Money in the Morgue

by Ngaio Marsh

  Alleyn was glad to hear him muster a solid enough, ‘Of course, Sir.’

  ‘Good. Then find me when you have something to report, I shall make the Records Office my interrogation room. I may be there for some time to come.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In their absence Bix had roused the sleepy young Mr Brown and sent one of his trusted men with him to the Records Office. When Alleyn found them the youthful soldier was waiting patiently, Sydney Brown sitting alongside, hunched over the pillow he still held, his head sagging almost onto his folded arms, which were resting heavily on his thin legs, a perfectly posed picture of exhaustion and dejection. Alleyn had a quiet word with the soldier, thanked him for his duty and elicited a smile both shy and proud for his thanks. The soldier tripped away, his lop-sided gait giving the reason for his serving at home rather than abroad. Alleyn stood quietly for a moment at the door and stared after the young man, a peculiar expression on his face. Then he shook his head, squared his shoulders and advanced into the small office.

  Sydney Brown proved as monosyllabic with Alleyn as he had been with Sarah Warne on the journey out to the hospital. Alleyn expressed his condolences, Sydney Brown mumbled, ‘Yip.’ Alleyn asked had he travelled far, Sydney muttered ‘Nah’. Alleyn sighed, frowning. There was something strange in the young man’s demeanour, something that didn’t quite fit. Even with Sydney’s clear espousal of the New Zealand working man’s taciturn delivery, with his grandfather so recently deceased, Alleyn had expected some show of sadness or upset.

  ‘Look here, Sydney, I don’t mean this to sound quite as brutal as it no doubt will, but were you and your grandfather close?’

  Sydney’s dry lips levered almost into a sneer, his dark eyes clouded even more and he muttered, ‘Nah, we, you know, nah. Not us.’

  After a frustrating interview, Alleyn had ascertained the barest of details about the young man. His father and grandfather had fallen out many years ago which was why Sydney barely knew old Mr Brown, Sydney in turn had fallen out with his own father, ‘old bugger’s a brute, haven’t seen him since I left school at fourteen’. Although he had joined up as soon as he was able, he had been invalided out of service after just nine months, shot by one of his own troop in a training exercise. He lost more than half a lung and, with no love lost between Sydney and his father and nowhere else to go, he was sent home to his grandfather’s farm to recuperate.

  ‘Not that I was welcome there, the old man didn’t give me the time of day, just wanted me fit and working the farm.’

  ‘That must have been hard.’

  ‘Hard? It was bloody awful. The lot of it. I should never have been shot in the first place. We had a Sergeant Major dim as they come, handing out guns left right and centre to a bunch of flippin’ townies, most of them’d never seen one end of a rifle from the other. Some of us, lads like me, we knew what we were about, but oh no, the brass think they know it all. Cockies like us are neither here nor there, no one listens to a word we say. So they sent us out on this stupid flamin’ exercise and the next thing I know I’m flat on my back and can’t even breathe to call for help. Three months in hospital being poked and prodded like a prize heifer and then it’s the long way home for me when the last damn thing I want to do is be a cow cocky like my dad or a flamin’ sheep farmer like the old man. Farming’s no bloody life unless you’re one of that lot who had it handed down to them generation after generation and you’ve got the likes of me doing all the flamin’ work for you. It’s hard yakka day in day out and no flamin’ thanks for it either, backbone of this country they used to call us, but now—’ he stopped to draw breath and his last words came out as a sigh, ‘Ah, what’s the use. I’d just hoped the war might be my way out, a way into something better.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Alleyn spoke quietly, interested in what else the young man had to say.

  ‘I don’t want your pity,’ Sydney growled back, his hand punched into a fist in the kapok of the pillow. ‘And I don’t want theirs either.’

  ‘Theirs?’ Alleyn asked.

  ‘The blokes in charge, the bosses, the brass. That lot up in parliament for instance, sucking up to good old England and getting us into the war like we didn’t give enough in the last one. None of them have a blind bit of sense about what they’re doing, carting our boys off and sending telegrams home in their place. Windy bunch the lot of them, not as if they’re taking up a post on the front line, is it? No worries about sending us off to do it for them though. They’ve never had a care for the working men of this country, we’re just cannon fodder to them, always have been, always will be.’

