Trixie’s suppressed giggles exploded. She turned to me. “I believe you now. I thought your fevered imagination was working overtime. The cunning old . . . Sorry, Sister.”
Sister Julienne looked at me. “How long have you known about this?”
“About two weeks.” I was feeling very uncomfortable.
“And you said nothing to me?”
I could only mutter a feeble: “I’m sorry, Sister.”
“Come to my office after supper and before Compline. We must gather up these things.” She bent down and started picking up the jewels. We all helped in silence.
It was difficult to concentrate on my evening round, and babies that would not feed seemed perverse and irritating. Part of me was glad that the secret, which had oppressed me for days, was at last out in the open. On the other hand I was furious with myself for not having managed to dispose of the jewels before Sister Julienne found them. The knowledge that she required me in her office later gave me an uneasy feeling, and my legs turned the pedals reluctantly as I cycled back to Nonnatus House.
As soon as I entered the clinical room I knew, from the atmosphere, that the police were in the house. Usually, after a day’s work, a group of young girls would make quite a lot of noise, chattering and giggling as they packed their bags and cleared up; but not on this occasion.
Novice Ruth looked up. Her eyes were red and her voice seemed subdued. “You are to go to Sister Julienne’s office at once,” she said.
A sick feeling grabbed at my stomach. Cynthia said: “I’ll do your bag. Leave it here, and don’t worry.”
I knocked on the office door and entered. The same sergeant and constable who had been assigned to the case earlier were present. The jewels were spread out on the desk.
Sister Julienne spoke. “Here is the nurse who has known of the existence of this -” She hesitated – “this . . . little haul, for more than fortnight.”
My face was burning and I felt like a criminal.
The sergeant spoke to me, the constable taking notes all the while. They required my name, my age, home address, next of kin, father’s occupation and many more details besides.
“When did you first see these jewels?”
“On a Monday afternoon, two weeks ago.”
“Can you identify them?”
“Not really, I did not look closely enough.”
“But are they substantially the same?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you find them?”
“In the third drawer down of the bedside cabinet.”
The constable looked back through his notebook. “We looked in the bedside cabinet, sir, and there was nothing there. They must have been placed there after our search.”
“Just what I was thinking. And what did you do, nurse?”
“Nothing.”
“Were you aware that these jewels are of considerable value?”
“I guessed they might be, but I didn’t know.”
Sister Julienne intervened. “Why did you not tell me?”
“I promised I wouldn’t.”
Sister Julienne was about to speak, but the sergeant silenced her.
“Who did you promise?”
“Sister Monica Joan.”
“So she knew you had seen them?”
“Yes.”
“And she made you promise not to tell?”
“Yes – no. She didn’t make me promise. I just did.”
“Why?”
“Because she was so upset.”
“What was she upset about?”
“The jewels.”
“Upset that you had found them?”
“I suppose so.”
“Upset that she had been found out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she upset before you found them?”
“No. She was happy.”
“And she was happy when you left her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I didn’t want to answer. But he repeated: “Why?”
“I suppose she was happy because I had promised not to tell.”
The sergeant looked at the constable. “Sister Monica Joan obviously knows what she has been doing. First she moves the jewels around to avoid detection and then when they are found, she is clearly relieved when a promise of secrecy is made.”
He turned to me again. “At the time of finding the jewels, nurse, did you know that the police were investigating a charge of shoplifting brought by local costers?”
“Yes.”
“And did it not occur to you that the jewels might be relevant to police investigations?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nurse, I won’t insult you by suggesting you are stupid!”
“Well, yes, I did think they were relevant.”
“Were you aware that withholding evidence during a police investigation is a criminal offence?”
My mouth went dry and my head began to spin. It is one thing to engage in underhand behaviour, but quite another to be told by a police sergeant that you have been guilty of a criminal offence. My voice was barely audible.
“I didn’t know until a few days ago that it was a criminal offence.”
“And what happened a few days ago?”
“I told the girls.”
Sister Julienne exploded. “You told the girls and you didn’t tell me. This is outrageous!”
“Why did you tell the girls and not the Sister-in-Charge?”
“Because I knew that Sister Julienne would have to tell the police, but the girls wouldn’t.”
“And what did the girls say?”
“I can’t quite remember. We had a couple of bottles of sherry and I’m not sure what we said. It all got a bit confused.”
The constable taking notes gave a chortle, that was quickly smothered when the sergeant stared at him.
Sister Julienne’s blood pressure was rising fast. “This gets worse and worse. You girls had a couple of bottles of sherry when you were on duty! We will talk about this later.”
I groaned in despair. Now I had got my friends into trouble too.
The sergeant interrupted. “Let’s get back to the jewels. You decided to conceal the information from the police, but what did you intend to do?”
“I thought I could take the jewels from Sister Monica Joan’s room and just leave them somewhere, in Hatton Garden, or outside a police station.”
The sergeant and the constable exchanged glances.
