Chapter One
Demonstration of Death
I
On the morning of the first murder Miss Muriel Beale, Inspector of NurseTraining Schools to the General Nursing Council, stirred into wakefulness soonafter 6 o'clock and into a sluggish early morning awareness that it was Monday,12th January, and the day of the John Carpendar Hospital inspection. Already shehad half-registered the first familiar sounds of a new day: Angela's alarmsilenced almost before she was conscious of hearing it; Angela herself paddingand snuffling about the flat like a clumsy but benevolent animal; the agreeablyanticipatory tinklings of early tea in preparation. She forced open her eyelids,resisting an insidious urge to wriggle down into the enveloping warmth of thebed and let her mind drift again into blessed unconsciousness. What on earth hadprompted her to tell Matron Taylor that she would arrive shortly after 9 A.M. intime to join the third-year students' first teaching session of the day? It wasridiculously, unnecessarily early. The hospital was in Heatheringfield on theSussex/Hampshire border, a drive of nearly fifty miles, some of which would haveto be done before daybreak. And it was raining, as it had rained with drearyinsistence for the past week. She could hear the faint hiss of car tyres on theCromwell Road and an occasional spatter against the window-pane. Thank God shehad taken the trouble to check the map of Heatheringfield to find out exactlywhere the hospital lay. A developing market town, particularly if it wereunfamiliar, could be a time-wasting maze to the motorist in the snarl ofcommuter traffic on a wet Monday morning. She felt instinctively that it wasgoing to be a difficult day and stretched out under the bedclothes as if bracingherself to meet it. Extending her cramped fingers, she half-relished the sharpmomentary ache of her stretched joints. A touch of arthritis there. Well, it wasto be expected. She was forty-nine after all. It was time she took life a littlemore gently. What on earth had led her to think she could get to Heatheringfieldbefore half past nine?
The door opened, letting in a shaft of light from the passage. Miss AngelaBurrows jerked back the curtains, surveyed the black January sky and therain-spattered window and jerked them together again. "It's raining," she saidwith the gloomy relish of one who has prophesied rain and who cannot be heldresponsible for the ignoring of her warning. Miss Beale propped herself on herelbow, turned on the bedside lamp, and waited. In a few seconds her friendreturned and set down the early morning tray. The tray cloth was of starchedembroidered linen, the flowered cups were arranged with their handles aligned,the four biscuits on the matching plate were precisely placed, two of a kind,the teapot gave forth a delicate smell of freshly made Indian tea. The two womenhad a strong love of comfort and an addiction to tidiness and order. Thestandards which they had once enforced in the private ward of their teachinghospital were applied to their own comfort, so that life in the flat was notunlike that in an expensive and permissive nursing home.
Miss Beale had shared a flat with her friend since they had both left the sametraining school twenty-five years ago. Miss Angela Burrows was the PrincipalTutor at a London teaching hospital. Miss Beale had thought her the paradigm ofnurse tutors and, in all her inspections, subconsciously set her standard by herfriend's frequent pronouncements on the principle of sound nurse teaching. MissBurrows, for her part, wondered how the General Nursing Council would managewhen the time came for Miss Beale to retire. The happiest marriages aresustained by such comforting illusions and Miss Beale's and Miss Burrow's verydifferent, but essentially innocent, relationship was similarly founded. Exceptin this capacity for mutual but unstated admiration they were very different.Miss Burrows was sturdy, thick-set and formidable, hiding a vulnerablesensitivity under an air of blunt common sense. Miss Beale was small andbirdlike, precise in speech and movement and threatened with an out-of-dategentility which sometimes brought her close to being thought ridiculous. Eventheir physiological habits were different. The heavy Miss Burrows awoke toinstantaneous life at the first sound of her alarm, was positively energeticuntil teatime, then sank into sleepy lethargy as the evening advanced. MissBeale daily opened her gummed eyelids with reluctance, had to force herself intoearly morning activity and became more brightly cheerful as the day wore on.They had managed to reconcile even this incompatibility. Miss Burrows was happyto brew the early morning tea and prepare breakfast and Miss Beale washed upafter dinner and made the nightly cocoa.
Miss Burrows poured out both cups of tea, dropped two lumps of sugar in herfriend's cup and took her own to the chair by the window. Early training forbadeMiss Burrows to sit on the bed. She said: "You need to be off early. I'd betterrun your bath. When does it start?"
Miss Beale muttered feebly that she had told Matron that she would arrive assoon as possible after nine o'clock. The tea was blessedly sweet and reviving.The promise to start out so early was a mistake but she began to think that shemight after all make it by 9:15.
"That's Mary Taylor, isn't it? She's got quite a reputation considering she'sonly a provincial matron. Extraordinary that she's never come to London. Shedidn't even apply for our job when Miss Montrose retired." Miss Beale mutteredincomprehensibly which, since they had had this conversation before, her friendcorrectly interpreted as a protest that London wasn't everybody's choice andthat people were too apt to assume that nothing remarkable ever came out of theprovinces.
"There's that, of course," conceded her friend. "And the John Carpendar's in avery pleasant part of the world. I like that country on the Hampshire border.It's a pity you're not visiting it in summer. Still, it's not as if she's matronof a major teaching hospital. With her ability she easily could be; she mighthave become one of the Great Matrons." In their student days she and Miss Bealehad suffered at the hands of one of the Great Matrons but they never ceased tolament the passing of that terrifying breed.
"By the way, you'd better start in good time. The road's up just before youstrike the Guildford by-pass."
Miss Beale did not inquire how she knew that the road was up. It was the sort ofthing Miss Burrows invariably did know. The hearty voice went on:
"I saw Hilda Rolfe, their Principal Tutor, in the Westminster Library this week.Extraordinary woman! Intelligent, of course, and reputedly a first-classteacher, but I imagine she terrified the students."
Miss Burrows frequently terrified her own students, not to mention most of hercolleagues on the teaching staff, but would have been amazed to be told it. MissBeale asked:
"Did she say anything about the inspection?"
"Just mentioned it. She was only returning a book and was in a hurry so wedidn't talk long. Apparently they've got a bad attack of influenza in the schooland half her staff are off with it."