  Sydney Brown had run out of words. The rest of his answers in response to Alleyn’s questions about the fuss that had taken place in and around Matron’s office, were met with a shake of the head, a shrug and Sydney’s repeated insistence that he had been ‘having a kip’, that he was ‘wiped out’.

  Alleyn thanked the young man and stood to escort him to join the others in the Transport Office. As he did so he asked, ‘The Bridge pub, do you know it well?’

  ‘It’ll do for drink if you’re thirsty enough, I reckon. At least they’re not worried about kicking you out at the six o’clock swill.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Is there anyone there who is a friend? Someone you join for a drink?’

  Sydney’s eyes darkened again, ‘Nah, I keep myself to myself.’

  ‘Not even a chat with the barmaid to pass the time?’

  Sydney shrugged, ‘Sukie Johnson’s all right, but her old man and her brother are another thing altogether. They reckon they’re the big men round here.’

  ‘And they’re not?’

  ‘They’ve got the money all right, but that doesn’t make you the be all and end all, not that they’d know it. Bastards the pair of them.’ He spat on the ground as he said it.

  They reached the door to the Transport Office and, having unlocked it, Alleyn held out his hand, ‘Once again, I offer my condolences.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Thanks.’

  Alleyn was interested in the force of Sydney’s handshake, for someone who looked as weak as he was thin, the young man had a surprisingly firm grip. He may have despised working on the farm, but it hadn’t done his strength any harm. Alleyn had met several farmers in his time in New Zealand and found them to be generous men with a deep understanding of the land they worked. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he hoped that Sydney would one day understand the value of a life of good, hard work, but the young man had rushed on ahead into the office before he had the chance. Ignoring the others, he slammed himself on the floor, bunching up the pillow behind his head, his eyes tight shut. Alleyn thought it was no doubt better that he said nothing, no young man angry at the world ever found solace in the advice of his elders.

  As Sydney Brown was swallowed into the warm fug of the crowded Transport Office, Alleyn extricated the over-heated Mr Glossop from the group. Much as he found himself tempted to leave Glossop until last, rather in the manner that a picky child might leave an unpleasant morsel on the plate in the hope he won’t be forced to eat it after all, the man’s ruddy complexion and mounting fury meant that he simply couldn’t risk it. Alleyn didn’t need another medical emergency on his hands, not even one as well-placed as this. As Bix was now back in attendance, Alleyn generously allowed that the office door might be left unlocked, letting in a little of the cooler night air, even as he led out a grumbling Mr Glossop.

  In his interview Glossop quickly confirmed the exact sum that was missing and, at Alleyn’s request, he wrote up a list of the specific locations that awaited their pay in the morning, having missed out on the delivery this evening.

  ‘You don’t think they’ll be surprised you didn’t turn up? Worried for you?’ Alleyn asked.

  ‘I’d already rung up Central Office to let them know about the blasted flat tyre, damn the roads out here, and it’s not as if I haven’t told them about the bridge a dozen or more times. Once the storm broke I’m sure they’ll have l
et the other payroll drops know I wasn’t going to get anywhere tonight,’ Glossop paused, sighing and mopping his brow, ‘Or at least, I darn well hope they did. They’re the idiots who sent me out in that rackety old van, even though I’d told them time and again that the tyres needed seeing to, the bridge was in a terrible state and the roads, well, I know I’ve already said it, but you’d better believe me, it’s even worse once you get on past the next—’

  Alleyn cut him off before he had to listen to another long list of Mr Glossop’s tribulations, ‘Which means no one is expecting you until tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Not now, no. Ever so lucky you turned up, aren’t we, Inspector? Charging in like the cavalry and then making sure to lock us up with God knows who might want to murder us all in our beds.’

