by Anne Perry
“Er—” The younger nurse cleared her throat.
They all turned and looked at her.
“Dr. Beck, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Lally, she’s one of the skivvies what does in the operating theater and like. She’s only thirteen and she’s made like a nine-penny rabbit. She could slide down there easy, and there’s laundry baskets at the bottom, so she wouldn’t hurt herself.”
Kristian hesitated only a moment.
“Good idea. Fetch her, will you?” He turned to Callandra. “We should go down to the laundry room to make sure there’s a soft landing for her.”
“Yes sir, I’ll go for her,” the younger nurse said, and she went quickly, breaking into a run as she turned the corner.
Callandra, Kristian, and the other nurse went the opposite way, to the stairs and down to the basement and the dark, gas-lit passages to the laundry room where the huge coppers belched steam and the pipes clanked and rattled and poured out boiling water. Women with rolled-up sleeves heaved wet linen on the end of wooden poles, muscles straining, faces flushed, hair dripping. One or two looked around at the unusual intrusion of a man, then immediately returned to their labor.
Kristian went over to the base of the laundry chute and peered up, then backed out again and glanced at Callandra. He shook his head.
She pushed one of the large wicker baskets closer under the bottom of the chute and picked up a couple of bundles of dirty sheets to soften the fall.
“It shouldn’t have got stuck,” Kristian said, frowning. “Sheets are soft enough to slide, even if too many are poked down at once. Maybe someone has been putting rubbish in as well.”
“We’ll soon know,” she replied, standing beside him and looking up expectantly.
They had not long to wait. There was a muffled call from above, faint and completely indistinguishable, then a moment’s silence, a shriek, a curious shuffling noise, another shriek. A woman landed in the laundry basket, her skirts awry, arms and legs awkward. Straight after came the small, thin form of the skivvy, who shrieked again and scrambled to her feet, clambering like a monkey to escape the basket and falling onto the floor, wailing loudly.
Kristian bent forward to help the other woman up, then his face darkened and he moved his hand to hold Callandra back. But it was too late. She had already looked down and knew as soon as she saw her that the woman was dead. There was no mistaking the ashen quality of her skin, the bluish lips, and above all, the terrible bruises on her throat.
“It’s Nurse Barrymore,” Kristian said huskily, his voice catching in his throat. He did not add that she was dead; he saw in Callandra’s eyes that she knew not only that, but also that it had been no illness or accident which had caused it. Instinctively he stretched out his hand as if to touch her, almost as if some compassion could still reach her.
“No,” Callandra said softly. “Don’t …”
He opened his mouth as though to remonstrate, then realized its uselessness. He stared down at the dead woman’s body, his eyes filled with sadness. “Why would anyone want to do this to her?” he said helplessly. Without thinking, Callandra put her hand on his arm, gripping it gently.
“We can’t know yet. But we must call the police. It seems to be murder.”
One of the laundrywomen turned around, perhaps her attention caught by the skivvy, who was beginning to shriek again, and she saw the arm of the dead woman above the edge of the laundry basket. She came over and gaped at the corpse, then screamed.
“Murder!” She drew in her breath and screamed again, piercingly, her voice high and shrill even above the hiss of steam and clatter of pipes. “Murder! Help! Murder!”
All the other women stopped their work and crowded around, some wailing, some shrieking, one slithering to the floor in a faint. No one took any notice of the skivvy.
“Stop it!” Kristian ordered sharply. “Stop this minute and go back to your work!”
Some power in him, some tone or manner, caught their innate fear of authority, and one by one they fell silent, then retreated. But no one returned to the coppers or the piles of steaming laundry gradually cooling on the slabs and in the tubs.
Kristian turned to Callandra.
“You had better go and inform Sir Herbert, and have him call the police,” he said quietly. “This is not something we can deal with ourselves. I’ll stay here and make sure no one disturbs her. And you’d better take the skivvy, poor child, and have someone look after her.”
