Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘So what else?’

  ‘It sounds like she couldn’t cope,’ Teddy said sagely as he continued to rub a damp cloth over the surface of the long-clean bar. ‘If you don’t mind me cutting in. But there’s something wrong with what you’ve described there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mirabelle asked.

  ‘Well, she was the sister, wasn’t she? She was in charge of the nurses. The whole home, if it comes to that. The wife’s cousin is a nursing sister. Those women run the place – ward, hospital, home, whatever it is. Usually the doctors go to them with problems, not the other way around.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She must have been a capable woman – I’ve never known a sister who wasn’t. So if she went to the priest, she was calling him in as an authority. She was upset. She needed his help. That’s what it sounds like. And it must have been something big.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Jinty agreed. ‘If the problem was something medical, she’d have gone to a doctor, wouldn’t she? I mean, if there was something procedural – the wrong medication or something like that – Father Grogan wouldn’t have been much help. So it was a matter of people. Something between people. I mean, that’s what priests sort out, isn’t it? Deaths. Marital spats. Family feuds.’

  ‘Emotions. Morals,’ Teddy said sagely. ‘Or mortal illness – something a doctor couldn’t help with.’

  Mirabelle brought the glass to her lips. ‘There was no mention of a child more sick than usual – no suggestion of it,’ she said. She’d assumed that what had brought the father to the home was Sister Taylor herself but, now she thought on it, Jinty and Teddy were right. ‘They fought,’ she reasoned it through. ‘The other nurses were concerned for the children and the upset it might cause them. It seems as if, whatever it was, it was between the two of them.’

  Jinty’s lip pouted as she considered this. ‘No. You’ve been told the two of them fought. They may have. Who’s to say there wasn’t more to it? I mean, nobody ever wants it to be their fault. When two of the girls have a spat they always say it was the other one getting aggressive. I have to sort out that stuff all the time. Look at little Rene in the kitchen this morning – I bet she doesn’t think it was her fault that she came in and stuffed what she’d been up to in your face. And you don’t think it was your fault for rising to it?’

  Mirabelle blushed. ‘I feel responsible, actually. I took a dislike to her.’

  ‘Well, you’re unusual to admit it.’

  ‘But whatever it was, you’re right. There’s no evidence that Father Grogan had a fight with the sister. None at all.’

  ‘Exactly. You don’t know the sister’s side of the story, or the father’s, for that matter. And that’s where the answer lies. Standing in the hallway just listening, my foot. If I were you, I’d find out more about those nurses. The other ones. I mean, they’re the ones who won.’

  ‘Won?’

  ‘They’re the ones who are still there. History is written by the winners. You must have heard that. There’s more to that fight, Belle. You mark my words.’

  Mirabelle ran over Jinty’s logic. ‘I spoke to one of them already. She definitely wasn’t a murderer. I’d call her conscientious, if I had to choose a single word to describe her.’

  Though, as Mirabelle said that, she thought back on Nurse Uma sitting on her sofa. Had she looked guilty, even as she said it wasn’t her fault? Was there more to the tension between Uma and her lover? The way the doctor had tried to protect Uma?

  Jinty motioned towards a jar stuffed with bags of peanuts next to the gantry. Teddy removed one and flung it over the bar. She caught it with admirable precision. It was a double act long in the making.

  ‘Hookers know people,’ she said, splitting the packet open and laying it on the table. ‘Now you’ve had my take on it, you’ll probably have the whole thing solved in an hour or two. You mark my words. Here. Have some breakfast.’

  ‘I ate earlier,’ Mirabelle said.

  Jinty popped a handful of peanuts into her mouth and took a swig of the gin and bitter lemon. ‘Well. Regardless. You need to speak to the other girls. Nurses, I mean.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Mirabelle said as she reached for her handbag.

  ‘What? Are you going already? Call that drinks? Not much of a session.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Apologise to Rene for me. It isn’t her fault. Not really.’

