No Known Grave

by Maureen Jennings

  “Reprisal for what? Where?”

  “The victims are referred to as villagers. It mentions schnapps, which suggests our Kraut friends. Could be anywhere in occupied Europe.”

  “And what does it have to do with the killing of Jock McHattie and his young son?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe somebody is practising their school compositions.” He shoved back his chair angrily.

  “May I have a closer look?” Sister Rebecca asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  She picked up the paper and studied it for a moment. “Inspector, forgive me if I sound like Sherlock Holmes, but I can tell you with some certainty that this letter was typed on one of the machines we have here at St. Anne’s.”

  “Good Lord! Explain please, Sister,” exclaimed Tyler.

  “We have three typewriters that are available for those of our residents who can use them. They’re not particularly new or well maintained. Sister Clarissa teaches a typewriting class and she complained to me just last week that the letter w on one of the machines was jamming all the time.” She tapped the paper. “You can see where that has happened.”

  Tyler checked. She was right. “Anything else you can glean from the letter, Madame Holmes?”

  “Only what you yourself would notice. The overall typing is even, with no errors or strikeovers. This suggests some expertise. The language is that of a well-educated person. The writer’s English usage is perfect.”

  “Any such literati spring to mind?”

  “I’m afraid not. Perhaps Nigel Melrose, but, frankly, it doesn’t sound like him. Not florid enough.”

  “Do you know if he types?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Is there anybody at all in the hospital, staff or patient, male or female, who is a skilled typist?”

  “Other than myself, Sister Clarissa is the only one I can think of. But it is not information that would necessarily be on their intake forms.”

  “What do you make of the religious overtone? The words ‘condemned for eternity’?”

  She gave a little shrug. “Christ taught us not to pass judgement on our fellows. What is described is, in my mind, utterly wicked and without reason, but it is only God who can save or damn, not we mortals.”

  She appeared uncomfortable about this profession of her faith. If it were up to him, he’d be tempted to line up the soldiers against the bloody wall just as they had done to the innocents.

  Tyler returned the letter to the envelope.

  “Thank you, Sister. I’ll concentrate on the mechanics for now. I’d better have a talk with Sister Clarissa, your typing teacher.”

  “I’ll fetch her.” She hesitated. “I have instructed the sisters to go ahead and celebrate evening prayers. Some of the residents regularly join us and will be expecting it. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tyler sat a moment longer. He was growing to like the almoner more and more. She reminded him of a teacher he’d had when he was a boy. Miss Harrison was probably younger back then than the almoner was now, but of course to him, she’d seemed ancient. She tended to be strict and rather staid. That is until one unforgettable morning when she announced to the class she was engaged to be married and would be leaving the school at the end of term. Even to his young eyes, she looked different. Softer, happier. It wasn’t until years later that he identified what had changed in his teacher. She was in love.

  Clare, when are you ever coming back to me?

  27.

  HE WAS WRENCHED OUT OF THESE THOUGHTS BY THE return of Sister Rebecca. An older nun was trailing close behind her.

  “If you don’t need me to be here, I’ll go back to the common room until Sister Clarissa can take over again.”

  “That’s quite all right, Sister. We won’t be long.”

  Tyler smiled reassuringly at the other nun.

  “Please have a seat, Sister. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your typing class.”

  “Oh dear. Why is that?” Her voice was high and shrill.

  “Er … let’s just say, I’ve received a rather peculiar letter today. Sister Rebecca is of the opinion that it was typed on one of the hospital’s machines. I’d like to find out who sent it to me.”

  “Why do you say it’s peculiar? What’s in it?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose the contents at the moment, Sister. But I’d like to find the letter writer if I can. It is quite well typed. No mistakes or errors.”

  He thought she looked relieved, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Who in your class would you consider a really good typist?”

  “None of them,” she said with a shrug. “They’re useless, to tell the truth. Either can’t see or can’t use their fingers properly.”