  ‘No beds for any of us for now, Glossop,’ Alleyn demurred and probed a little more, but there was not much to be had from Mr Glossop that hadn’t already been ranted in public at some point over the past few hours. He was angry, he was tired, his bosses were fools, the soldiers were rogues, neither of those girls in the office were any better than they ought to be—no, not even the quiet little dark one, demure as she might paint herself—and only Jonty Glossop himself had the true measure of what was going on. A good woman, a fine woman was dead, a vast sum of money stolen, and the Inspector himself was right now wasting his time interrogating the only innocent man present.

  ‘You don’t think Father O’Sullivan is an innocent man, Mr Glossop?’ Alleyn asked lightly.

  Glossop snorted his derision, ‘I no more trust a vicar because of his dog collar than I do a policeman because of his badge, Inspector. It’s the measure of a man that proves him, not his job title.’

  ‘Clothes do not make your man?’

  ‘They do not.’

  ‘Very wise.’

  ‘Nor a starched veil, if you get my drift,’ Glossop added pointedly.

  Alleyn demurred with a slight nod, ‘It is true that Sister Comfort does not live up to her name as fully as one might wish.’

  ‘I’ll say she doesn’t. Goes out of her way not to, if you ask me.’

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say he hadn’t asked, but Alleyn bit it back. If his long years of uncomfortable interviews had taught him anything, it was that in offering least, he gained most. He waited a moment, and another, and finally Glossop could contain himself no longer.

  ‘I’ve a good head for faces, Inspector, always have. Not so bright with names, which can be a rotten trick, but I’m smart with faces. Now, I’ve seen Sister Comfort many a time and I’ve tried to get out of her way many a time, I’ll admit, but there was something odd earlier on this evening. I saw her in a certain light, can’t even tell you what it was, but I had a feeling something wasn’t right, felt like she was spying on me. Caught a glimpse of her skulking in the shadows and damn odd it was too.’

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘Off, something was off with her. Out of sorts.’

  ‘Or out of joint, as so much at Mount Seager appears to be. Do you think I ought to ask if she was quite well, Mr Glossop? Or if there was a problem, perhaps?’

  ‘You must do as you like,’ Glossop was back to his blustering self, ‘you’re the one’s put yourself in charge and keeping us from our beds, even if that blasted cot is nothing like a bed. All I’m saying is that Sister Comfort was snooping around this evening and I saw it. No idea what she was after, but I tell you, I saw it.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Is there anything else I ought to know before I return you to the dubious comforts of the Transport Office?’

  ‘Well yes, you haven’t asked what I heard when I was in Matron’s office, have you?’

  Alleyn’s voice was dangerously cold, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m not as green as I’m cabbage looking, Inspector, though no doubt your Pommie education and fancy elocution would think otherwise, and I pay attention to what’s what. I was looking out from the Surgery anteroom and I saw Sister Comfort head for Matron’s office, get up to the door, and turn away again. I saw the vicar head across and into Matron’s office. I saw the Irish rogue hanging about the door too, though no one let him in, and then, after he’d gone I saw the door open and Matron and the vicar came out.’

  ‘You saw them leave Matron’s office together?’

  Glossop blanched at the thought of explaining his fear of thunder and lightning to Alleyn, ‘Ah well, not as such,’ he stuttered, ‘but they were definitely on the step and the next time I looked the yard was clear. When I got up to Matron’s office it was empty, so they must have headed off together. But my point is Matron and the vicar were in the office after all. So why do you think Sister Comfort thought better about knocking or even opening that office door?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I’m sure you do.’

  ‘I do now you come to mention it, I reckon Sister Comfort was wanting to get a look at all that money and once she heard voices inside realized she’d better scarper and quick.’

  ‘What about Will Kelly?’

  ‘Him? For all I know he was already tipsy and couldn’t remember what he was doing at the door. You can’t take his word on anything, that much is clear.’

  ‘You appear to have very strong opinions of all of your fellows here tonight, Mr Glossop.’

  ‘And no wonder!’ he shrieked. ‘My money’s gone! Just like that! And it could have been any one of them. Matron is—was—a good woman through and through, the rest of them, I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could spit.’