Miss Beale thought it odd that the Principal Tutor should find time to visitLondon to return a library book if staffing problems were so difficult, but shedidn't say so. Before breakfast Miss Beale reserved her energy for thoughtrather than speech. Miss Burrows came round the bed to pour out the second cups.She said:
"What with this weather and with half the training staff off sick, it looks asif you're in for a pretty dull day."
As the two friends were to tell each other for years to come, with that cosypredilection for re-stating the obvious which is one of the pleasures of longintimacy, she could hardly have been more wrong. Miss Beale, expecting nothingworse of the day than a tedious drive, an arduous inspection, and a possibletussle with those members of the Hospital Nurse Education Committee who took thetrouble to attend, dragged her dressing-gown around her shoulders, stubbed herfeet into her bedroom slippers and shuffled off into the bathroom. She had takenthe first steps on her way to witness a murder.
II
Despite the rain, the drive was less difficult than Miss Beale had feared. Shemade good time and was in Heatheringfield just before 9 o'clock in time to meetthe last surge of the morning rush to work. The wide Georgian High Street wasblocked with vehicles. Women were driving their commuter husbands to the stationor their children to school, vans were delivering goods, buses were dischargingand loading their passengers. At the three sets of traffic lights thepedestrians streamed across the road, umbrellas slanted against the softdrizzle. The young had the spruce, over-uniformed look of the private-schoolchild; the men were mostly bowler-hatted and carrying briefcases; the women werecasually dressed with that nice compromise between town smartness and countryinformality, typical of their kind. Watching for the lights, the pedestriancrossings and the signpost to the hospital, Miss Beale had only a brief chanceto notice the elegant eighteenth-century guildhall, the carefully preserved rowof timber-fronted houses and the splendid crocketed spire of Holy Trinitychurch, but she gained an impression of a prosperous community which cared aboutpreserving its architectural heritage even if the row of modern chain stores atthe end of the High Street suggested that the caring might well have begunthirty years earlier.
But here at last was the signpost. The road to the John Carpendar Hospital ledupward from the High Street between a broad avenue of trees. To the left was ahigh stone wall which bounded the hospital grounds.
Miss Beale had done her homework. Her briefcase, plump on the back seat of thecar, contained a comprehensive note on the hospital's history as well as a copyof the last General Nursing Council Inspector's report and the comments of theHospital Management Committee on how far it had been possible to implement theinspector's optimistic recommendations. As she knew from her researches, thehospital had a long history. It had been founded in 1791 by a wealthy merchantwho had been born in the town, had left it in youthful penury to seek hisfortune in London, and had returned there in his retirement to enjoy patronizingand impressing his neighbours. He could have purchased fame and ensured hissalvation by succouring the widows and fatherless or by rebuilding the church.But the age of science and reason was succeeding the age of faith and it hadbecome fashionable to endow a hospital for the sick poor. And so, with thealmost obligatory meeting in a local coffee house, the John Carpendar Hospitalwas born. The original house, of some architectural interest, had long sincebeen replaced, first by a solid Victorian monument to ostentatious piety andthen by the more functional gracelessness of the twentieth century.
The hospital had always flourished. The local community was predominantlymiddle-class and prosperous, with a well-developed charitable sense and too fewobjects on which to indulge it. Just before the Second World War a well-equippedprivate patients' wing had been added. Both before and after the advent of theNational Health Service it had attracted wealthy patients, and consequentlyeminent consultants, from London and further afield. Miss Beale reflected thatit was all very well for Angela to talk about the prestige of a London teachinghospital, but the John Carpendar had its own reputation. A woman might wellthink there were worse jobs than being Matron of a developing district generalhospital, well thought of by the community it served, agreeably placed andfortified by its own local traditions.
She was at the main gates now. There was a porter's lodge on the left, an ornatedoll's house in tessellated brick, a relic of the Victorian hospital, and — onthe right — the doctor's car park. Already a third of the marked plots wereoccupied by the Daimlers and the Rolls. It had stopped raining and the dawn hadgiven way to the grey normality of a January day. The lights were full on in thehospital. It lay before her like a great ship at anchor, brightly lit, latentwith activity and power. To the left stretched the low glass-fronted buildingsof the new out-patient department. Already a thin stream of patients was makingits dispirited way to the entrance.
Miss Beale drew up alongside the inquiry hatch of the lodge, wound down the carwindow, and announced herself. The porter, ponderous and uniformed inself-importance, deigned to come out to present himself.
"You'll be the General Nursing Council, Miss," he stated grandiloquently. "Whata pity you decided to come in this gate. The Nurse Training School is inNightingale House, only 100 yards or so from the Winchester Road entrance.
We always use the back entrance for Nightingale House."
He spoke with reproachful resignation, as if deploring a singular lack ofjudgement which would cost him dear in extra work.
"But presumably I can get to the school this way?"
Miss Beale had no stomach for a return to the confusion of the High Street orintention of circling the hospital grounds in search of an elusive backentrance.
"Well you can, Miss." The porter's tone implied that only the wilfully obstinatewould try, and he settled himself against the car door as if to deliverconfidential and complicated directions. They proved, however, remarkablysimple. Nightingale House was in the hospital grounds at the rear of the newout-patient department.
"Just take this road to the left, Miss, and keep straight on past the mortuarytill you get to the resident medical quarters. Then turn to the right. There's asignpost where the road forks. You can't miss it."
For once this notoriously unpropitious assertion seemed justified. The groundsof the hospital were extensive and well wooded, a mixture of formal garden,grass, and clumped unkempt trees which reminded Miss Beale of the grounds of anold mental hospital. It was rare to find a general hospital so well endowed withspace. But the several roads were well signposted and only one led to the leftof the new out-patient department. The mortuary was easily identified, a squat,ugly little building tactfully sited among the trees and made more sinister byits strategic isolation. The medical officers' residence was new andunmistakable. Miss Beale had time to indulge her usual, frequently quiteunjustified, resentment that Hospital Management Committees were always moreready to rehouse their doctors than to provide adequate accommodation for thenurse training school, before noting the promised sign. A white painted boardpointed to the right and read "Nightingale House, Nurse Training School."
