The Nurse's War

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘You mean he didn’t like your plan.’

  ‘How would you know? You have no inkling of what I intend, or so you claim.’ He had come closer now, and bent his face to peer down at her.

  ‘I haven’t, but I imagine you don’t take too well to people who disagree with you.’

  ‘He would have ruined everything.’ The man had forgotten his vow of silence. He wanted an audience, it seemed. ‘He had to go. He was mediocre.’

  ‘And you are brilliant? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I am a patriot. That’s all you need to know.’ He straightened up and began to walk away. ‘We will stop talking now.’

  But she refused. ‘If you’re a patriot, why aren’t you in India, helping to defend your homeland from the Japanese?’

  ‘The Japanese are our friends.’ He’d been stung by her remark. ‘They will help us. They will help us to independence.’

  ‘If you think that, you’re really not as brilliant as you claim. The Japanese aren’t your friends. They will treat India as a pawn.’

  ‘As the British have done for centuries, you mean.’

  It was her turn to fall silent. Her last conversation with Anish, her very last, sprang painfully alive. He, too, had been convinced the Japanese would bring freedom to his country. It seemed strange, though, that an Anglo-Indian was so committed to the same cause. Unless his real purpose was something quite different. Revenge possibly, retribution? An Anglo-Indian might easily bear a personal grudge against the Raj. But such a motive was a far cry from Anish’s clarion call to freedom.

  ‘The Japanese will be your conquerors, too. And far worse,’ she retorted.

  ‘You are a stupid little girl, very stupid. The British will be humbled, their arrogance brought low. The Indians in Congress will be humbled too.’

  Anish had been frustrated by the slowness of Congress to act, she remembered, but he would not have wanted them humbled.

  ‘Japan is Germany’s staunchest ally,’ Sweetman was continuing, ‘and Germany is the greatest power on earth. Together they will free India. And those who have helped in the struggle will be rewarded. We shall come into our own at last.’

  ‘In that case, shouldn’t you go back to India and help in the struggle.’

  ‘I intend to, and my leaving cannot come a minute too soon. In a matter of days I shall be far from this dark and dreary country. Once Chandan Patel is dealt with.’

  ‘But do you think you can deal with Patel? Your last effort was hardly a roaring success.’ If she could provoke him into revealing the details of his plan, and then escape … A daydream, she feared.

  ‘This time there will be no mistake. He will be dealt with.’ The cold force of his words made her draw her cape tightly around her.

  ‘So you mean to kill him. That will be three people dead at your hands. Why do you feel such a need to kill?’

  ‘This is war and people get killed. As a nurse, you should have no difficulty in understanding that. Patel must be stopped from signing any treaty with the British.’

  ‘But, if you kill him, Congress will simply send another envoy.’

  ‘You are being stupid again. The British will be implicated in Patel’s death, I will see to that. There will be mystery, rumours, and they will be suspected of double dealing, which will not be difficult, given their history. They will shoulder the blame for Patel and Congress will be outraged. One of their own murdered on British property while in the hands of the Special Intelligence Service! Congress will cut off all negotiations. Even better they will be persuaded to bargain with Germany.’ He sounded immensely pleased with himself. ‘So you see, killing Patel is a masterstroke. Far better than any kidnapping.’

  ‘And you think you’ll be offered the opportunity?’

  ‘I will make the opportunity. I know where he is to be taken and I know when. I will arrive at precisely eleven-thirty. Patel will be waiting, alone but for the SIS man who escorts him. It will be easy enough to shoot him and anyone else who gets in my way.’

  She thought about his words. Could he really shoot his way in and out of a house that must be guarded like a fortress? She could hardly believe it possible.

  ‘There will be soldiers, armed guards on the gate. You don’t honestly think they’ll let you walk into wherever the meeting is being held.’ She knew where. Corrigan had told her, but she would not disclose the name, just in case this man was bluffing. Her hope was short-lived.

