A little way into the ward, we paused by a table, lit by a dim lamp. A pen lay on a set of patient’s notes beside a medication log. The chair had been pushed back.
From the nearest bed came gentle snoring. As always in such places, when patients are supposedly settled down for the night, there was one who moaned loudly. There was always one.
Each bed was separated from the other by precisely the same distance, as if measured by a ruler. I thought of the dead mathematician, Dr Potter, and what brainy measurements and calculations would remain forever undone.
The ward sister approached from the far end. The porter stepped up to her. They stood a couple of feet from the table, speaking in low tones. She glanced in my direction. This might be it: my marching orders.
She came towards me as the porter turned the trolley around and wheeled it back the way we had come.
‘I’m Sister O’Malley. I’m putting your man in the room at the end.’
She was in her late twenties, pale skinned with blue-grey eyes. A few strands of wispy black hair escaped from her cap.
Without another word, she strode ahead of the porter and opened the door to a room on the right, just inside the ward’s double doors.
I followed her.
The room was about twelve feet long and ten feet wide, with a high window.
While the porter wheeled the patient into the room, she said quietly, ‘The porter tells me you are a nurse, and with the police.’
‘Catherine Shackleton, Sister. I’m a former VAD nurse, with connections to the West Riding Constabulary and I am called to help the Leeds police from time to time.’
This was true in part, although it may have given a slightly false impression. My only connection to the West Riding Constabulary is my father who is chief superintendent in Wakefield, and I once took a lost child to Millgarth Police Station.
Among many fully trained nurses there was disdain for us Voluntary Aid Detachment types, so it was best to have this out in the open. Fortunately, Sister O’Malley showed no signs of being about to snub me.
She examined the patient without speaking. Suddenly he began to cough, to choke. She glanced quickly at me. I went round the other side of the stretcher. Between us, we lifted him and sat him up. I slapped his back, so that he might bring up the plug of phlegm that threatened to choke him. I caught it in my handkerchief.
She and the porter transferred the patient to the bed.
‘Do the police want you to stay with him?’ she asked. When I hesitated, she continued, ‘Only I’m on my own tonight. One of my nurses is sick and the other on an emergency in the women’s ward.’
I want him kept alive, the inspector had said. So did I want the organ grinder to recover, not only for his own sake but because he may be able to shed light on Dr Potter’s death.
‘I can stay, Sister. I could start by giving him a bed bath.’
‘Thank you. That would be a great help.’
I took off my coat. ‘I’m not dressed for the occasion.’
She smiled. ‘You’ll find everything you need, including an apron, in the room on your left, in the corridor. Very bad congestion. You’ll apply poultices?’
‘Of course.’
‘The porter tells me there’s to be a constable on duty.’
‘So I understand.’
‘I dislike the idea of having a policeman on my ward. It seems quite unnecessary in the circumstances. Make sure the officer stays in the corridor.’ She turned to the porter. ‘Wait with the patient for a moment, please.’ She touched my arm ever so lightly but it was a friendly touch. ‘Come on. I’ll show you where to find what you need.’
I followed her through the double doors and into the corridor. She opened a door on the left. It was the nurses’ room.
‘Here you are. I suppose this will be quite familiar.’
The room was shelved on two sides. Below counter level were cupboards, and on the counter to the left a kettle on a gas ring. The upper shelves held sheets, towels and flannels.
By the window were three separate sinks. She pointed to them from left to right. ‘That one for my tea things, middle one for patients’ crocks, and the one on the right for dressing bowls. That has the hot tap with sterilised water. You’ll find an apron and cap in the far cupboard.’
‘Thank you, Sister, I’ll manage now.’
‘I’ll have a chair put in the corridor for the constable.’
When she left, I hung up my coat. Donning the starched apron and pinning the cap in place created the oddest sensation. It was as if I were leaving myself behind and becoming young again, Kate the nurse. The events of the evening had unsettled me. I washed my hands, filled a basin, picked up towels and nightshirt. These actions reminded me of my younger self, eager, energetic, speeding through the First Aid and Home Nursing examinations, being told what to do and when to do it, and never flinching.
With effort, I banished the memories and concentrated on the here and now.
Back in the room, the porter helped me take off the patient’s overcoat. It was thick and too big for him but could be cleaned and would see him through a few more years, if God granted him more years. Some of his garments would be beyond saving.
‘You’ll need more than one basin of water for this chap, nurse.’
‘I know.’
‘Want me to fetch another?’
‘Not yet because it would be cold by the time I’m ready, but you might fetch a laundry bag and disposal bag.’
‘Consider it done.’
I set to work, unlacing the badly worn shoes. They must have been on his feet for months and were stuck to his socks. The cardboard insoles, shredded to nothing, would not have kept out the cold and damp. His socks would need to be cut off, and I dreaded to think about the state of his feet. That would be a separate job.
The porter returned with laundry and disposal bags, together with a pair of scissors. ‘Reckon you’ll need these. Anything else?’
‘Thank you, no. You’ve been very helpful.’