“She’ll tell everyone,” Callandra warned. “No doubt with a great deal added. We’ll have half the hospital thinking there’s been a massacre. There’ll be hysterics and the patients will suffer.”
He hesitated a moment, weighing what she had said.
“Then you’d better take her to the matron and explain why. Then go and see Sir Herbert. I’ll keep the laundrywomen here.”
She smiled and nodded very slightly. There was no need for further words. She turned away and went to where the skivvy was standing, pressed up against the capacious form of one of the silent laundrywomen. Her thin face was bloodless and her skinny arms were folded tightly around her body as if hugging herself to keep from shaking so violently she would fall over.
Callandra held out her hand toward her.
“Come,” she said gently. “I’ll take you upstairs where you can sit down and have a cup of tea before you go back to work.” She did not mention Mrs. Flaherty; she knew most of the nurses and skivvies were terrified of her, and justly so.
The child stared at her, but there was nothing awe-inspiring in her mild face and untidy hair and rather comfortable figure in its stuff gown. She bore no resemblance whatever to the thin fierce person of Mrs. Flaherty.
“Come on,” she said again, this time more briskly.
Obediently the child detached herself and followed a step behind as she was accustomed.
It did not take long to find Mrs. Flaherty. All the hospital knew where she was. Word ran like a warning whenever she passed. Bottles were put away, mops were pushed harder, heads bent in attention to labor.
“Yes, your ladyship, what is it now?” she said grimly, her eyes going to the skivvy with displeasure. “Not sick, is she?”
“No, Matron, only badly frightened,” Callandra answered. “I’m afraid we have discovered a corpse in the laundry chute, and this poor child was the one who found her. I’m about to go to Sir Herbert and have him fetch the police.”
“Whatever for?” Mrs. Flaherty snapped. “For goodness sake, there’s nothing odd about a corpse in a hospital, although for the life of me, I can’t think how it got to be in the laundry chute.” Her face darkened with disapproval. “I hope it is not one of the young doctors with a puerile sense of what is amusing.”
“No one could find this amusing, Mrs. Flaherty.” Callandra was surprised to find her voice so calm. “It was Nurse Barrymore, and she has not died naturally. I am going to report the matter to Sir Herbert and I should be obliged if you would see to this child and make sure she does not unintentionally cause hysteria by speaking of it to others. It will be known soon enough, but for the meantime it would be better if we were prepared for it.”
Mrs. Flaherty looked startled. “Not naturally? What do you mean?”
But Callandra was not going to discuss it further. She smiled bleakly and left without answering, Mrs. Flaherty staring after in confusion and anger.
Sir Herbert Stanhope was in the operating theater and apparently due to remain there for some considerable time. The matter would not wait, so she simply opened the door and went in. It was not a large room; a side table with instruments laid out took much of the space and there were already several people inside. Two student doctors assisted and learned, a third more senior watched the bottles of nitrous oxide and monitored the patient’s breathing. A nurse stood by to pass instruments as required. The patient lay insensible upon the table, white-faced, her upper body naked and a bloody wound in the chest half closed. Sir Herbert S
tanhope stood at her side, needle in his hand, blood staining his shirtsleeves and forearms.
Everyone stared at Callandra.
“What are you doing here, madam?” Sir Herbert demanded. “You have no business to interrupt an operation! Will you please leave immediately!”
She had expected a reception of this nature and she was not perturbed.
“There is a matter which cannot wait until you are concluded, Sir Herbert,” she replied.
“Get some other doctor!” he snapped, turning away from her and resuming his stitching.
“Please keep your attention upon what I am doing, gentlemen,” he went on, addressing the student doctors. He obviously assumed that Callandra would accept his dismissal and leave without further ado.
“There has been a murder in the hospital, Sir Herbert,” Callandra said loudly and distinctly. “Do you wish me to inform the police, or would you prefer to do that yourself?”
He froze, his hands in the air with needle poised. Still he did not look at her. The nurse sucked in her breath sharply. One of the student doctors made a choking sound and grasped the edge of the table.