  ‘Patel’s armed escort will almost certainly be stood down. This is a very sensitive meeting and they will want to keep the participants as secret as possible. And as for the guards at Pitt House, they present no problem. You see, I shall be Michael Corrigan and they will welcome me with open arms.’ He sounded smugger than ever.

  ‘What do you mean, you’ll be Michael Corrigan?’ Then, as she realised the full import of his words, ‘What have you done to him?’ Her voice rose in alarm.

  ‘I have not touched him. Not a finger. He was simply unfortunate enough to meet a lamp post a short way from here.’

  ‘You’ve killed him!’

  ‘Possibly, possibly not—I have no idea. But Mr Corrigan will not be taking an active part in tonight’s events.’

  Daisy thought about the gentle, red-haired man who had been so concerned for her and felt anger flood through her.

  ‘You are no patriot,’ she spat out. ‘You are nothing more than a cold-blooded killer.’

  ‘Your opinions are immaterial, Miss Driscoll. I have no use for them or for you. Fortunately, it is time I was gone. I have a small errand at Charing Cross—my luggage, the last trace that I was ever here—but then the real work begins.’

  She saw the faint outline of his figure move towards what she imagined was a door. A heavy iron slab crunched open a fraction and a shaft of light cut its thin path through the gloom. She saw him turn and face her. Without doubt, his eyes were those of the man who had jostled her at Baker Street Station. Not an accident then. They were the eyes of the man who’d driven the kidnap car, and the man who’d watched her from the shadows.

  ‘Do enjoy the company you find yourself in,’ he taunted. ‘It will not be too long before you’re joining them, I’m sure.’

  The man’s black trilby and leather patched jacket slid through the opening. The door clanged shut, the key grated in the lock. He had been wearing Mike Corrigan’s jacket, she realised, and he was on his way to Pitt House to slaughter Chandan Patel and anyone unlucky enough to be in his company. Grayson. He would kill Grayson.

  Her heart wept. He would kill Grayson and there was nothing she could do. Grayson, who had been her friend from the moment they’d met, her more than friend in those difficult months in India, and, just days ago, had become her lover. Was it possible she would never see him again? She ached at the thought. In a moment of clarity, she realised she had no wish to be in a world he didn’t share. When yesterday she’d told him goodbye, she’d been distraught, hardly in her right mind. But even in that half-mad state, she’d cherished the knowledge that he was not far away. How stupid she’d been. Why hadn’t she grabbed life with both hands when she had the chance?

  At the very moment she’d become a widow again, she’d lost the man she loved. The irony almost choked her. And she had been the one to lead him to his death. If she had never gone to Baker Street that day, never demanded papers, everything would have been different. For Grayson, for Michael Corrigan. Poor Michael, who’d done nothing but escort her to a safe house, and was now lying crumpled in his car, unconscious, perhaps already dead. She was riven with guilt. She knew the feeling well. Guilt had permeated her life from its illegitimate beginnings to this moment as an impotent prisoner, but familiarity with the feeling did not stop it eating away at her. Without her intervention, Grayson and Mike would have been targets for Sweetman; without her, Sweetman might still have tracked Patel and the men who protected him, determined on shooting every last person. The difference was that she’d made it easy for him. Very easy. He
would wear Corrigan’s jacket and wave Corrigan’s security pass. He would dupe the guards and march into the house unchallenged. If she’d never gone to Rigby’s to check on Gerald, if she’d returned with Connie after the funeral and kept herself safe in company, there would have been no Highgate house, no car accident and Grayson and his friend would have had at least a chance of escape. Sweetman would have been picked off by the guards before he could get a foot over the threshold. She had put them in extreme danger, she realised, and she must do something. But what could she do, trapped in this place of decay?

  For a moment, she brightened. Perhaps the alarm had already been raised … Corrigan and the wrecked car could have been found and Baker Street alerted. Briant would have rung her doorbell and, getting no reply, would know there was something badly wrong. But Corrigan had had his identity stolen, the dark voice in her head intoned. How long would it take the police to establish who the injured man was? And what would happen when Briant got no response to his ringing? There would be no suggestion of anything amiss. The house would be dozing, its door shut, its curtains closed. Briant might not have a key since he would be expecting her to answer. What would he do when she didn’t? Communications were almost impossible in the city these days. If Briant shrugged his shoulders and made a leisurely return to Baker Street to report his failure, it would be a long while before Grayson knew there was trouble and she was no longer as safe as he’d thought. Too long, far too long.