“But I couldn’t find them, so I couldn’t do it.”
“She had moved them from the bedside cabinet?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a very good thing for you, nurse, that you could not find the jewels. If you had done as you have suggested and been apprehended with the jewels on your person, you would have been in serious trouble.”
I went cold. Theft, prison. The end of my nursing career. The end of everything.
The sergeant was watching me carefully. Then he spoke. “We are not going to take any further action, nurse. This is a caution, and will be recorded as such. You have been very foolish. I hesitate to call you a silly young girl, but that is what you are, and I hope this will be a lesson to you. You can go now.”
I crept out of Sister’s office numb with shock. To be called a “silly young girl” by a police sergeant when you think you are so mature and responsible is not a pleasant experience.
The girls pressed me for information. We sat round the kitchen table eating cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and home-made cake and I told them all about it. Narrowly missing prison was foremost in my mind.
“Not a chance, old scout. We’d have stood by you,” said Chummy staunchly. Her loyalty reminded me of my own disloyalty – I had let the cat out of the bag about the sherry party. I was contrite in my apologies. Cynthia, as always, was soothing, pointing out that we were all in it together and no harm had come of it. She advised cocoa all round and an early night.
The jewels
were taken by the police for identification and Hatton Garden jewellers who had reported losses over several years were asked to examine them. One man, Samuelson by name, positively identified a rope of antique pearls and a diamond ring as having been stolen from his stock a few years previously. He produced record books verifying his statement.
The testimony of costers who had seen Sister Monica Joan take small items from their stalls was also required. With their evidence, combined with that of Mr Samuelson, the police decided that, on a variety of counts, there was now a case against Sister Monica Joan. However, her mental fitness was in doubt, so a medical assessment was required.
The general practitioner who had known Sister Monica Joan for many years and who had attended her through her recent bout of pneumonia was consulted. He said that he was baffled and quite unable to decide whether or not she was senile, and advised obtaining the report of a psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist was a lady, a senior consultant in psychiatry at the London Hospital, who examined Sister Monica Joan twice at Nonnatus House. Her report stated that, in spite of her age, Sister’s mind was remarkably clear. All her responses were swift and accurate; she was astute, observant and cryptic in her conversation; her understanding of past and present events was impressive; and she had a clear understanding of the difference between right and wrong. No evidence of mental deterioration could be found and the psychiatrist considered that Sister Monica Joan could be held responsible for her actions.
Having considered the two medical reports, the police decided to prosecute and they referred the evidence to Old Street Magistrates’ Court for a preliminary hearing.
Three magistrates agreed unanimously that there was a prima facie case of larceny, for which a younger person would undoubtedly have stood trial at the London Quarter Sessions. However, the presiding magistrate was exceedingly doubtful, considering the age of the accused. He had a grandmother of ninety-three who did not know the time of day nor even recognise her own daughter and he was very sympathetic towards extreme old age.
Whilst the charges were being read by the police superintendent, Sister Monica Joan sat between her solicitor and Sister Julienne, who was scarlet with embarrassment and kept her eyes lowered. In contrast, Sister Monica Joan sat upright and looked around her with haughty grandeur, every now and then exclaiming something-like “poof” or “tosh” or “fiddlesticks”.
When the superintendent had finished, the presiding magistrate said, “You have heard the charges?”
“I most certainly have.”
“And do you understand them?”
“Don’t be impertinent, my man. Do you think I am stupid?”
“No, Sister, I don’t. But I must be quite sure that you understand the charges brought against you by the police.”
Sister Monica Joan did not answer. She looked towards the clock on the wall and raised her veined hand towards her chin like an actress posing for a photograph.
“I am not sure that she does, sir,” said Sister Julienne quietly to the solicitor who stood up to speak.
But, before he could do so, Sister Monica Joan turned on them with quiet rage. “Do not presume to speak for me. Speak for yourselves. Bear witness to your own imperfections. We stand, each of us, alone and naked before the Judgement Throne, where none but the silent dead can testify.”
The presiding magistrate was having second thoughts. This was very different from a grandmother whose conversation was confined to: “I’m ninety-three, you know, think of that, ninety-three.” He addressed Sister Monica Joan very seriously. “Have you understood the charges brought against you?”
“I have.”
“Do you plead ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’?”
“Guilty! Guilty? Do you imagine, my good fellow, that I accept a charge of guilt from the hoi-polloi I see before me?” She sniffed scornfully and drew out a laced handkerchief from beneath her scapular, which she applied to her nose with an affected gesture, as though an unpleasant smell had assailed her. “Guilty indeed – huh? ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Does your small mind understand the hidden meaning of ‘guilt’? Before you use the word again, it behoves you to find out, if perchance you are capable of such intellectual exercise, which I very much doubt.”