  Jinty nodded. ‘Look, if you’re still thinking you might fancy it, we’re busy as can be and I can see a certain type of fella, you know, who’d fancy you rotten. Don’t listen to Rene.’

  Mirabelle put up her hand.

  ‘All right. All right. All I’m going to say is that we’ve got a conference in. They’re doing drinks at the Old Ship Hotel tomorrow afternoon. Four thirty. There’s a private room on the first floor. If you fancy it.’

  ‘The Old Ship?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Down on the front. You know it?’

  ‘I’ve been there for dinner.’ The hairs on the back of Mirabelle’s neck began to prickle. It felt as if there was a creeping lack of morality everywhere. As if everything was somehow slightly dirty. She began to draw her purse from the interior of the bag.

  ‘No you don’t,’ Jinty insisted, pointing as if she was directing traffic. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. This one’s on me.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  There is nothing we receive with so much reluctance as advice

  At Brill’s Lane, Vesta did not mention the lateness of the hour when Mirabelle returned to her desk some time after eleven o’clock. Neither did she offer Mirabelle a cup of tea or pass her the newspaper or the copy of the Picture Post, which they had taken to sharing. Instead, she pointed at the large bouquet of flowers she had propped in a jug of water in the sink behind her. ‘What have you been up to?’ she asked, tapping her pencil on the side of the jug.

  Mirabelle had completely forgotten about the bouquet. She scrambled in her jacket pocket and extracted the small envelope. Inside, the card said, ‘I’ll pick you up at 8. This time let’s see if we can make it to dessert.’

  A smile must have flickered across her lips.

  ‘It’s not like him,’ Vesta said. ‘Flowers. They smell lovely. Roses no less.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘McGregor. He’s never sent flowers before.’

  ‘Oh. It’s not. I mean, it’s the doctor.’ She was aware she sounded giddy.

  ‘They’re nice,’ Vesta said. ‘He’s got style, I’ll give him that.’

  Mirabelle turned the card over between her fingers. The flowers had arrived not more than half an hour after she’d left Chris Williams. He was a smooth operator. She wondered if he had an account at the florist and if he always sent a bouquet the morning after. Had he written the card himself or had he dictated it? She hadn’t noted any hint of condescension when the delivery man spoke to her, but she had been taken up with other matters. If the doctor placed a regular order, did he always send the same thing? Or had he chosen these flowers especially for her? As the questions formed, she berated herself inwardly for even thinking that way. Suspicion was a habit – a corrosive one. Women who were happy didn’t indulge in it.

  ‘You’ll be seeing him again then,’ Vesta said casually.

  ‘Dinner.’

  ‘And where have you been?’

  ‘I hurt my arm,’ Mirabelle lied.

  Vesta put down her pencil. ‘How?’

  ‘I bumped it. I went to the doctor.’

  ‘The doctor? Your doctor, you mean.’

  ‘Another doctor. A GP. You know, the NHS.’

  Vesta lifted her pencil again. ‘If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to,’ she said.

  The afternoon dragged. The office at Brill’s Lane was hardly busy midweek, and Mirabelle, aware she might smell of hard spirits, sucked one peppermint after another as she worked methodically through the paperwork on her desk. The more she thought of it, the more what Jinty had said made sense. The nur
ses were unreliable witnesses. She needed to look into it.

  Just before five o’clock, Vesta gathered her things. ‘I’m going out with Bill tomorrow morning on his calls,’ she said. ‘The Hayward case. Mrs Hayward is in on a Thursday, remember?’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’

  ‘Mirabelle, you will try to have fun, won’t you? Tonight?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘It’s just you came in drunk. Late. In the morning. The peppermints,’ she motioned.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ Mirabelle objected.

  Vesta ignored her. ‘I’m not complaining, but if there’s something going on … I know it must be rough with McGregor back on the scene. If you need help – I’d like to help you.’

  ‘It’s not him. It’s not Alan.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he hadn’t hit the bottle over you, you know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You don’t have to go out with this other guy just to make a point.’