She changed gear and turned carefully. The new road was narrow and winding,banked high on each side with sodden leaves so that there was barely room forthe single car. Everywhere was dampness and desolation. The trees grew close tothe path and knitted themselves above it, ribbing the dark tunnel with theirstrong black boughs. From time to time a gust of wind brought down a spatter ofraindrops on the car roof or flattened a falling leaf against the windscreen.The grass verge was scarred with flower beds, regular and oblong as graves andspiked with stunted bushes. It was so dark under the trees that Miss Bealeswitched on her side lamps. The road shone before her like an oiled ribbon. Shehad left the car window down and could smell, even above the inevitable carsmell of petrol and warm vinyl, a sweet fungoid stench of decay. She feltstrangely isolated in the dim quietness and suddenly she was touched with anirrational unease, a bizarre sensation of journeying out of time into some newdimension, borne onwards towards an uncomprehended and inescapable horror. Itwas only a second's folly and she quickly shook it off, reminding herself of thecheerful bustle of the High Street less than a mile away and the nearness oflife and activity. But it had been an odd and disconcerting experience. Angry atherself at this lapse into morbid folly, she wound up the car window and steppedon the accelerator. The little car leaped forward.
Suddenly she found she had turned the last corner and Nightingale House wasbefore her. She nearly stood on the brakes in surprise. It was an extraordinaryhouse, an immense Victorian edifice of red brick, castellated and ornate to thepoint of fancy, and crowned with four immense turrets. It was brightly lit inthe dark January morning and after the gloom of the road it blazed at her likethe castle from some childhood mythology. An immense conservatory was graftedonto the right side of the house, looking, thought Miss Beale, more appropriateto Kew Gardens than to what had obviously once been a private residence. It wasless brightly lit than the house but through the faintly luminous glass shecould discern the sleek green leaves of aspidistras, the harsh red ofpoinsettias and the yellow and bronze blobs of chrysanthemums.
Miss Beale's recent moment of panic under the trees was completely forgotten inher amazement at Nightingale House. Despite her normal confidence in her owntaste, she was not entirely immune to the vagaries of fashion and she wondereduneasily whether in certain company it might not be proper to admire it. But ithad become a habit with her to look at every building with an eye to itssuitability as a nurse training school — she had once, on a Paris holiday,found herself to her horror rejecting the Elysée Palace as unworthy offurther notice — and as a nurse training school Nightingale House was obviouslyquite impossible. She had only to look at it for the objections to spring tomind. Most of the rooms would be far too large. Where, for instance, would onefind cosy offices for the principal tutor, clinical instructor or schoolsecretary? Then the building would be extremely difficult to heat adequately andthose oriel windows, picturesque no doubt if one liked that sort of thing, wouldkeep out a great deal of light. Worse still, there was something forbidding,even frightening, about the house. When the Profession (Miss Beale, in defianceof an unfortunate comparison, always thought of it with a capital P) wasclimbing so painfully into the twentieth century, kicking away the stones ofoutworn attitudes and methods — Miss Beale was frequently required to makespeeches and certain pet phrases tended to stick in her mind — it really was apity to house young students in this Victorian pile. It would do no harm toincorporate a strong comment about the need for a new school in her report.Nightingale House was rejected even before she set foot in it.
But there was nothing to criticize in her welcome. As she reached the top step,the heavy door swung open letting out a gust of warm air and a smell of freshcoffee. A uniformed maid stood deferentially aside and behind her down the wideoak staircase, gleaming against the dark panelling like a Renaissance portraitin grey and gold, came the figure of Matron Mary Taylor, hand out-stretched.Miss Beale assumed her bright professional smile, compounded of happyexpectation and general reassurance, and stepped forward to meet her. Theill-fated inspection of the John Carpendar Training School had begun.
III
Fifteen minutes later, four people made their way down the main staircase to thedemonstration room on the ground floor where they were to watch the firstteaching session of the day. Coffee had been served in Matron's sitting room inone of the turret blocks where Miss Beale had been introduced to the principaltutor, Miss Hilda Rolfe, and to a senior consultant surgeon, Mr. StephenCourtney-Briggs. She knew both by reputation. Miss Rolfe's presence wasnecessary and expected, but Miss Beale was a little surprised that Mr.Courtney-Briggs was prepared to devote so much of his morning to the inspection.He had been introduced as Vice-Chairman of the Hospital Nurse EducationCommittee and she would normally have expected to meet him with other members ofthe committee for the summing-up discussion at the end of the day. It wasunusual for a senior surgeon to sit in at a teaching session and it wasgratifying that he took such a personal interest in the school.
There was room for three to walk abreast in the wide wood-panelled corridors andMiss Beale found herself escorted by the tall figures of Matron and Mr.Courtney-Briggs rather, she felt, like a diminutive delinquent. Mr.Courtney-Briggs, stoutly impressive in the formal striped trousers of aconsultant, walked on her left. He smelt of after-shave lotion. Miss Beale coulddiscern it even above the pervading smell of disinfectant, coffee and furniturecream. She thought it surprising but not disagreeable. The Matron, tallest ofthe three, walked in serene silence. Her formal dress of grey gaberdine wasbuttoned high to the neck with a thin band of white linen around the throat andcuffs. Her corn-gold hair, almost indistinguishable in colour from her skin, wascombed back from the high forehead and bound tight by an immense triangle ofmuslin, its apex reaching nearly to the small of her back. The cap reminded MissBeale of those worn during the last war by Sisters of the Army Nursing Service.She had seldom seen it since. But its simplicity suited Miss Taylor. That face,with its high cheekbones and large, slightly protuberant eyes — they remindedMiss Beale irreverently of pale veined gooseberries — could have lookedgrotesque under the fripperies of a more orthodox head-dress. Behind the threeof them Miss Beale could sense the disturbing presence of Sister Rolfe,uncomfortably close on their heels.
Mr. Courtney-Briggs was talking:
"This influenza epidemic has been a thorough nuisance. We've had to defer takingthe next set off the wards and we thought at one time that this set would haveto go back. It was a close thing."