“Don’t be absurd!” Sir Herbert snapped. “If a patient has died unexpectedly I will attend to it when I’m finished here.” He turned slowly to look at Callandra. His face was pale and there were sharp lines of anger between his brows.
“One of the nurses has been strangled and stuffed down the laundry chute,” Callandra said slowly and very clearly. “That can hardly be called a misjudgment. It is beyond question a crime, and if you cannot leave here to summon the police, I will do so on your behalf. The body will remain where it is. Dr. Beck is seeing that it is not disturbed.”
There was a sharp hiss of breath between teeth. One of the student doctors let slip a blasphemy.
Sir Herbert lowered his hands, still holding the bloody needle and its long thread. He faced Callandra, his eyes bright, his face tight.
“One of the nurses?” he repeated very slowly. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Callandra answered. “It is Barrymore.”
“Oh.” He hesitated. “That is appalling. Yes, by all means, you’d better call the police. I shall finish here and be available to meet them by the time they arrive. You had better take a hansom yourself rather than send a messenger, and for goodness sake be as discreet as you can. We don’t want a panic in the place. The sick will suffer.” His expression darkened. “Who else knows of it already, apart from Dr. Beck?”
“Mrs. Flaherty, the laundrywomen, and one skivvy whom I asked Mrs. Flaherty to watch over, for that reason.”
“Good.” His expression relaxed a little. “Then you had better leave immediately. I should be ready when you return.” He did not apologize for not having listened to her immediately, or for his rudeness, not that she had expected him to.
She took a hansom cab, as he had suggested, and ordered the driver to take her to Monk’s old police station. It was probably the closest, and it was certainly the one of which she knew the address and where she was confident of finding a senior officer with a proper sense of discretion. She used her title to obtain immediate attention.
“Lady Callandra.” Runcorn rose from his seat as soon as she was shown in. He came over to greet her, extending his hand, then changing his mind and bowing very slightly instead. He was a tall man with a narrow face bordering on handsome in a certain manner, but it was belied by lines of temper around his mouth and a lack of assurance which one would not have expected in an officer of his seniority. One had only to look at him to know that he and Monk could never be at ease with each other. Monk was assured, even arrogant, his convictions deeply seated and dominated by intellect, his ambition boundless. Runcorn held his convictions equally deeply, but lacked the personal confidence. His emotions were uncertain, his humor simple. His ambition was also keen but his vulnerability was plain in his face. He could be swayed and cut by what other people thought of him.
“Good morning, Mr. Runcorn,” Callandra replied with a light smile. She accepted the seat he offered her. “I regret I have a crime to report and it may prove to be a sensitive matter. I wished to tell you of it in person rather than find a constable in the street. I’m afraid it is very serious.”
“Indeed.” Already he looked in some indefinable way satisfied, as though the fact she had confided in him were an accolade. “I am sorry to hear it. Is it a matter of robbery?”
“No.” She dismissed robbery as of no consequence. “It is murder.”
His complacency disappeared but his attention quickened. “Who has been killed, ma’am? I will see that my very best officer is on the case straightaway. Where did this happen?”
“In the Royal Free Hospital on the Gray’s Inn Road,” she replied. “One of the nurses has been strangled and placed down the laundry chute. I have come straight from there. Sir Herbert Stanhope is the chief medical officer and a surgeon of some note.”
“I’ve heard of him, of course. An excellent man.” Runcorn nodded. “Indeed, an excellent man. He sent you to report this matter?”
“In a sense.” It was foolish to resent the reference to Sir Herbert, as if he had taken charge and she were merely a messenger, and yet she knew that was what it would come to in the end. “I was one of those who found the body,” she added.
“Most distressing for you,” Runcorn said sympathetically. “May I send for something to restore you? Perhaps a cup of tea?”