  “Why are they taking a typing class in that case?”

  “Gives them something to do. Mind you, we haven’t been going at it for long. Only two weeks. I’m hoping they’ll improve.”

  “So there isn’t anyone among your students who you would call skilful?”

  “Not a one. If it’s a good typist you’re looking for, you should speak to Shirley McHattie. She is quite accomplished. At least she is when she puts her mind to it. I asked her if she would help me mark the work, but she didn’t want to. Most distracted, that girl. But that’s not surprising, is it? Given the condition she’s in. Good thing for her Our Lord forgives all sins.”

  Maybe the Lord was forgiving, but Tyler had the impression that was a virtue Sister Clarissa didn’t come by easily.

  “Could I have the names of the patients who are in your class, Sister?”

  “They’re all men at the moment. I’d like the women to come – a secretarial skill is more suitable for a woman – but none are up to it. So I have Graham Coates, Isaac Farber, and Sidney Hill. Daisy Stevens did start, but decided she’d rather do massage therapy.”

  “Can anybody use the machines?”

  “Oh, yes, but as far as I know, they are not in high demand. They were donated, for which we are grateful, but they’re really not very good. Some of the keys have a way of jamming.”

  “The letter w, for instance?”

  “Definitely that one for sure.”

  “Have you noticed anybody else using the machines?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  She was watching him expectantly, but she didn’t offer any more information, and there didn’t seem anything further to ask.

  Tyler stood up. “Thank you so much, Sister.”

  She, too, got to her feet, but at the door she hesitated. “The letter you were sent. It wasn’t what you’d call ‘naughty,’ was it?” Suddenly she turned bright pink. “You know what I mean. It didn’t use dirty words, did it?”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “And it was well typed?”

  “Very.”

  “That’s good,” she said ambiguously.

  She left and Tyler returned to his chair. What on earth did she mean by that? Who did this elderly nun know who wrote dirty letters?

  28.

  TYLER SPENT TIME READING THROUGH THE PATIENT files but once again drew a blank. There was nothing to connect any of the residents with the McHatties prior to their arrival at St. Anne’s, nor, on the other hand, to suggest that one of them might be insane enough to commit an indiscriminate murder.

  He sat back feeling tired and frustrated. Then he noticed a card propped up on the desk. It was a list of telephone numbers: the hospital in Shrewsbury, the police station in Ludlow, the community mother house, and a number for Dr. B. Beck.

  Tyler picked up the receiver and dialled the operator.

  “I’d like to place a trunk call. London.” He gave the number.

  While he was waiting, he lit up a cigarette. Only two left of his self-appointed ration. He’d better make this one last.

  The telephone rang for a long time and Tyler was about to cancel the call when the doctor came on the lin
e, sounding breathless.

  “Beck here.”

  “I have a call from Inspector Tyler,” said the operator. “I’ll put you through, caller.”

  “Tom! What a surprise.”

  Tyler couldn’t help but feel gratified at the evident pleasure in the other man’s voice.

  “I saw a notice in the Ludlow paper that you had taken on the job of inspector,” continued Beck. “I was hoping to see you on my next visit to St. Anne’s.”

  The doctor’s English had improved a lot in the two years since Tyler had last seen him. His Austrian accent was now very slight.

  “That’s actually where I’m calling from, Doctor. I’m afraid I have bad news. I’ll tell you what’s happened – I’d be most appreciative of your opinion.”

  “Of course. Go ahead.”

  Tyler filled him in on the previous night’s incidents. Dr. Beck didn’t comment until he had finished.

  “I am shocked to my core, Tom. I’ve only made two visits to the hospital so far, and I can’t say I knew that family well. But I saw the two boys playing in the grounds. It is utterly incomprehensible that somebody would take such a young, innocent life.”

  “I believe Ben was only killed because he came into his parents’ bedroom when he did; his father was shot first. The sister in charge here has been most helpful, but I thought I’d ask if you have any idea what might possibly have triggered this.”