"It would be," thought Miss Beale. Whenever there was a crisis in the hospitalthe first people to be sacrificed were the student nurses. Their trainingprogramme could always be interrupted. It was a sore point with her, but now washardly the time to protest. She made a vaguely acquiescent noise. They starteddown the last staircase. Mr. Courtney-Briggs continued his monologue:
"Some of the training staff have gone down with it too. The demonstration thismorning is being taken by our clinical instructor, Mavis Gearing. We've had torecall her to the school. Normally, of course, she would be doing nothing butward teaching. It's a comparatively new idea that there should be a trainedinstructor to teach the girls on the wards, using the patients as clinicalmaterial. Ward sisters just haven't the time these days. Of course the wholeidea of the block system of training is relatively new. When I was a medicalstudent the probationers, as we called them then, were taught entirely on thewards with occasional lectures in their own free time from the medical staff.There was little formal teaching and certainly no taking them off the wards eachyear for a period in the nurse training school. The whole concept of nursetraining has altered."
Miss Beale was the last person to require an explanation of the function andduties of a clinical instructor or the development of nurse training methods.She wondered whether Mr. Courtney-Briggs had forgotten who she was. Thiselementary instruction was more suitable for new members of a HospitalManagement Committee, who were generally as ignorant of nurse training as theywere of anything else to do with hospitals. She had the feeling that the surgeonhad something on his mind. Or was this merely the aimless chatter, unrelated toits hearer, of an egotist who could not tolerate even a moment without thecomforting resonance of his own voice? If so, the sooner he got back to hisout-patient session or ward round and let the inspection proceed without thebenefit of his presence, the better for all concerned.
The little procession passed across the tessellated hall to a room at the frontof the building. Miss Rolfe slipped forward to open the door and stood aside asthe others entered. Mr. Courtney-Briggs ushered Miss Beale in before him.Immediately she was at home. Despite the anomalies of the room itself — the twogreat windows with their spatter of coloured panes, the immense fireplace ofcarved marble with its draped figures supporting the chimney-piece, the highmoulded ceiling desecrated with the three tubes of fluorescent light — it washappily evocative of her own student days, an utterly acceptable and familiarworld. Here was all the paraphernalia of her profession; the rows ofglass-fronted cabinets, with their instruments placed in shining precision; thewall charts showing in lurid diagram the circulation of the blood and theimprobable processes of digestion; the wall-mounted blackboard smeared with thedust of past lecture notes imperfectly erased; the demonstration trolleys withtheir linen-covered trays; the two demonstration beds, one containing alife-sized doll propped among the pillows; the inevitable skeleton hanging fromits gibbet in forlorn decrepitude. Pervading all was the astringent and potentsmell of disinfectant. Miss Beale breathed it in like an addict. Whatever faultsshe might later find with the room itself, the adequacy of the teachingequipment, the lighting or the furniture, she never felt other than at home inthis intimidating atmosphere.
She bestowed on students and teacher her brief smile of reassurance andencouragement and perched herself on one of the four chairs placed ready at theside of the room. Matron Taylor and Miss Rolfe seated themselves on each side ofher as quietly and unobtrusively as possible in the face of Mr.Courtney-Briggs's determination to be fussily gallant over pulling out theladies' chairs. The arrival of the little party, however tactfully arranged,seemed temporarily to have disconcerted the nurse tutor. An inspection washardly a natural teaching situation, but it was always interesting to see howlong it took a tutor to re-establish rapport with her class. A first-classteacher, as Miss Beale knew from personal experience, could hold a class'sinterest even through a heavy bombing raid let alone the visit of a GeneralNursing Council Inspector; but she did not feel that Mavis Gearing was likely toprove one of that rare and dedicated band. The girl — or woman rather — lackedauthority. She had a propitiatory air; she looked as though she might easilysimper. And she was a great deal too heavily made up for a woman who should haveher mind on less ephemeral arts. But she was, after all, merely the clinicalinstructor, not a qualified nurse tutor. She was taking the session at shortnotice and under difficulties. Miss Beale made a mental resolution not to judgeher too harshly.
The class, she saw, were to practise feeding a patient by intra-gastric tube.The student who was to act as patient was already in one of the demonstrationbeds, her check dress protected by a mackintosh bib, her head supported by theback rest and a bank of pillows. She was a plain girl with a strong, obstinateand oddly mature face, her dull hair drawn back unbecomingly from a high nobblyforehead. She lay there immobile under the harsh strip lighting, looking alittle ridiculous but strangely dignified as if concentrating on some privateworld and dissociating herself from the whole procedure by an effort of will.Suddenly it occurred to Miss Beale that the girl might be frightened. Thethought was ridiculous but it persisted. She found herself suddenly unwilling towatch that resolute face. Irritated by her own unreasonable sensitivity, sheturned her attention to the nurse tutor.
Sister Gearing cast an apprehensive and interrogative glance at the Matron,received a confirmatory nod and resumed her lesson.
"Nurse Pearce is acting the part of our patient this morning. We have just beengoing through her history. She is Mrs. Stokes, the fifty-year-old mother of fourchildren, wife of a council refuse collector. She has had a laryngectomy for thetreatment of cancer." She turned to a student sitting on her right.
"Nurse Dakers, will you please describe Mrs. Stokes's treatment so far."
Nurse Dakers dutifully began. She was a pale, thin girl who blushed unbecominglyas she spoke. It was difficult to hear her but she knew her facts and presentedthem well. A conscientious little thing, thought Miss Beale, not outstandinglyintelligent, perhaps, but hard working and reliable. It was a pity that no onehad done anything about her acne. She retained her air of bright professionalinterest whilst Nurse Dakers propounded the fictional medical history of Mrs.Stokes and took the opportunity of a close look at the remaining students in theclass, making her customary private assessment of their characters and ability.
The influenza epidemic had certainly taken its toll. There was a total of sevengirls only in the demonstration room. The two who were standing one on each sideof the demonstration bed made an immediate impression. They were obviouslyidentical twins, strong, ruddy-faced girls, with copper-coloured hair clumped ina thick fringe above remarkable blue eyes. Their caps, the pleated crowns assmall as saucers, were perched well forward, the two immense wings of whitelinen jutting behind. Miss Beale, who knew from her own student days what couldbe done with a couple of white-tipped hat pins, was nevertheless intrigued bythe art which could so firmly attach such a bizarre and unsubstantial edifice onsuch a springing bush of hair. The John Carpendar uniform struck her asinterestingly out of date. Nearly every hospital she visited had replaced theseold-fashioned winged caps with the smaller American-type which were easier towear, quicker to make up, and cheaper to buy and launder. Some hospitals, toMiss Beale's regret, were even issuing disposable paper caps. But a hospital'snurse uniform was always jealously defended and changed with reluctance and theJohn Carpendar was obviously wedded to tradition. Even the uniform dresses wereslightly old fashioned. The twins' plump and speckled arms bulged from sleevesof check pink gingham which reminded Miss Beale of her own student days. Theirskirt lengths paid no concession to modern fashion and their sturdy feet wereplanted in low-heeled black lace-up shoes.