  ‘I’m not. Really, I’m not.’

  ‘It’s perfectly natural – having a fling on the rebound.’

  Mirabelle cast her mind back to the night before and the electricity in the air over dinner. ‘I think he might be more than a fling,’ she said. ‘It’s just unexpected, that’s all.’

  Vesta gathered the bouquet out of the sink and wrapped it in newspaper. ‘That’s good,’ she said, handing over the bundle. ‘Well, here you are.’

  ‘I’ll lock up. You go and get Noel.’

  The flat seemed almost abandoned when Mirabelle got back. She laid her key on the table and put the bouquet in the sink in the kitchen. She didn’t have a vase. Inside the cupboards, most of the crockery was unused, still in the packets in which it had arrived. She gave up the search quickly and, instead, went to the window and stared at the vacant bench opposite the front door. Beyond it, a boy and a man stood at the shoreline, skimming stones. Three ladies walked past, their voices floating upwards but the words indistinct. Mirabelle glanced at the drinks tray but, heeding Vesta’s concerns, she decided against having a dram to sharpen her nerve and walked past, scooping her keys off the table. This case was niggling at her. She couldn’t seem to let it slide and just be happy. Automatically, she checked the clock on the mantelpiece, though it was still stopped. She didn’t wind it. There was a notepad by the door. She scribbled Change of plan. Meet me at the Old Ship. Around half eight. Then she slammed the door behind her, stuck the note into the facing and took the stairs at a trot.

  The gates of the cricket club were locked and chained when she arrived ten minutes later. She checked over her shoulder. In a residential area like this, it felt as if every window was a pair of eyes. Ahead, the panes of Sister Taylor’s empty bedsit reflected the low, blinding sunlight of late afternoon. Mirabelle checked her watch. It was a warm evening and she’d have expected there to be members at the club practising at the nets, though perhaps it was still a little early. The lock was the work of less than a minute. Efficiently she unwound the chain and slipped through the gate. Inside, the pavilion lay in darkness, the nets hoisted, ready and waiting. Without hesitation, Mirabelle made for the back wall where three heavy iron rollers were stored, propped against the brickwork, ready to render the pitch flat enough for play.

  Mirabelle hauled the smallest of these towards her. It was so heavy she needed to use her entire weight to get it to move. Slowly and with some effort she pushed the thick iron cylinder until it was stationed in the right place to afford her access to the back wall of the children’s home. She propped the wooden handle against the bricks and, checking it was stable, climbed upwards. It was tricky in heels but the weight of the roller worked with her. Peering over the top, she could see the French doors to the downstairs ward had been closed. The children were inside, tea no doubt under way. As smoothly as she could, and with some effort, she hauled herself over the top and down the other side where, keeping to the fringes of the lawn, she crept towards the back of the house.

  A quick peek through the glass doors confirmed that tea had been served on metal trays to Peter and his two companions in the ward. The other children would be in the dining hall, down in the basement. She’d have to be quick, she thought, as she bent to pick the lock. The three children watched her, looking up from the uninspiring plates before them, piled with boiled potatoes and pallid sausage. The lock picks grated and it took her a moment before she realised that the door had been left open. Inside, Peter grinned and waved her in.

  ‘Wotcha, Mirabelle,’ he said as she sheepishly turned the handle and slipped over the threshold. ‘It’s late for visitors.’

  Mirabelle cast her eyes towards the door to the hallway, which was open.

  ‘They’ll be five minutes, I’d say.’ The boy anticipated her correctly. ‘They told you you couldn’t come back, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The little girl eyed her sausage and looked as if she might say something. Instead, she put down her fork and started to cough.

  ‘Please don’t turn me in,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I need your help.’

  Peter smiled encouragingly. ‘Well, you’re the most interesting thing to happen in here today,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  The girl looked uneasy. The third child – a boy – seemed almost a ghost. He was chewing silently, no more involved than if he was watching a play.

  ‘What do you want?’ Peter asked.