  There was such a long pause on the other end of the line that Tyler wondered if they had been cut off.

  “Doctor?”

  “Yes, still here, Tom. I couldn’t give you a quick answer to your question.”

  Tyler felt a frisson of impatience.

  “What I mean is, did you have any sense when you were here that one of the patients might snap and go on a murderous rampage?”

  “If I did, I’d have taken care to have them closely supervised.”

  “Yes, of course, I didn’t mean to imply …” Tyler trailed off. He’d put his foot in his mouth for certain.

  “Besides,” continued Beck, “what you’ve described to me I would not call a rampage. There is no chaotic wild killing spree. The killer appears to have been highly organized.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Tyler. “I’ll rephrase my question. Are there any of your patients who might decide to kill an unarmed man asleep in his bed? Also, more pertinent, might any have taken a scunner to Jock McHattie, whether rational or irrational?”

  “Nobody. On the one or two occasions his name was mentioned, it was always with respect and admiration. I’d be much more worried about a patient hurting himself than attacking somebody else. Most of them are overwhelmed by trying to adjust to their new condition.” Dr. Beck definitely sounded huffy. “Anyway, Tom, as you have no doubt learned, very few of my patients would be physically capable of the act.”

  “Some are.” Tyler rhymed off the names he’d put on his ABLE list.

  “Not Mrs. Bowman, Tom. She has not walked for months. Her muscles have atrophied. Nor Isaac Farber. He can’t even hold a spoon.”

  “Easy to fake that.”

  “For days? Months? I doubt it … As for the others, I know Alekzander Bobik is mobile, but his sight is poor.”

  “So he claims.”

  “The doctor’s report says there is damage to the optic nerves.”

  “Both Victor Clark and Graham Coates use canes, but it’s not that hard to act as if you can’t walk properly.”

  “Have you seen Coates’s leg? It’s mangled. And Clark’s spine was damaged in the plane crash.”

  “Is that in the doctors’ reports?”

  “Yes. Both of them were transferred from East Grinstead. I have seen the medical records. They are both crippled.”

  “Permanently?”

  “It is hard to tell at this point. We of course hope for the best, but in my opinion, neither Coates nor Clark is capable of walking normally, never mind running around in the darkness and climbing up and down stairs.”

  It was Tyler’s turn to get a bit huffy. “I can understand you want to defend your patients, but I’m thinking from the point of view of a policeman. You’ve seen the wall. You know how high it is. The gates are barred at night. The murders must surely have been committed by somebody living at St. Anne’s. And the assassin is not obvious. I’d say he – or, I suppose, she – is masquerading.”

  Beck made a tutting sound. “What if more than one person was involved? Could the killer have had an accomplice within the hospital who let him in?”

  Tyler tapped his nail on the receiver in acknowledgement. “Now you’re thinking like a copper.”

  He heard Beck sigh. “I’m not sure I like doubting everything and everybody.”

  “The main problem is that I can determine no discernible motive,” continued Tyler. “Any ideas you’d like to throw my way about that, Doctor?”

  “I’m afraid not. Don’t forget, Tom, I subscribe to the theory that every criminal has an unconscious compulsion to confess. Primitive guilt. In fact, sometimes the desire to be caught and punished isn’t even that unconscious.”

  “Ah, yes. We talked about that a few years ago when you were at the internment camp on Prees Heath.”

  “And I was right. Grant me that, Tom. I was right.”

  “Yes, you were. Speaking of the compulsion to confess … I have something quite outlandish to share with you. I want to read you a letter I received this afternoon. It’s anonymous, but according to Sister Rebecca it was very likely typed on one of the typewriters here.”

  He removed the letter from the envelope and read it out loud.

  When he had finished, there was another long silence on the other end of the telephone.

  “Thoughts, Doctor? See any connections?”

  “Not immediately. Except it has to do with victimization. The killing of innocents.”