She glanced quickly at the remaining students. There was a calm, bespectacledgirl with a plain intelligent face. Miss Beale's immediate reaction was that shewould be glad to have her on any ward. Next to her sat a dark, sulky-lookinggirl, rather over-made-up and assuming an air of careful disinterest in thedemonstration. Rather common, thought Miss Beale. Miss Beale, to her superiors'occasional embarrassment, was fond of such unfashionable adjectives, used themunashamedly and knew precisely what she meant by them. Her dictum "Matronrecruits a very nice type of girl" meant that they came of respectablemiddle-class families, had received the benefit of grammar school education,wore their skirts knee length or longer, and were properly aware of theprivilege and responsibilities of being a student nurse. The last student in theclass was a very pretty girl, her blonde hair worn in a fringe as low as hereyebrows above a pert, contemporary face. She was attractive enough for arecruiting poster, thought Miss Beale, but somehow it was the last face onewould choose. While she was wondering why, Nurse Dakers came to the end of herrecital.
"Right, Nurse," said Sister Gearing. "So we are faced with the problem of apost-operative patient, already seriously under-nourished and now unable to takefood by mouth. That means what? Yes, Nurse?"
"Intra-gastric or rectal feeding, Sister."
It was the dark sulky-looking girl who answered, her voice carefully repressingany note of enthusiasm or even interest. Certainly not an agreeable girl,thought Miss Beale.
There was a murmur from the class. Sister Gearing raised an interrogativeeyebrow. The spectacled student said:
"Not rectal feeding, Sister. The rectum can't absorb sufficient nourishment.Intra-gastric feeding by the mouth or nose."
"Right, Nurse Goodale, and that's what the surgeon has ordered for Mrs. Stokes.Will you carry on please, Nurse. Explain what you are doing at each step."
One of the twins drew the trolley forward and demonstrated her tray ofrequirements: the gallipot containing sodium bicarbonate mixture for cleaningmouth or nostrils; the polythene funnel and eight inches of tubing to fit it;the connector; the lubricant; the kidney bowl with the tongue spatula, tongueforceps and gag. She held up the Jacques oesophageal tube. It dangled from herfreckled hand obscenely like a yellow snake.
"Right, Nurse," encouraged Sister Gearing. "Now the feed. What are you givingher?"
"Actually, it's just warm milk, Sister."
"But if we were dealing with a real patient?"
The twin hesitated. The spectacled student said with calm authority: "We couldadd soluble protein, eggs, vitamin preparations and sugar."
"Right. If tube feeding is to continue for more than forty-eight hours we mustensure that the diet is adequate in calories, protein and vitamins. At whattemperature are you giving the feed, Nurse?"
"Body temperature, Sister, 38° C."
"Correct. And as our patient is conscious and able to swallow we are giving herthis feed by mouth. Don't forget to reassure your patient, Nurse. Explain simplyto her what you are going to do and why. Remember this, girls, never begin anynursing procedure without telling your patient what is to happen."
They were third-year students, thought Miss Beale. They should know this by now.But the twin, who no doubt would have coped easily enough with a real patient,found it embarrassingly difficult to explain her procedure to a fellow student.Suppressing a giggle she muttered a few words at the rigid figure in the bed andalmost thrust the oesophageal tube at her. Nurse Pearce, still gazing fixedlyahead, felt for the tube with her left hand and guided it into her mouth. Thenshutting her eyes she swallowed. There was a convulsive spasm of the throatmuscles. She paused to take breath, and then swallowed again. The tubeshortened. It was very silent in the demonstration room. Miss Beale was awarethat she felt unhappy but was unsure why. It was a little unusual perhaps forgastric feeding to be practised on a student in this way but it was not unknown.In a hospital it might be more usual for a doctor to pass the tube but a nursemight well have to take the responsibility; it was better to learn on each otherthan on a seriously ill patient and the demonstration doll wasn't really asatisfactory substitute for a living subject. She had once acted as the patientin her own training school and had found swallowing the tube unexpectedly easy.Watching the convulsive movements of Nurse Pearce's throat and swallowing in anunconscious sympathy she could almost recall, after thirty years, the suddenchill as the tube slid over the soft palate and the faint shock of surprise atthe ease of it all. But there was something pathetic and disturbing about thatrigid white-faced figure on the bed, eyes tight closed, bibbed like a baby, thethin tube dragging and wriggling like a worm from the corner of her mouth. MissBeale felt that she was watching gratuitous suffering, that the wholedemonstration was an outrage. For a second she had to fight an urge to protest.
One of the twins was now attaching a 20-ml. syringe to the end of the tube,ready to aspirate some of the gastric juices to test that the end of the tubehad reached the stomach. The girl's hands were quite steady. Perhaps it was justMiss Beale's imagination that the room was preternaturally silent. She glancedacross at Miss Taylor. The Matron had her eyes fixed on Nurse Pearce. She wasfrowning slightly. Her lips moved and she shifted in her seat. Miss Bealewondered if she were about to expostulate. But the Matron made no sound. Mr.Courtney-Briggs was leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasping his knees.He was gazing intently, not at Nurse Pearce, but at the drip as if mesmerized bythe gentle swing of the tubing. Miss Beale could hear the heavy rasp of hisbreathing. Miss Rolfe sat bolt upright, her hands folded loosely in her lap, herblack eyes expressionless. But Miss Beale saw that they were fixed, not on thegirl in the bed, but on the fair and pretty student. And for a fleeting secondthe girl looked back at her, equally expressionless.