He left. The wheels of his trolley and the opening of the doors briefly broke the silence.
He was right about the scissors.
It was not too hard to remove my patient’s upper garments but the lower ones were beyond saving and had to be cut off. As best I could, I kept him covered as I worked to remove his clothing, snipping through the thick tweed trousers with difficulty.
His middle was red and inflamed from the pressure of his makeshift money belt.
His face was not too dirty, so he must have rinsed it somewhere, but there was a tidemark on his neck.
Although I worked as gently as I could to get him clean, and into a nightshirt, the process must have exhausted him still more. Briefly, he opened his eyes and seemed to look at me but without making any sign that he saw me. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed.
His hair needed a wash and his feet more attention than I had given him, but the poor man must rest, and have nourishment.
I returned to the nurses’ room and put on the kettle to make him Bovril, searching the cupboards for an invalid cup.
When I came back to the room, the doctor was with him. I felt pleased to have made my patient presentable.
The doctor was of the old school, self-important but thorough. He nodded curtly, and then ignored me as he placed a stethoscope on the patient’s chest.
‘Name?’
‘We don’t know his name yet, Doctor.’
He picked up the chart. ‘No TPR?’
‘I haven’t taken his temperature and pulse yet.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Soon as, then.’
He prescribed cough medicine, which we both knew would do little good, and aspirins to try and reduce the fever. At the door, he turned, giving me a curious look. ‘Sister said you are former VAD Nurse Shackleton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any relation to Gerald Shackleton?’
Someone must have said, ‘Gerald Shackleton’s widow is working for
the police.’
‘Gerald was my husband.’ As I spoke, that old lurch to the guts upset me more than I can say. People say time heals. No it does not.
‘Ah. Well … fine chap … good work.’
When he had gone, I coaxed my patient into taking a little Bovril.
Something was happening to me, and it was unwelcome. Too much of the past flooded back. All those times spent trying to do my best for patients, hoping, praying, someone would do the same for Gerald if he needed nursing and was far away. Then there would be that inevitable attachment, willing a man to live while watching him die little by little.
The inner turmoil was at odds with my measured words as I attempted to soothe and reassure. ‘I’m going to make you comfortable. Can you tell me your name?’
His eyelids flickered. He slumped onto the pillows, exhausted.
In the nurses’ room, I made poultices, found aspirins and replenished the Bovril cup with water.
Applying the poultices seemed cruel when he was in such a weak state, but it might relieve his breathing just a little.
He was thin; I had noticed that of course, but now I saw just how thin. His forearm was narrower than mine. Skin hung loose on his wasted calves. If he lasted the night, it would be a miracle. I would not leave him. During the war, there were times when it was not possible to sit by a dying man. One had to move on and tend to the ones who might live, who might be patched up and sent back to fight another day. As I sat by this man, whose name I had yet to learn, I remembered all the men whom I had watched die. Not another. Not this one. This one will live.
‘Do you hear me?’ For the umpteenth time I cooled his brow with a damp cloth. ‘You are going to pull through and tell me what you were doing in that dratted basement.’
He held the clue as to who killed Dr Potter. If it was within my power, he would not keep his information for the grave.
I reached for my satchel, which I had placed under the bed, and took out the hessian bag of sovereigns, intending to count the money. There was a tap on the door. Quickly, I pushed the bag under the blanket and placed my satchel on top.
It was Constable Hodge. ‘Here I am, better late than never, eh? How is he?’
‘Badly.’
He stepped into the room. ‘He looks grey as clay.’
‘He is a very poorly man.’
‘Any name yet?’
‘No.’
‘Looks familiar.’
I refrained from saying that Constable Hodge had probably seen the man looking a little healthier than this as he played his barrel organ about the town during the summer.
My conviction that this was the organ grinder was not simply based on the colours of his waistcoat and the monkey’s jacket. Man and monkey had a certain smell in common. If I was right, someone at the station would know his name. Perhaps it would dawn on Constable Hodge. Eventually.
Why was I keeping the information to myself? I could not quite put it into words. It was something to do with not trusting the inspector. I felt sure this man had done nothing really wrong, except perhaps trespass for the sake of shelter. His crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was too weak to have committed murder.
The constable stepped further into the room. ‘That sister’s fierce. Insists on me staying in the corridor.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Dealing with an emergency.’ He looked down at the figure on the bed. ‘Mind, he’s looking a bit better.’
‘That’s because he’s clean.’
A sound in the corridor prompted the constable to retreat. ‘The porter’s offered me a cup of tea. Do you want one?’
‘No thanks. I can brew up in the nurses’ room.’
‘All right for some.’ He gave me a friendly smile, and was gone.
When he had closed the door, I withdrew the bag. The gold sovereigns glittered. There were too many coins to count without putting them into my satchel, which I did, in tens. Fifty gold sovereigns – a small fortune. This was an astonishing amount of money for a monkey to have collected for his master.
Stashing my satchel under the bed, I sat down in the straight-back chair.
I had not intended to doze but feeling suddenly tired I slept, in spite of the discomfort.