  “Such as Jock and Ben McHattie?”

  “Frankly, Tom, I am totally bewildered. It seems too bizarre a coincidence that somebody would send you such a letter shortly after two unarmed people have been killed, but why they have done so, I cannot tell.”

  “I’ll pursue the physical aspects of the letter, typing and all that, but psychologically, any insights?”

  “The general tone is quite anguished. And accusatory. ‘Do they now weep,’ for instance. And the reference to eternal damnation.”

  “Any thoughts as to what massacre is being described?”

  But before Beck could reply, there was a loud knocking on the door and Constable Mortimer popped her head in.

  “Inspector, can you come, quickly? Mrs. McHattie is demanding to see you.”

  “I’ll ring you back, Doctor,” said Tyler, and he hung up the telephone.

  “What’s happening, Constable?”

  “Mrs. McHattie says that Alfie Fuller was spying on Shirley from the garden. She wants him to be arrested. I had the deuce of a difficult time getting her to stay where she was. She wanted to run after him.”

  “Where is Alfie?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I’d better fetch you right away. Constable Mady is with them. Mrs. McHattie won’t stop shouting and carrying on.”

  Tyler groaned. “Is Charlie there?”

  “No, thank goodness. I’d got him to stay with Hughes before this happened. His mother needed some time to herself. Shirley was taking a rest in one of the sisters’ rooms.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He followed Mortimer via the rear door to the nuns’ quarters.

  As soon as they entered, Mrs. McHattie whirled around. She looked as if she might run straight at him.

  “If you don’t do something about that pervert,” she shouted, “I can’t answer for what I’ll do. This constable here is blocking the door. He’s a young laddie and I don’t want to hurt him, but I will if I have to. Somebody has to get to Alfie Fuller and cut his balls off.”

  “That sounds rather drastic, Mrs. McHattie. What has happened?”

  “He’s been
up to his old tricks, that’s what. And today of all days.”

  She was clearly on the verge of a complete hysterical collapse.

  “Be a big help to me if you could say what you’re referring to,” said Tyler. “What sort of old tricks?”

  She jerked her head in the direction of Constable Mady.

  “He’ll tell you.”

  The constable shuffled his feet. “Yes, sir. Well, you see, Mrs. McHattie thought she saw Alfie Fuller in the garden …”

  She burst out angrily. “I didn’t think I saw him, I did see him. He was skulking in the bushes over there. He wanted to spy on our Shirley. Expose himself like he did the last time. I swear I’ll chop his parts off, I will. He won’t be so quick to drop his trousers then.”

  She actually started to head for the door. Tyler moved to block her.

  “Mrs. McHattie. If Alfie was doing what you say he was, it’s a criminal offence. I’m a police officer. I’m responsible for charging those who break the law. I’d appreciate it if you would sit down and we can sort out what happened.”

  Reluctantly, she did so, perching on the edge of the chair, her hands curled into fists by her side.

  “When did you see Alfie?” Tyler asked her.

  “Just now. Out there.” She pointed in the direction of the garden.

  “Did you see anybody, Constable?” Tyler asked Mady.

  He ducked his head. “I’m afraid not, sir. Mrs. McHattie started shouting. I came into the room and she, er, she said that there was somebody in the bushes spying on her.”

  “Did you go and have a look?”

  “I didn’t, sir. I called on Constable Mortimer to fetch you. I didn’t want to leave Mrs. McHattie alone, and short of locking her in, I didn’t see how I could stop her going in pursuit. And as I had not myself seen a man in the bushes, I had to assume she was mistaken.”

  Tyler thought Mrs. McHattie might explode at this, but she didn’t. She simply muttered, “He’d run off by then.”

  “This has all been a dreadful ordeal for you, Mrs. McHattie,” said Tyler. “And I am truly sorry I cannot let you go back to your own house just at present. We will move as quickly as we can to make an arrest.”