the house, but now, dazzled by the fierce glare on leaves and glass, he blinked in wonder. Around him a minor forest of greenery twined, sprouted, crept and burst in menacing profusion while, outside, its pale reflection hung in the evening air and stretched, motionless and insubstantial, into a green infinity.

Some of the plants looked as if they had flourished in the conservatory since the day it was built They sprang like mature if miniature palm trees from ornate urns, spreading a canopy of glistening leaves under the glass. Others, more exotic, sprouted bursts of foliage from their scarred and dentate stalks or, like giant cacti, lifted rubber lips, spongy and obscene, to suck the humid air. Between them the ferns sprayed a green shadow, their fragile fronds moving in the draught from the door. Around the sides of the great room were white shelves on which stood pots of the more domestic and agreeable plants which were Sister Gearing’s care—red, pink and white chrysanthemums, and African violets. The conservatory should have evoked a tender scene of Victorian domesticity, of fluttering fans and whispered confidences behind the palms. But for Dalgliesh, no corner of Nightingale House was free of the oppressive atmosphere of evil; the very plants seemed to be sucking their manna from a tainted air.

Mavis Gearing went straight over to a low, four-foot-long cupboard in white-painted wood, fitted underneath the wall shelf to the left of the door and hardly visible behind the curtain of waving ferns. It had one inadequate door fitted with a small knob and no lock. Together they crouched to look in it Although the overhead fluorescent lights were unpleasantly garish, the recesses of the cupboard were dim and their view obstructed by the shadow of their heads. Dalgliesh switched on his torch. Its beam revealed the usual paraphernalia of the indoor gardener. He made a mental inventory. There were balls of green twine, a couple of watering cans, a small spray, packets of seed, some opened and half-used with their tops pressed back, a small plastic bag of potting compost and one of fertilizer, about two dozen flower pots of varying sizes, a small stack of seed trays, pruning shears, a trowel and small fork, a disorderly pile of seedmen’s catalogues, three clothbound books on gardening, their covers stained and dirty, an assortment of flower vases, and bundles of tangled wire.

Mavis Gearing pointed to a space in the far corner.

“That’s where it was. I put it well back. It couldn’t have been a temptation to anyone. You wouldn’t even notice it, just opening the door. It was quite hidden really. Look, that’s the space—you can see where it was.”

She spoke with urgent self-justification, as if the empty space acquitted her‘ of all responsibility. Then her voice changed. It dropped a tone and became huskily pleading like an amateur actress playing a seduction scene.

“I know it looks bad. First, I was in charge of the demonstration when Pearce died. And now this. But I haven’t touched the stuff since I used it last summer. I swear I haven’t! I know some of them won’t believe me. They’ll be glad—yes glad—and relieved if suspicion falls on me and Len. It’ll let them out Besides they’re jealous. They’ve always been jealous. It’s because I’ve got a man and they haven’t but you believe me don’t you? You’ve got to believe me!”

It was pathetic and humiliating. She pressed her shoulder against his, as they knelt huddled together in a ridiculous parody of prayer. He could feel her breath against his cheek. Her right hand, the fingers twitching nervously, crept across the floor towards his hand.

Then her mood broke. They heard Sister Rolfe’s cold voice from the door.

The Sergeant told me to meet you here. Am I interrupting anything?“

Dalgliesh felt the pressure on his shoulder immediately released, and Sister Gearing scrambled gracelessly to her feet He got up more slowly. He neither felt nor looked embarrassed, but he was not sorry that Miss Rolfe had chosen that moment to appear.

Sister Gearing broke into explanation:

“It’s the rose spray. That stuff containing nicotine. Fallon must have taken it. I feel absolutely ghastly about it, but how as I to know? The Superintendent has found the tin.”

She turned to Dalgliesh.

“You didn’t say where?”

“No,” Dalgliesh said. “I didn’t say where.” He spoke to Miss Rolfe.

“Did you know the stuff was kept in this cupboard?”

“Yes, I saw Gearing put it there. Some time last summer wasn’t it?”

“You didn’t mention this to me.”

“I didn’t think of it until now. It never occurred to me that Fallon might have taken nicotine. And, presumably, we don’t yet know that she did.”

Dalgliesh said: “Not until we get the toxicology report.”

“And even then, Superintendent can you be sure that the drag came from this tin? There are other sources of nicotine at the hospital surely? This could be a blind.”

“Of course, although it seems to me highly unlikely. But the forensic science laboratory should be able to tell us that This nicotine is mixed with a proportion of concentrated detergent. It will be identifiably by gas chromatography.”

She shrugged.

“Well, that should settle it then.”

Mavis Gearing cried out: “What do you mean, other sources of supply? Who are you getting at? Nicotine isn’t kept in the pharmacy, as far as I know. And anyway Len had left Nightingale House before Fallon died.”

“I wasn’t accusing Leonard Morris. But he was on the spot when both of them died, remember, and he was here in this room when you put the nicotine in the cupboard. He’s a suspect like the rest of us.”

“Was Mr. Morris with you when you bought the nicotine?”

“Well, he was as a matter of fact. I’ve forgotten it or I would have told you. We’d been out together that afternoon and he came back here to tea.”

She turned angrily to Sister Rolfe.

“It’s nothing to do with Len, I tell you! He hardly knew Pearce or Fallon. Pearce hadn’t anything on Len.”

Hilda Rolfe said calmly: “I wasn’t aware that she had anything on anyone. I don’t know whether you’re trying to put ideas into Mr. Dalgliesh’s head, but you’re certainly putting them into mine.”

Sister Gearing’s face disintegrated into misery. Moaning, she jerked her head from side to side as if desperately seeking help or asylum. Her face, sickly and surrealist, was suffused with the green light of the conservatory.