  ‘I need you to tell me what happened the night Sister Taylor disappeared.’

  ‘We didn’t see a thing. It’s lights out at seven.’

  ‘I know you weren’t actually there. But did you hear anything, Peter? Anything at all?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, a grin spreading over his face. ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘We could do with some decent grub,’ the boy’s tone was matter-of-fact. ‘It’s my birthday next week. I want a cake. For all of us. Everyone, I mean.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘A cake. I’ll have the bakery on Church Street send one down, shall I?’

  Peter pushed a boiled potato to one side. She’d given in too quickly, she realised.

  ‘And I’d like a jigsaw. A big one.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you let me buy you a surprise? Rather than making a specific order?’

  Peter considered this. ‘I don’t always like surprises,’ he concluded.

  ‘You’ll like this one, I promise. And the more you tell me about the other night, the bigger it’ll be.’

  The girl looked out of the window, pointedly turning away from the negotiations.

  ‘And not just for you,’ Mirabelle promised. ‘For the other two as well.’

  Peter paused. ‘It’s only fair. Though it’ll be my birthday.’

  ‘How old will you be?’

  ‘Ten,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a big birthday.’

  ‘My brother got a bike when he was ten, but I can’t ride one, can I?’

  ‘I’ll think of something special. I promise. What day is it?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday it is then.’

  The girl turned back. She nodded at Peter, who then cast his eyes at the other bed. The boy didn’t move. It was almost as if he wasn’t aware there had been a change in his routine.

  ‘He never says anything,’ Peter said sadly. ‘No matter what happens.’

  ‘Well, it’s down to you two then, isn’t it?’ Mirabelle said.

  Peter nodded. ‘We didn’t see what happened. The door was closed but there was a kerfuffle out there.’

  ‘A kerfuffle?’

  ‘In the hallway. People going back and forwards for ages. We were whispering, Laura and me. We thought one of the other kids might have died, but everyone was fine the next day.’

  ‘Did you hear any shouting?’

  ‘No. Some talking. Raised voices, perhaps. Not real shouting. More muffled, like when I locked my brother in the cupboard under the stairs at home. There were people running about
. In and out the back. Up and down the stairs. Then, after ages, the bell rang.’

  ‘The doorbell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mirabelle considered this. Nobody had rung the doorbell when she had been watching. Father Grogan had his own key.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. The bell hardly ever goes at night so it was unusual.’

  ‘Do you know who it was?’

  ‘A man. We heard his voice, but not what he said.’

  ‘Father Grogan had a key, Peter.’

  ‘It wasn’t the priest. I can tell the difference between an English mumble and an Irish one.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I am.’

  ‘And you didn’t see a thing?’

  ‘No. I was in here. How could I?’

  Mirabelle considered. It was possible that somebody else had arrived at the home after Father Grogan left. But who or why they had come was more difficult to ascertain. The little girl started coughing again and Peter sat up straight. He motioned at Mirabelle. ‘Quick,’ he hissed.

  On instinct alone, Mirabelle hit the linoleum floor and rolled under Peter’s bed just in time. It was, she noted, spotless under there, the linoleum just as highly polished as the rest of the floor. The home was ostensibly very well run.

  Nurse Frida’s voice emanated from the doorway. Mirabelle squinted and made out the nurse’s shoes, square on. Her ankles seemed somehow immoveable.

  ‘Dear, dear,’ the nurse said. ‘I can tell you don’t want pudding on the ward tonight.’

  ‘Sorry, Nurse,’ Peter said. ‘We was talking.’

  Nurse Frida paused; no doubt, Mirabelle thought, looking at the unresponsive boy in the end bed and the girl, now coughing furiously.

  ‘If you and Laura want to chat, you can do so tomorrow. Eat up, then. Or there’ll be no pudding. And it’s jelly and Carnation tonight. You all like jelly, don’t you?’

  The children must have nodded.

  ‘All right, then.’

  The shoes disappeared.