When I woke, I could not tell whether the fog had cleared. It was impossible to see out of the window, like looking at a solid curtain of the darkest grey.
At four o’clock, my patient opened his eyes.
‘Where am I?’
‘In the infirmary. You’ll be cared for here.’
A look of dread came over him. His lips parted wide, his chin dipped. ‘Workhouse?’
‘No. The General Infirmary, Great George Street.’
‘Who brought me here?’
‘I did.’
He shut his eyes.
‘I’m going to change the poultice on your chest and on your back. Might you be able to help me?’
His already limp body drooped and wilted. After the effort of speaking, the last scintilla of energy deserted him.
While he slept, I went back to the storage room and boiled water, poured it into a basin and added Friar’s Balsam. I placed this by his bed, hoping that the pungent steam might bring some relief. Sweat poured off him, soaking the sheets.
At six o’clock, I changed his nightshirt and bedding. He groaned as I renewed the poultices.
A little before seven, I set about making tea, including a cup for Constable Hodge. As I stood in the doorway of the nurses’ room while waiting for the kettle to boil, PC Hodge finally took my statement about the events last night at the library.
He closed his notebook. ‘The counter assistant Dr Potter was concerned about, has she left the library?’
‘Mr Lennox said she left suddenly.’
‘What is she like?’
‘Miss Montague is in her twenties, efficient, attractive, red-gold hair.’
‘And that valuable book you found, Mr Lennox was rather concerned that it was in the basement and not on its usual shelf.’
‘Yes.’
He put his notebook in his pocket. ‘Well thank you, Mrs Shackleton.’
After that, it was my turn to ask a question.
‘Mr Hodge, if it’s not a rude question, why are you here? The inspector must know that our patient isn’t going anywhere. You could come back when he recovers.’
‘The minute he’s fit to talk, I’m to take a statement from him. You see, the question is, what was he doing in that basement? There was only the two of them there, him and the dead man. Looks bad for him.’
‘But you saw the state of him. You don’t believe he could have had anything to do with Dr Potter’s death, do you?’
‘Could be he was putting it on a bit.’
‘You can’t “put on” pneumonia.’
The constable watched from the doorway as I poured tea. ‘That’s not for me to say. But I’m here, should he come round and turn peculiar.’
So that was why he had come into the sick room earlier. Perhaps the inspector had said that my patient might be dangerous.
I handed the constable his teacup. ‘He is a very sick man and far too weak to cause trouble.’
PC Hodge held the doors for me as I returned to the room. The organ grinder was breathing heavily.
It felt like a small triumph when I managed to help him drink, putting the spout to his lips, and watching him sip sweet tea.
Sister came in just as I finished noting his temperature, pulse and respiration on the chart.
‘You can add a name, Mrs Shackleton. The constable has remembered who he is. Umberto Bruno, an organ grinder.’
In the corridor, there was a clattering of teacups on a trolley, and nurses talking. Someone dropped a bedpan.
Sister said, ‘That girl is so clumsy.’ She moved to go, turned at the door, and said, ‘Oh, I spoke to matron. She remembers you from a stint at St Mary’s during the war. She is agreeable to your returning this evening, if that is
convenient to you.’
This took me by surprise, but I was not sorry. If Umberto recovered during my shift, I would be able to hear his account of why he was in the basement and whether he saw Dr Potter’s assailant.
‘Yes. I’ll be glad to come back.’
‘The shifts are seven till seven. You should go home now, and get some rest.’
When she had left the room, I picked up my satchel, heavy with coins.
Inspector Wallis and his superiors had twenty-four hours after finding the body in which to request Scotland Yard to take over the investigation. If the Yard was called in after that time, Leeds City Police would have to foot the bill, something they would be most reluctant to do.
By the time I returned this evening, I would know who was leading the investigation.
I hoped for the sake of Dr Potter and Umberto Bruno that it would not be the inexperienced Inspector Wallis.
Eleven
Walking out of the infirmary, I wanted to stretch my legs which felt as leaden as the grey sky looked. But my legs didn’t want to be stretched. They claimed to be tired, and so did my feet which cried out for a tram ride. Decision: should I catch a tram and rest, or walk and have a stretch? The choice was made for me because the tram came into view as I reached the stop.
The heavy satchel dug into my shoulder. This was hardly surprising given the amount of coins it contained. Like Silas Marner, I felt the urge to re-count them. A law-abiding citizen would have handed the money to Constable Hodge. The good constable would have passed it to Sergeant Ashworth. The sergeant would, in turn, have tendered it to Inspector Wallis. There were too many opportunities for something to go wrong. I am a deeply trusting person, too trusting according to Jim Sykes, but the person I trust most is me. Umberto Bruno’s sovereigns would be safe in my hands, even if they should not have been in his hands in the first place.
I climbed aboard the tram and gratefully slid into the nearest seat. The conductor took my penny.
A gentle mist covered the bleached-out grass on Woodhouse Moor. Pavements shone darkly from early rain.
Death of an Avid Reader Page 9