  It had taken him a long time to track Briant down. The man had been out of town on an errand and it was only as Grayson was gathering his papers together for the Pitt House meeting that his quarry finally walked into the office. He would have asked one of Briant’s colleagues to go to Highgate, if the team had not been several men short. He didn’t like Daisy to be alone in the house, though she was perfectly safe. No one would ever find her, tucked away in that network of anonymous streets. But she needed reassurance, company even, after what she’d been through today. First, the funeral of the girl she’d been mourning so badly and then, not content with one death, life had thrown another in her path, and this one worse. The final passing of a husband she’d thought already dead.

  Grayson had felt little sorrow when he’d looked down on the face of the dead man. It was an unpleasant way to die, but Mortimer was a wretch, a deserter tainted by dishonour, though few would ever know it. His regiment thought him already dead, thought him a man who’d died a hero. What Daisy thought, Grayson had no idea. He had never been certain of her feelings for the man she’d once loved so passionately. For all he knew, she might be grieving badly. He hoped not, he hoped that a small part of her might be rejoicing, tasteless though it might be. Today she had gained a new freedom. Her husband had always been her millstone, and a journey across the Atlantic was no guarantee that things would change. Grayson had never been confident that if the man reached America, Daisy would hear the last of him. Mortimer was the proverbial bad penny. At least now she had most definitely heard the last of him.

  After he’d seen Briant off, he sat down at his desk and waited for Michael Corrigan to join him. His colleague knew the importance of tonight’s meeting at Pitt House since the mission had been given the highest priority, so where was he? It was possible, he supposed, that Mike had waited for Briant to turn up at the house. If so, at least Daisy would have had company and Briant would soon be there. She could go to bed and sleep soundly. He looked at the clock. It was ten-thirty and time to go. If Corrigan had decided to travel straight to Hampstead, his colleague would have been unable to let him know, communications being what they were. He would leave now and meet Mike at Pitt House; together they were to form Patel’s welcoming committee. His protection, too, since discretion was vital and for several hours the armed escort would be stood down.

  Driving rain accompanied him on his journey, the windscreen wipers working at full tilt. At the best of times, it was hazardous driving after sunset and this night was certainly not the best of times. Since the blackout, street lights had been switched off, traffic lights wore slotted covers to deflect their beams downwards, and cars had their lights obscured. It all made for a very difficult journey and road accidents were frequent, even with the low speed limit recently imposed. It was confusing and dangerous, but somehow people had become used to it. Amazing, really, how well your eyes adjusted, and you found yourself able to follow the road, even beneath a clouded sky like tonight’s.

  It was slow going though, and well past eleven o’ clock by the time he pulled up at the entrance to Pitt House. He looked for Corrigan’s car and was bemused when he didn’t see it. What on earth had happened to the man? It was beginning to look very much as though he would be Patel’s sole escort for this important meeting. Not that he had much time to worry over the change of plan, for almost immediately a sleek, black saloon pulled up alongside, accompanied by a bevy of armed motorcyclists. He jumped out of his car to greet the man who could hold all their futures in his hands. Patel was small and lithe, with an engaging smile and a warm handshake. The rain was continuing to pelt and Grayson hurriedly escorted him inside the building, leading the way to an inner chamber that had been set up hours before. Five or six chairs around a polished table, paper and pens, a carafe of water, and a glorious fire roaring in the grate. Patel warmed his hands at it and smilingly accepted the tea that had materialised. Now all they had to do was wait. The minister was certain to arrive promptly, Grayson thought; this meeting was far too crucial for any dawdling.

