Two for Sorrow (41 page)

‘Her condition is critical. Surprisingly, she escaped the fall without any serious damage other than a blow to the head, but the burns to her face, neck and chest are extensive and severe, particularly those on her chest where the cocoa soaked into her clothing and was kept in contact with her skin for longer. We've cleaned the wounds, drained the blistering and removed any loose rolls of epithelium—that's the thin tissue on the outside of the skin—but her body is in shock and her blood pressure dangerously low. The next two hours will be crucial, and even if she survives those, there's still plenty to worry about—secondary shock, anaemia, infection. I can't offer you any guarantees at the moment, I'm afraid, except with regard to her care.'

There was no point in beating about the bush. ‘Assuming
the best possible outcome, when will I be able to speak to her?'

‘Not for some time. If she regains consciousness—and I do mean if—she will still be in no state to be questioned by the police. The stress of that alone might kill her, and I couldn't possibly allow it. Apart from anything else, she has extensive burns to her lips and tongue which will make speech painful, if not impossible.'

‘Can you tell me what happened?'

‘I wasn't there, but I understand she tripped and fell down the stairs with a pan of scalding liquid. Quite what she was doing in that situation in the first place, I couldn't say. The running of the Cowdray Club is entirely Celia Bannerman's domain, but if you intend to ask her what the hell she thinks she's playing at by allowing that sort of thing to go on, then you have my full support. My girls have enough to do in their day-to-day work without wasting time on accidents that could have been prevented by common sense.'

Penrose detected a degree of animosity in the outburst which went back further than current events. ‘Where is Miss Bannerman now?' he asked.

‘Having her own injuries treated.'

‘Oh?'

‘Just minor burns on her hands from trying to help. After that, I advised her to go to her rooms to lie down—she was in shock herself.'

‘Was she first on the scene?'

‘By a matter of seconds, I gather. It was just as well that she was—someone without a nursing background might have done more damage by trying to help. Celia might have spent years in administration, but you never forget your practical training.'

‘I'll need to speak to her as soon as she's free, but do you have time to answer some more questions first? I wouldn't keep you if it weren't important.' She nodded. ‘You knew Marjorie Baker?'

‘I'd met her once or twice. This wretched circus on Monday night has been somewhat forced upon me—if it were up to me, it wouldn't be happening at all, but as it's done in the name of the college of which I'm president, I feel obliged to take part. Anyway, I met Miss Baker at the fashion house. She helped at the fittings. Please tell me that Lucy Peters is not a suspect for her murder.'

‘Would that shock you?'

‘Quite frankly, Inspector, it would horrify me. I'm sure you're already aware of recent shameful events at the Cowdray Club which have involved the police and which invariably reflect on the college. If you're now going to tell me that one of the club's employees is suspected of murder, I may as well hand in my resignation immediately. We're supposed to be two organisations devoted to the care of the sick and the professional needs of those who look after them. We prolong life. We do not take it.'

Penrose thought about Sach and Walters and others like them, and wondered where their crimes fitted into Miriam Sharpe's view of her profession. ‘Miss Peters isn't a nurse, though.'

‘That's hardly a distinction allowed for by the headline “Killer arrested at the heart of nursing”. And you haven't answered my question. Is she a suspect? I have a right to know how much disgrace Celia Bannerman has brought on us, if only to try to limit the damage.'

That antagonism was there again, and he was interested to
see that she made no attempt to hide it. She was right, of course: the papers would go to town on a story like this. ‘I'm not ruling anything out at the moment,' he said cautiously, ‘but I want to talk to Lucy Peters primarily because she was Marjorie's friend and I hope she might give me an insight into aspects of her life which other people can't. Nothing more than that at this stage.' He paused, thinking back to the
Tatler
photograph which he had been about to discuss with Nora Edwards again; Miriam Sharpe had been in that picture and, if Bannerman was right, she might have had a connection to Amelia Sach early in her career. ‘You spent some time at St Thomas's Hospital, I believe?'