The twin who was administering the feed, obviously satisfied that the end of theoesophageal tube was safely in the stomach, lifted the funnel high over NursePearce's head and began slowly to pour the milky mixture down the tube. Theclass seemed to be holding its breath. And then it happened. There was a squeal,high-pitched, horribly inhuman, and Nurse Pearce precipitated herself from thebed as if propelled by an irresistible force. One second she was lying,immobile, propped against her mound of pillows, the next she was out of bed,teetering forward on arched feet in a parody of a ballet dancer, and clutchingineffectually at the air as if in frantic search of the tubing. And all the timeshe screamed, perpetually screamed, like a stuck whistle. Miss Beale, aghast,had hardly time to register the contorted face, the foaming lips, before thegirl thudded to the floor and writhed there, doubled like a hoop, her foreheadtouching the ground, her whole body twitching in agony.
One of the students screamed. For a second no one moved. Then there was a rushforward. Sister Gearing tugged at the tube and tore it from the girl's mouth.Mr. Courtney-Briggs moved resolutely into the mêlée, his arms wide.Matron and Sister Rolfe bent over the twitching figure hiding her from view.Then Miss Taylor rose and looked round at Miss Beale.
"The students...could you look after them please? There's an empty room nextdoor. Keep them together."
She was trying to keep calm but urgency made her voice sharp. "Quickly please."
Miss Beale nodded. The Matron bent again over the convulsed figure. Thescreaming had stopped now. It was succeeded by a piteous moaning and a dreadfulstaccato drumming of heels on the wooden floor. Mr. Courtney-Briggs took off hiscoat, threw it to one side, and began to roll up his sleeves.
IV
Muttering gentle encouragement, Miss Beale shepherded the little group ofstudents across the hall. One of them, she was not sure which, said in ahigh-pitched voice: "What happened to her? What happened? What went wrong?" Butno one replied. They moved in a shocked daze into the room next door. It was atthe back of the house, a small, odd-shaped room which had obviously beenpartitioned from the original high-ceilinged drawing-room and which now servedas the Principal Tutor's office. Miss Beale's first glance took in abusiness-like desk, a bank of green steel filing cabinets, a crowded noticeboard, a small pegboard fitted with hooks from which hung a variety of keys, anda chart along the whole of one wall showing the teaching programme and theprogress of each individual student. The partition wall cut the mullioned windowin half so that the office, unpleasing in its proportions, was alsoinconveniently dark. One of the students clicked down the switch and the centralbar of fluorescence began to flicker into light. Really, thought Miss Beale, hermind clutching desperately at the comfort of its normal preoccupations, it was amost unsuitable room for a Principal Tutor, or for any other tutor, come tothat.
This brief remembrance of the purpose of her visit brought a second's comfort.But almost immediately the awful reality of the moment reasserted itself. Thestudents — a pathetic and disorganized little bunch — had crowded together inthe middle of the room as if incapable of action. Glancing quickly around MissBeale saw that there were only three chairs. For a moment she felt asembarrassed and nonplussed as a hostess who is not sure how she is going to seatall her guests. The concern wasn't altogether irrelevant. She would have to getthe girls comfortable and relaxed if there were to be any chance of keepingtheir minds off what was happening next door; and they might be incarcerated fora long time.
"Come along," she said brightly. "Let's move Sister's desk back against thewall, then four of you can perch there. I'll take the desk chair and two of youcan have the easy chairs."
At least it was activity. Miss Beale saw that the thin, fair student wasshaking. She helped her into one of the easy chairs and the dark, sulky-lookinggirl promptly took the other. Trust her to look after number one, thought MissBeale. She busied herself helping the other students to clear the desk and pushit back against the wall. If only she could send one of them to make some tea!Despite her intellectual assent to more modern methods of combating shock, MissBeale still put her faith in warm strong sweet tea. But there wasn't a chance ofany. It wouldn't do to upset and alert the kitchen staff.
"Now suppose we introduce ourselves," she said encouragingly. "My name is MissMuriel Beale. There's no need to tell you I'm a G.N.C. Inspector. I know some ofyour names but I am not really sure who is who."
Five pairs of eyes gazed at her with startled incomprehension. But the efficientstudent — as Miss Beale still thought of her — quietly identified them.
"The twins are Maureen and Shirley Burt. Maureen is the elder by about twominutes and has the most freckles. Otherwise we don't find it easy to tell themapart. Next to Maureen is Julia Pardoe. Christine Dakers is in one armchair andDiane Harper in the other. I'm Madeleine Goodale."
Miss Beale, never good at remembering names, made her customary mentalrecapitulation. The Burt twins. Bonny and bouncing. It would be easy enough toremember their name, although impossible to decide which was which. JuliaPardoe. An attractive name for an attractive girl. Very attractive if one likedthat blonde, rather feline prettiness. Smiling into the unresponsive violet-blueeyes, Miss Beale decided that some people, and not all of them men, might likeit very much indeed. Madeleine Goodale. A good sensible name for a good sensiblegirl. She thought she would have no difficulty in remembering Goodale. ChristineDakers. Something very wrong there. The girl had looked ill throughout the briefdemonstration and now seemed close to collapse. She had a poor skin, unusuallyso for a nurse. It was now drained of colour so that the spots around the mouthand over the forehead stood out in an angry rash. She was huddled deep into thearmchair, her thin hands alternately smoothing and plucking at her apron. NurseDakers was certainly the most affected of all the group. Perhaps she had been aparticular friend of Nurse Pearce. Miss Beale superstitiously made a quickmental amendment of tense. Perhaps she was a particular friend. If only theycould get the girl some hot reviving tea!
Nurse Harper, her lipstick and eye shadow garish on the whitened face, saidsuddenly: "There must have been something in the feed."
The Burt twins turned to her simultaneously. Maureen said:
"Of course there was! Milk."
"I mean something beside the milk." She hesitated. "Poison."
"But there couldn't be! Shirley and I took a fresh bottle of milk out of thekitchen fridge first thing this morning. Miss Collins was there and saw us. Weleft it in the demo room and didn't pour it into the measuring jug until justbefore the demonstration, did we, Shirley?"
"That's right. It was a fresh bottle. We took it at about 7 o'clock."
"And you didn't add anything by mistake?"
"Like what? Of course we didn't."