  ‘You have made that quite plain.’

  ‘With good reason. Once the coast was clear and I did get up to the office with the damned cot under my arm, I heard one hell of a row.’

  ‘Really?’ Alleyn asked.

  ‘Ah, now you’re interested, aren’t you?’ Glossop grinned in delight. ‘Oh yes, it was a proper barney all right. One of those two girls it must have been, all “how now brown cow” with the A-E-I-O-U fancy like that, going at it hammer and tongs with some chap, not that he could get a word in edgeways, so I’d no chance of making out which of the men it was, or where it was coming from, Records or Transport. I couldn’t make out a word either of them was saying with the noise of the storm and the wind, so no point you asking me, but I’d lay odds that one of those young ladies isn’t quite what she seems.’

  ‘Goodness, Mr Glossop, Matron’s office appears to have been a veritable Piccadilly Circus. Unfortunately with no Criterion Bar where Dr Watson might meet a chum,’ Alleyn added with an almost wistful sigh.

  Glossop frowned up at the tall detective and mopped his brow, ‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about, but there was a load of coming and going, a row as loud as you like, and as far as I can see, any one of that lot might be your thief and your murderer.’

  ‘Matron too?’ Alleyn asked lightly, wishing the moment he’d spoken that he’d held back.

  Glossop swore heartily, declaring himself done and dusted with this farce. He stood up and after grumbling about his back and the indignity of being locked in that office with Gawd knows who, he stated that he damn well hoped Alleyn was as good at his job as that Farquharson girl had been telling them.

  ‘She has?’

  ‘You didn’t ask us to wait in silence until you were ready for us, Inspector, and we are adults, the usual way to pass time is to talk. Natter. Bang on and on in the case of that flighty tart.’

  ‘Tart, Mr Glossop?’ Alleyn asked sharply.

  ‘The blonde. You don’t need to be a detective to work her out, but I gather you’re more than any old detective, turns out you’re quite the renowned sleuth back in London?’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  Glossop interrupted him, holding up a pudgy hand to stop Alleyn in the middle of his usual self-deprecating flow. Alleyn found it so disarming he almost gave a small smile.

  ‘Now look, you need to hear this. Of course the money matters, it’s—’

  ‘Government money, yes.’

  ‘But Matron, well—
’ Glossop paused, went even redder than Alleyn would have thought possible and finally he stammered out, ‘She’s, is—was—a fine woman. Damn fine. One of the best. I can’t, can’t bear, I can’t bloody bear to think—’

  ‘Quite,’ Alleyn nodded, clapping Glossop on the back and sincerely regretting his earlier moment of facetiousness, ‘I’ll get on with the job, then, shall I?’

  Glossop gulped, nodded and, head down, the rolls of his chins pushed into his chest, followed Alleyn into the yard. By the time they had taken the twenty paces from one office to the other, Glossop was back to his blustering, arrogant self, but Alleyn found he felt a little odd about the angry, fat man. He felt almost sorry for him.

  After he returned Glossop to the Transport Office, the detective popped in to the Surgery anteroom, hoping to have a quick word with Will Kelly. He leaned over the prone figure, caught a strong whiff of what smelled like pure alcohol on the man’s breath and, disturbing him in the climax of an almighty snore, he shook him awake. The interview was short and sweet. Kelly was deeply befuddled, insisted he had taken no drink all night but lemonade, appearances and fumes to the contrary, and confirmed Glossop’s statement that he had tried to find Matron but that there had been no response to his knock on her door. He muttered a few more sentences, each more incoherent that the last and then collapsed back down on the scrubbed linoleum floor. Alleyn gave it up as a bad job and went to fetch Father O’Sullivan.

  This interview too was brief and to the point. No, the vicar had not seen anything untoward during the evening, he had been far too preoccupied ensuring that old Mr Brown’s last hours were as peaceful as possible.

  ‘And after that? Once the gentleman had passed?’

  ‘I went to fetch Matron so she could begin the requisite paperwork.’

  ‘Did it take you long to find her?’