She seemed surprised by his change of direction. ‘That's correct. I did my probationary period there and stayed on afterwards, first as a staff nurse and eventually as matron.'

‘When was that?'

‘From 1896 until 1916, when the college was established. Why?'

‘Did you know Amelia Sach and Annie Walters?'

‘What can that possibly have to do with anything?'

He repeated the question, although the expression on her face had already given him his answer, and, when she said nothing, added: ‘Marjorie Baker's father, who was also found dead last night, was Jacob Sach, Amelia's husband. I believe that Marjorie's death has something to do with the crimes and execution of those two women. Anything you can tell me about their history may help, no matter how irrelevant it seems.'

‘I knew
of
Amelia Sach, but that's all. Annie Walters, on the other hand, worked with me for a while. I assume by your question that you know they met at St Thomas's Hospital?'

‘I'd heard as much, yes.'

‘They were both trained midwives—Sach was young and ambitious, I gather; Walters was very much of the old school, a time when nursing was not the caring profession which it is today. Some people may tell you that I belong to that school myself, Inspector, but they confuse discipline with hard-heartedness; one does not necessarily lead to the other.' Penrose nodded; he had already seen enough of Miriam Sharpe's style to know exactly what she meant, but he wondered where she was going with her story. ‘Walters was the product of an emotionless regime, one which trained women to be psychologically robust, particularly in their dealings with patients. I'm not excusing what she did later on; plenty of nurses were trained in that way, but very few of them, to my knowledge, went on to be killers. But that environment blended with her particular mentality to create devastating results. In the late 1890s, we had a number of stillbirths at St Thomas's; that was not unusual in itself, but the number continued to escalate and the authorities were obliged to investigate. Walters was in attendance at many of these births, and it was thought that she may have been responsible.'

‘In what way?'

‘If a baby is suffocated at the point of delivery, before it has a chance to take its first breath, then the death will appear to all intents and purposes like a stillbirth. She was reported by one of her colleagues, but there was no proof and of course she denied it. She was dismissed, but no criminal charges were brought because of the lack of evidence. Gossip was rife amongst the nurses, as you can imagine, and there's no question that Sach would have heard about it. She left shortly after-wards to have her own child, but I often wonder if it was that
incident which sowed the seeds of the scheme which she developed later, and I feel to a certain extent responsible. You see, Inspector, I reported Annie Walters to my superior and began the chain of action against her. It's a turning point, in hindsight, which disturbs me a great deal.'

‘You could hardly have kept quiet, though. Who knows how many more lives might have been lost? More, probably, than Sach and Walters took.'

‘Oh, I know, and I have no doubt that what I did was right. But the lesser of two evils is still evil, Inspector. You must see that all too often.'

He nodded, intrigued by a connection with the past which he had certainly not expected but unable to see how it aided his present concerns. ‘Indeed I do, Miss Sharpe, and thank you for being so frank. Now, I'd like to see Miss Peters's room.'

‘I'll get someone to show you where it is.'

‘Please don't worry. I've got to go back to reception—I'll ask there.'

There was no sign of Fallowfield in the foyer, so Penrose collected the key to Lucy's room from the night porter and followed the directions he was given to the servants' area on the third floor. The bedroom he wanted was just along the corridor from Josephine's, but it lay at the back of the house and, without the enviable view across Cavendish Square, its modest size made it oppressive and gloomy—not a great deal different from Lucy's Holloway accommodation, he thought wryly, looking at the narrow single bed and basic furniture.