The twins spoke in unison, sounding sturdily confident, almost unworried. Theyknew exactly what they had done and when, and no one, Miss Beale saw, was likelyto shake them. They weren't the type to be tormented by unnecessary guilt orfretted by those irrational doubts which afflict less stolid, more imaginativepersonalities. Miss Beale thought that she understood them very well.
Julia Pardoe said: "Perhaps someone else mucked about with the feed."
She looked round at her fellow students from under lowered lids, provocative, alittle amused.
Madeleine Goodale said calmly: "Why should they?"
Nurse Pardoe shrugged and pursed her lips into a little secret smile. She said:"By accident. Or it might have been a practical joke. Or perhaps it was done onpurpose."
"But that would be attempted murder!" It was Diane Harper who spoke. She soundedincredulous. Maureen Burt laughed.
"Don't be daft, Julia. Who would want to murder Pearce?"
No one replied. The logic was apparently unassailable. It was impossible toimagine anyone wanting to murder Pearce. Pearce, Miss Beale realized, was eitherof the company of the naturally inoffensive or was too negative a personality toinspire the tormenting hatred which can lead to murder. Then Nurse Goodale saiddrily: "Pearce wasn't everyone's cup of tea."
Miss Beale glanced at the girl, surprised. It was an odd remark to come fromNurse Goodale, a little insensitive in the circumstances, disconcertingly out ofcharacter. She noted, too, the use of the past tense. Here was one student whodidn't expect to see Nurse Pearce alive again.
Nurse Harper reiterated stoutly: "It's daft to talk about murder. No one wouldwant to kill Pearce."
Nurse Pardoe shrugged: "Perhaps it wasn't meant for Pearce. Jo Fallon wassupposed to act as patient today, wasn't she? It was Fallon's name next on thelist. If she hadn't been taken ill last night, it would have been Fallon in thatbed this morning."
They were silent. Nurse Goodale turned to Miss Beale.
"She's right. We take it in strict turn to act as patient; it wasn't reallyPearce's turn this morning. But Josephine Fallon was taken into the sick baylast night — you've probably heard that we have an influenza epidemic — andPearce was next on the list. Pearce was taking Fallon's place."
Miss Beale was momentarily at a loss. She felt that she ought to put a stop tothe conversation, that it was her responsibility to keep their minds off theaccident, and surely it could only have been an accident. But she didn't knowhow. Besides, there was a dreadful fascination in getting at the facts. For her,there always had been. Perhaps, too, it was better that the girls should indulgethis detached, investigatory interest, rather than sit there making unnaturaland ineffective conversation. Already she saw that shock was giving way to thathalf-ashamed excitement which can follow tragedy, so long, of course, as it issomeone else's tragedy.
Julia Pardoe's composed, rather childish voice went on: "So if the victim wasreally meant to be Fallon, it couldn't have been one of us, could it? We allknew that Fallon wouldn't be acting the patient this morning."
Madeleine Goodale said: "I should think that everyone knew. Everyone atNightingale House anyway. There was enough talk about it at breakfast."
They were silent again, considering this new development. Miss Beale noted withinterest that there were no protestations that no one would want to murderFallon. Then Maureen Burt said:
"Fallon can't be all that sick. She was back here in Nightingale House thismorning, just after eight-forty. Shirley and I saw her slipping out of the sidedoor just before we went into the demo room after breakfast."
Nurse Goodale asked sharply: "What was she wearing?" Maureen was unsurprised atthis apparently irrelevant question.
"Slacks. Her top coat. That red headscarf she wears. Why?"
Nurse Goodale, obviously shaken and surprised, made an attempt to conceal it.She said:
"She slipped those on before we took her to the sick bay last night. I supposeshe came back to fetch something she wanted from her room. But she shouldn'thave left the ward. It was stupid. She had a temperature of 103.8 when she waswarded. Lucky for her that Sister Brumfett didn't see her."
Nurse Pardoe said maliciously: "Funny though, isn't it?" No one replied. It wasindeed funny, thought Miss Beale. She recalled her long damp drive from thehospital to the nurse training school. The road was a winding one; obviouslythere would be a short cut through the trees. But it was a strange journey for asick girl to make on an early January morning. There must have been somecompelling reason to bring her back to Nightingale House. After all, if she didwant something from her room there was nothing to prevent her asking for it. Anyof the students would gladly have taken it across to the sick bay. And this wasthe girl who should have played the patient that morning, who should, logically,be lying next door among the tangle of tubes and linen.
Nurse Pardoe said: "Well, there's one person who knew that Fallon wouldn't beacting patient this morning. Fallon herself."
Nurse Goodale, white-faced, looked across at her.
"If you want to be stupid and malicious I suppose I can't stop you. But, if Iwere you, I would stop short of slander."
Nurse Pardoe looked unconcerned, even a little pleased. Catching sight of hersly, gratified smile, Miss Beale decided that it was time this talking stopped.She was searching for a change of topic when Nurse Dakers said faintly from thedepths of her chair: "I feel sick."
There was immediate concern. Only Nurse Harper made no move to help. The restgathered around the girl, glad of the chance to be doing something. NurseGoodale said: "I'll take her to the downstairs cloakroom."
She supported the girl out of the room. To Miss Beale's surprise Nurse Pardoewent with her, their recent antagonism apparently forgotten as they supportedNurse Dakers between them. Miss Beale was left with the Burt twins and NurseHarper. Another silence fell. But Miss Beale had learned her lesson. She hadbeen unforgivably irresponsible. There was to be no more talk of death ormurder. While they were here and in her charge they might as well work. Shegazed sternly at Nurse Harper and invited her to describe the signs, symptomsand treatment of pulmonary collapse.
Ten minutes later the absent three returned. Nurse Dakers still looked pale butwas composed. It was Nurse Goodale who looked worried. As if unable to keep itto herself, she said:
"The bottle of disinfectant is missing from the lavatory. You know the one Imean. It's always kept there on the little shelf. Pardoe and I couldn't findit."
Nurse Harper interrupted her bored but suprisingly competent recital and said:
"You mean that bottle of milky-looking mixture? It was there after supper lastnight."
"That's a long time ago. Has anyone been in that loo this morning?"
Apparently no one had. They looked at each other in silence.