“No thank you,” she said rather more briskly than she had meant. She was shaken and her mouth felt dry. “No thank you. I should prefer to return to the hospital and allow your officer to begin his investigation of the matter,” she added. “I have left Dr. Beck standing guard over the corpse to see that nothing is moved or altered. He has been there for some time by now.”
“Of course. Most commendable of you, ma’am.” Runcorn said it with what he doubtless intended to be approval, but to Callandra it sounded intolerably condescending. She nearly asked him if he had expected her to behave like a fool and leave the body for anyone to move or alter, but recalled herself only just in time. She was more distressed than she had thought. She found to her surprise that her hands were trembling. She thrust them into the concealing folds of her skirt so Runcorn would not see them. She stared at him expectantly.
He rose to his feet, excusing himself, and went to the door, opening it and calling in a constable. “Send Inspector Jeavis up here right away. I have a new case for him and Sergeant Evan.”
The answer was indistinguishable, but it was barely a few moments before a dark saturnine man put his head around the door inquiringly, then followed immediately, his lean body dressed in very formal black trousers and a black frock coat. A white winged collar made him look like a city clerk or an undertaker. His manner was peculiarly both hesitant and assured. He looked at Runcorn and then at Callandra, as if to ask permission, though he did not wait for it but stood equally between them.
“Jeavis, this is Lady Callandra Daviot,” Runcorn began, then he realized he had made a social error. He should have presented him to her, not the other way around. He blushed angrily but there was no way to retrieve it.
Without thought Callandra rescued him. It was the instinctive thing to do.
“Thank you for sending for Mr. Jeavis so rapidly, Mr. Runcorn. I’m sure it will prove to be the best arrangement possible. Good morning, Mr. Jeavis.”
“Good morning, ma’am.” He bowed very slightly, and she found him instantly irritating. He had a sallow face and thick black hair and very fine eyes, the darkest she had ever seen, but curiously light brows. It was unfair to prejudge the man, and she knew it even while she did it. “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what crime you have suffered?” he inquired.
“None at all,” she replied hastily. “I am on the Board of Governors at the Royal Free Hospital in the Gray’s Inn Road. We have just discovered the corpse of one of our young nurses in the laundry chute. She appears to have been
strangled.”
“Oh dear. How very unpleasant. When you say ‘we,’ ma’am, whom precisely do you mean?” Jeavis asked. In spite of his obsequious manner his look was penetrating and highly intelligent. She had the sense of being very thoroughly weighed and that the judgment would have none of the social deference he suggested outwardly.
“Myself and Dr. Kristian Beck, who is one of the physicians at the hospital,” she replied. “And in a sense the women in the laundry room, and a child who is employed as a skivvy.”
“Indeed. What caused you to be examining the laundry chute, ma’am?” His head cocked curiously to one side. “Surely that is not part of the duties of a lady such as yourself?”
She explained to him how it had come about and he listened without taking his eyes from her face.
Runcorn fidgeted from one foot to the other, uncertain whether to interrupt or not, and at a loss for something to say to keep his place in the proceedings.
There was a knock on the door, and on Runcorn’s command John Evan came in. His lean young face lit up when he saw Callandra, but in spite of past circumstances and commitments shared he had enough aplomb to affect merely recognition and no more.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” she said formally.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he replied, then looked inquiringly at Runcorn.
“A murder in the Royal Free Hospital,” Runcorn said, seizing the chance to regain control. “You will go with Inspector Jeavis and investigate. Keep me informed of all your findings.”
“Yes sir.”
“Oh, Jeavis,” Runcorn added as Jeavis opened the door for Callandra.
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t forget to report to Sir Herbert Stanhope at the hospital. Don’t go blundering in as if it were a manhunt down the Whitechapel Road. Remember who he is!”
“Naturally sir,” Jeavis said soothingly, but his face tightened with a quick flick of temper. He did not like to be reminded of social niceties.
Evan shot a rapid glance at Callandra, amusement glinting in his hazel eyes, and a wealth of memory and silent humor passed between them.