There was no great sense of belonging in the room, and it did not take him long to establish that the wardrobe and bedside chest of drawers held nothing of any interest. There
was nowhere else to look except the bed, and there he had more luck: underneath the blanket, tucked by the pillow so that it wasn't obvious at a glance, he found the most valuable thing that Lucy Peters owned—a Box Brownie camera. He picked it up, surprised, and wondered if she'd come by it honestly or if it was another item missing from the club. Either way, it wouldn't take long to find out if anything helpful was on it. He checked the rest of the bed, then felt under the pillows and drew out two picture postcards, one of a row of beach huts and some sand dunes, the other of a lighthouse. There was no writing on either one, so he guessed that Lucy had bought or been given them as a souvenir of a visit. He looked at the location names printed on the back, and found that they were pictures of the Suffolk coast—one from Walberswick, the other Southwold. It was the second time he had seen Walberswick mentioned in a matter of hours; the first had been on Ethel Stuke's address card, and somehow he didn't think that was a coincidence.

He slipped the postcards into his jacket pocket and picked up the camera. Just as he was about to leave, the door opened and he was surprised to see Celia Bannerman. At first, he thought she had been told that he wanted to see her, but the look of astonishment on her face soon told him that whatever had brought her to Lucy's room, it wasn't him. ‘I'm sorry to barge in on you, Inspector,' she said, flustered, ‘but I didn't expect to find anyone in Lucy's room.'

‘Can I ask why you're here?'

‘It sounds silly, I suppose, but I thought she might appreciate some familiar things near her when she comes round.'

Penrose glanced at the bare walls and surfaces. ‘She doesn't strike me as the type to collect much,' he said, a little
sarcastically. ‘And my understanding is that she may not come round at all.'

She stared defiantly at him, having regained her usual composure. ‘It's wise to stay positive, in my experience.' She pointed at the camera in his hand, and he noticed that her hand and wrist were bandaged. ‘You've found that, I see. The owner will be pleased to have it back.'

‘In due course, Miss Bannerman. I need to hold on to it for now. It's fortuitous that you're here, though—I wanted to ask you a few questions about Lucy's accident. Did you see what happened?'

‘No. I'd just left the drawing room and was coming down the corridor to the stairs when I heard Lucy's screams. I ran to the staircase immediately, but she was already lying in the stairwell.'

She had the sense not to offer more information than was asked for, Penrose noticed. ‘And you assumed she'd fallen?'

‘I didn't assume anything at first—I just went to help her. But afterwards, of course that's what I thought. What other explanation could there be? Her shoelace was undone, and she'd obviously tripped over that on her way up the stairs or lost her balance through the weight of the pan. Lucy should never have been carrying something like that up the stairs on her own,' she added, taking the words right out of Penrose's mouth, ‘but the lift is out of order and I suppose she thought she had no choice.'

‘Did you touch the pan?'

‘I moved it when I went to help her. I blame myself for what's happened, I'm afraid—I should have been more vigilant.'

‘Why didn't you call me as soon as Lucy returned to the club?'

Her demeanour changed instantly when she saw that he had no sympathy with her self-recriminations. ‘I left a message as you'd instructed, Inspector, so please have the decency to acknowledge your own shortcomings as I have mine. Cowdray Club business can hardly be brought to a standstill while we wait for the left hand of Scotland Yard to communicate with the right.'

‘No, Miss Bannerman, of course it can't. A girl has been murdered and another one lies at death's door, but evening cocoa must still be drunk.' He ushered her into the corridor, locking the door behind him. ‘There will be a police presence outside the treatment room until Lucy regains consciousness,' he said, as he walked with her back to the stairs. ‘I'll take your advice, and remain positive that we'll be able to speak to her very soon. There's no doubt in my mind that she holds the key to Marjorie's murder.'

It was said with a confidence which he certainly didn't feel, but he thought he saw a flicker of fear pass across Celia Bannerman's face. On their own, the lies that she had told signified nothing; taken together, though, they painted a rather different picture, and the possibility that she had simply been mistaken on so many accounts was slim. He wondered if he should confront her with them now, but decided against it; there was nothing that he could relate directly to Marjorie's murder, and the other reason for bringing things to a head—ensuring Lucy's safety, albeit a little late—could be easily achieved by the police presence he had warned her of. No—before he talked to Celia Bannerman again, he wanted to find out if Marjorie and Lucy had been to see Ethel Stuke, and, if so, what she had told them.