  But he wished Mike was here. He couldn’t understand his colleague’s absence and his mind began to worry at the problem as the minutes ticked by. Had Corrigan’s car broken down? Had he been unable to get into the Highgate house? Had there been a problem with Daisy? He hadn’t thought of it before, but she might have fallen ill, collapsed from the stress of the day. No, not Daisy. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred. She might look as fragile as a flower, but she had a core of steel.

  CHAPTER 17

  For the past hour, Daisy had felt herself growing colder, colder and more lethargic. She was suspended in a nothingness, trapped in an underworld with only the dead for company. Since Sweetman disappeared, the living world had all but faded from sight. She fought hard to keep her eyes from closing, fought to resist the impulse to clamber on one of the coffins and spread herself along its length. She must keep from doing that at all costs, she knew, or she would drift into death. She had to keep moving, had to keep awake, even though a part of her recognised she was going to die anyway and that it might be easier for her simply to lie down and sleep. But that was not her way. She was a fighter, she always had been, and she would fight now. If not for herself, for Grayson. She had to escape this grand tomb and warn him that Sweetman was on his way. Tell him, if he didn’t already know, that his friend had met with disaster.

  She glanced towards the place where Sweetman had skulked out into the world beyond. For an instant, while the door had been open a fraction, she’d seen the full extent of the mausoleum. It wasn’t as large as she’d imagined and it was hexagonal in shape, eroding space even further. No wonder the three tombs appeared so dominant. She’d noticed that the door Sweetman had used was unusually narrow, perhaps because of the room’s shape, and she began to speculate on how the builders had managed to move three immense stone sarcophagi through such a restricted opening. At least it kept her mind active. But she needed her body active too. She stood up and stamped her feet fiercely, beating a tattoo on the flagstones, then pummelled the air with her arms, trying to warm herself, trying to get the blood flowing. She shuffled forward, finding her way to the middle of the room and to one of the three shapes, darker than the dark that surrounded them. They must have built the tombs in situ, she thought, there was no other explanation. She ran a hand along the top of the coffin lid, then down the sides. Virtually the entire surface was heavily ornamented. A stonemason, a master craftsman at that, had chipped away at this stone and fashioned it into intricate patterns. Flowers
, she traced with her fingers, and there was a bird and was this bolder relief a group of trees? How could a craftsman have done such beautiful tracery in this cramped space and with the minimum of light? Even with the door open and with lamps strategically positioned, he would have worked in gloom. No, he couldn’t have done it. She bent down and rubbed her legs; they were in danger of sleeping from the knees down, since her cape finished short and she wore only thinnish stockings. It was in another world that she’d donned this uniform in preparation for the funeral and the day of nursing to follow. What were they doing on the ward at this moment? What was Connie doing? She longed to be back in a normal world, a mundane world of patching and bathing and soothing.

  She walked back from the tombs to her position by the wall and was about to sit down again when the thought came into her mind that if the tombs hadn’t come through the door, and hadn’t been constructed on site, they must have been built and ornamented elsewhere and in some way lowered into the chamber. But how? She stepped carefully back to the centre of the room and looked up. Blank darkness met her stare. A small trickle of light came from the narrow window high up on the left-hand side of the wall, but from this far down, it was little help. She hitched up her skirts and managed to clamber onto the middle and largest of the tombs. Steadying herself by planting her feet as firmly as she could astride the stone coffin lid, she looked up again. From here, she could see a little better. She continued to stare upwards and, just as she felt she was giddy enough to fall, she brought into focus a wooden beam which ran crossways from wall to wall of the mausoleum. In the middle of the beam and immediately above the tomb on which she was standing, there appeared to be a hook. A large iron hook.

  She was sure of it. They had used a pulley system to lower the sarcophagi into place. In which case, a part of the ceiling must have been left open to the sky while the operation took place. And then plastered over. She felt excitement spurt through her. If she could get to the beam, discover that opening, she might perhaps be able to punch her way through the plaster into the roof space. Then it would simply be a matter of dislodging roof tiles, a sufficient number to make a hole large enough to climb out of. She could escape. She could save Grayson.