It was then that the door opened. Matron came quietly in and shut it behind her.There was a creak of starched linen as the twins slipped from the desk and stoodto attention. Nurse Harper rose gracelessly from her chair. All of them turnedtowards Miss Taylor.
"Children," she said, and the unexpected and gentle word told them the truthbefore she spoke.
"Children, Nurse Pearce died a few minutes ago. We don't yet know how or why,but when something inexplicable like this happens we have to call the police.The Hospital Secretary is doing that now. I want you to be brave and sensible asI know you will be. Until the police arrive, I think it would be better if wedon't talk about what has happened. You will collect your textbooks and NurseGoodale will take you to wait in my sitting-room. I shall be ordering somestrong hot coffee and it will be brought up to you soon. Is that understood?"
There was a subdued murmur of, "Yes, Matron."
Miss Taylor turned to Miss Beale.
"I'm so very sorry, but it will mean your waiting here too."
"Of course, Matron, I quite understand."
Across the heads of the students their eyes met in bewildered speculation andwordless sympathy.
But Miss Beale was a little horrified to remember afterwards the banality andirrelevance of her first conscious thought.
"This must be the shortest inspection on record. What on earth will I say to theGeneral Nursing Council?"
V
A few minutes earlier the four people in the demonstration room had straightenedup and looked at each other, white-faced, utterly exhausted. Heather Pearce wasdead. She was dead by any criteria, legal or medical. They had known it for thelast five minutes but had worked on, doggedly and without speaking, as if therewere still a chance that the flabby heart would pulse again into life. Mr.Courtney-Briggs had taken off his coat to work on the girl and the front of hiswaistcoat was heavily stained with blood. He started at the thickening stain,brow creased, nose fastidiously wrinkled, almost as if blood were an aliensubstance to him. The heart massage had been messy as well as ineffectual.Surprisingly messy for Mr. Courtney-Briggs, the Matron thought. But surely theattempt had been justified? There hadn't been time to get her over to thetheatre. It was a pity that Sister Gearing had pulled out the oesophageal tube.It had, perhaps, been a natural reaction but it might have cost Pearce her onlychance. While the tube was in place they could at least have tried an immediatestomach wash-out. But an attempt to pass another tube by the nostril had beenfrustrated by the girl's agonized spasms and, by the time these had ceased, itwas too late and Mr. Courtney-Briggs had been forced to open the chest wall andtry the only measure left to him. Mr. Courtney-Briggs's heroic efforts were wellknown. It was only a pity that they left the body looking so patheticallymangled and the demonstration room stinking like an abattoir. These things werebetter conducted in an operating theatre, shrouded and dignified by theparaphernalia of ritual surgery.
He was the first to speak.
"This wasn't a natural death. There was something other than milk in that feed.Well, that's obvious to all of us I should have thought. We'd better call thepolice. I'll get on to the Yard. I know someone there, as it happens. One of theAssistant Commissioners."
He always did know someone, thought the Matron. She felt the need to oppose him.Shock had left an aftermath of irritation and, irrationally, it focused on him.She said calmly:
"The local police are the ones to call and I think that the Hospital Secretaryshould do it. I'll get Mr. Hudson on the house telephone now. They'll call inthe Yard if they think it necessary. I can't think why it should be. But thatdecision is for the Chief Constable, not for us."
She moved over to the wall telephone, carefully walking round the crouchedfigure of Miss Rolfe. The Principal Tutor was still on her knees. She looked,thought the Matron, rather like a character from a Victorian melodrama with hersmouldering eyes in a deathly white face, her black hair a little dishevelledunder the frilly cap, and those reeking hands. She was turning them over slowlyand studying the red mass with a detached, speculative interest as if she, too,found it difficult to believe that the blood was real. She said:
"If there's a suspicion of foul play ought we to move the body?" Mr.Courtney-Briggs said sharply: "I have no intention of moving the body."
"But we can't leave her here, not like this!" Miss Gearing was almost weeping inprotest. The surgeon glared at her.
"My dear woman, this girl's dead! Dead! What does it matter where we leave thebody? She can't feel. She can't know. For God's sake don't start beingsentimental about death. The indignity is that we die at all, not what happensto our bodies."
He turned brusquely and went over to the window. Sister Gearing made a movementas if to follow him, and then sank into the nearest chair and began to crysoftly like a snuffling animal. No one took any notice of her. Sister Rolfe gotstiffly to her feet. Holding her hands raised in front of her in the ritualgesture of an operating theatre nurse she walked over to a sink in the corner,nudged on the tap with her elbow, and began to wash her hands. At thewall-mounted telephone the Matron was dialling a five-digit number. They heardher calm voice.
"Is that the Hospital Secretary's office? Is Mr. Hudson there? It's Matron."There was a pause. "Good morning, Mr. Hudson. I am speaking from the groundfloor demonstration room in Nightingale House. Could you please come overimmediately? Yes. Very urgent. I'm afraid something tragic and horrible hashappened and it will be necessary for you to telephone the police. No, I'drather not tell you on the telephone. Thank you." She replaced the receiver andsaid quietly: "He's coming at once. He'll have to put the Vice-Chairman in thepicture, too — it's unfortunate that Sir Marcus is in Israel — but the firstthing is to get the police. And now I had better tell the other students."
Sister Gearing was making an attempt to control herself. She blew loudly intoher handkerchief, replaced it in her uniform pocket, and raised a blotched face.
"I'm sorry. It's the shock, I suppose. It's just that it was all so horrible.Such an appalling thing to happen. And the first time I've taken a class too!And everyone sitting and watching it like that. The other students as well. Sucha horrible accident."
"Accident, Sister?" Mr. Courtney-Briggs turned from the window. He strode overto her and bent his bull-like head close to hers. His voice was harsh,contemptuous as he almost spat the words into her face. "Accident? Are yousuggesting that a corrosive poison found its way into that feed by accident? Orthat a girl in her right mind would choose to kill herself in that particularlyhorrible way? Come, come, Sister, why not be honest for once? What we've justwitnessed was murder!"
Excerpted from A Shroud for a Nightingale by P.D. James. Copyright © 1971, 1999 by P. D. James. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Copyright © 1971, 1999 by P. D. James. All rights reserved.