Such rudeness to the presiding magistrate was Sister Monica Joan’s undoing. Had she shown a little more humility, a little more uncertainty or even contrition, it is likely that, in their discretionary powers, the magistrates would have taken the matter no further. As it was, after a brief consultation, the decision was made to accept a plea of not guilty and to refer the case to the London Quarter Sessions for trial by judge and jury.
Sister Julienne was devastated by Sister Monica Joan’s performance in the Magistrates’ Court. She had hoped that the matter would end quietly there, but now the full publicity of the Quarter Sessions would have to be faced. But Sister Julienne was not a woman easily beaten. She prayed about the matter. The inspiration granted to her from a heavenly source was that the defence of mental deterioration should be strengthened. She consulted the solicitor and it was decided to obtain a third medical opinion.
Sir Lorimer Elliott-Bartram had an enviable reputation as a psychologist. He was well known in London, having given medical evidence in several legal cases. Sir Lorimer was getting on in years but not so far on that he could not maintain a thriving practice in Harley Street. In fact, the further on he got, the more patients came flocking to his doors and therefore the more money he made. It was all very satisfactory.
Sir Lorimer had qualified as a surgeon in 1912, and had had a distinguished record as an army doctor in the First World War – distinguished, according to the military commanders, as a first-rate officer and doctor; and distinguished, according to the men in the ranks, as a butcher.
Although Sir Lorimer had never qualified, nor attempted to qualify, as a psychiatrist, he had made a fortune in Harley Street by dabbling in psychotherapy, memory loss, personality change, mental block, hypomania, dypsomania, kleptomania and related subjects. He was a tall, handsome man with a deep, resonant voice that could easily adopt a silky tone. The majority of his patients were women.
There is an old saying in medical circles that if you want to make a study of invective, you should listen to two doctors talking about a third. In psychiatric circles Sir Lorimer, a mere psychologist, was regarded as a pompous old windbag and a chancer, who fuelled the tank of his Rolls-Royce with the blood of rich old ladies.
Oozing opulence, Sir Lorimer entered Nonnatus House and was taken to Sister Monica Joan’s room. He kissed her hand and called her “dear reverend lady”.
She murmured, “What a relief to meet a mature gentleman of experience and understanding.”
He kissed her hand a second time, whispering: “I understand everything, dear lady, everything.”
She sighed and smiled: “I am sure you do, Sir Lorimer, quite sure.”
Later that day, just before Compline, I asked Sister Monica Joan if she liked Sir Lorimer.
She was sitting comfortably by the window knitting. Her face assumed a bright, plastic smile as she cooed, “He is charming, my dear, perfectly charming -” the smile vanished, and a hard edge entered her voice – “and determined to be so.”
Sir Lorimer’s report was very long and technically complex. For the benefit of the lay reader who is unfamiliar with medical terminology, I have attempted to summarise and simplify it. The report stated:Sister Monica Joan is a lady of the Leptosomatic type with a nervous affinity to the Cyclothymic make-up on the one hand and a tendency to Catatonic excitement on the other. Neologism and Disconnection, though slight, could not be discounted. Whereas elucidation of the former may throw light upon the latter, comprehension of the latter seldom throws light upon the former, from which it may be deduced that individual psychological symptomatology must be sought in personal biography. The Korsakaw Psychosis of Registration, Retention and Recall is important. A link between Retrograde Amnesia
is consistent with the facility, richness and rapidity of association. Whilst Depersonalisation is not a factor, Derealisation is and Catatonic symptoms are not evidence of Catatonia, though significant to the trained mind. Kleptomania is consistent in Cyclothymic behaviour, but inconsistent with Leptosomatic tendencies.
Although they could not understand it, Counsel for the Defence and the Sisters were very impressed by this report.
The trial of Sister Monica Joan at the London Quarter Sessions attracted much attention. The public gallery was full. Many costers, and several jewellers from Hatton Garden, were present. Several older women, who remembered the accused as a young midwife and who owed their lives to her, had come out of sympathy. The press gallery was full. A shoplifting nun was good news to a hard-bitten reporter.
Sister Monica Joan sat in the dock. She was knitting quietly and seemed completely unconcerned with what was going on around her. Sister Julienne sat beside her, and attended throughout.
The usher entered.
“Silence in Court,” he shouted. “Be upstanding for His Lordship.”
Everyone rose to their feet – everyone, that is, except Sister Monica Joan, who remained seated. “Stand for His Lordship,” shouted the usher.
There was no movement from Sister Monica Joan. The usher moved towards her, banged the floor with his staff and shouted louder.
Sister Monica Joan gave a surprised little squeak. “Are you addressing me, young man?”
“I am.”
“Then let it be known that I will not be addressed in this rude fashion.”
“Be upstanding for His Lordship,” shouted the usher.
“Did your mother never teach you to say, ‘please’, young man?”
The usher swallowed hard and banged his staff down on the floor a second time. Sister Monica Joan sat immobile, her beautiful eyes half-closed, her lips pursed in disdain.
Shadows Of The Workhouse: The Drama Of Life In Postwar London Page 18