Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘And you’ve looked into the nurses?’

  ‘A little. I spoke to Nurse Frida’s mother. And I visited Nurse Uma at home.’

  ‘Anyone jumpy?’

  Mirabelle thought for a moment. ‘Not Frida. But Uma and her lover were. Uma got jumpy about her plants actually – she has the most extraordinary physic garden.’

  ‘A lover?’ And there was the old Vesta.

  ‘A female doctor. They met in a clinic in India.’

  ‘Oh, so that is the woman you asked me to check out – you know, for the cats?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, she was jumpy in the home – sneaking cigarettes and goodness knows what else. She’s unhappy about something – other than the death, I mean, and Sister Taylor’s disappearance.’

  ‘She’s the weak link, then.’

  Mirabelle wondered why she hadn’t gone back to Uma. Vesta was right. ‘I’ve been rather distracted,’ she said. ‘That’s the thing. I can’t seem to tie it all together.’

  ‘You said woman,’ Vesta said vaguely.

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘The woman doctor. The nurse’s friend.’

  Mirabelle wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Yes,’ she managed.

  ‘Lovers,’ Vesta said. ‘Gosh. I’ve never heard of that. Well, Uma is the weak link, then.’

  Mirabelle wondered why she hadn’t gone back to the nurse. Vesta was right. ‘The nurse got picked up by a man. He drove her off. The doctor wasn’t pleased.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t be.’

  ‘Not that, Vesta. Picked up in a car. Uma was going to work for him, I think. She was in her uniform.’

  ‘A man in a car needing a nurse and not a doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind of man?’

  ‘He looked like a hood. He had a thin moustache and, well, frankly, a bad suit. He drove a Jaguar.’

  ‘Did you get the registration number. What model was it?’

  Mirabelle looked forlorn. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’re much better at that kind of thing. It was blue. I suppose we could check with a garage, if there was one sold down here.’

  ‘If you want a Jaguar you have to buy it in London.’

  They crossed the road. Mirabelle breathed in the rush of sea air. ‘We’re lucky to be alive, aren’t we? I mean, that’s what it comes down to. Poor Julie Turpin, sick all that time and we never knew. Father Grogan poisoned out of the blue. Every day we’re just lucky to be here.’

  Vesta nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s a duty. At least, that’s what my mum would call it.’

  ‘A duty?’

  ‘To be happy. To make the best of things.’

  Mirabelle paused. She’d never thought of happiness as a duty. It cast a new light on things. If she was choosing between McGregor and Dr Williams, thinking of it that way made it an easier choice.

  Two ice-cream vans parked at the bottom of Old Steine played music out of time with each other. The women turned into the maze of streets, away from the shrill noise on the hot air. A group of small boys, wearing shorts of various lengths, leaned against a lamppost.

  ‘I can help if you like,’ Vesta offered. ‘With your case, I mean.’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘Really? Would you?’

  ‘Well, for a start, someone needs to look into the clinic where these two women met, don’t you think? In India.’

  Vesta had always been good at getting to the bottom of things. ‘Good idea,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘And I suppose it might be a good idea if I went over to the children’s home. There was a little black girl you mentioned?’

  ‘Oh Vesta, she’d love that. It’d be wonderful if you could check on Lali.’

  ‘It’s going to mean you minding the office for a change,’ said Vesta. ‘Finishing up everything for us to start again on Monday.’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘Maybe it’s about time.’

  Inside, Mirabelle left the ‘Closed’ notice in place. She opened the office window to air the room. The sound of a passing car snaked up from the street below. Bill’s desk was tidy already, but she carefully put Vesta’s papers in a pile and then pushed the girl’s chair into place. She washed a single dirty teacup and laid it out to dry and smoothed the newspaper without reading it. Then Mirabelle leaned against her own desk and surveyed her kingdom.

  Perhaps McGuigan and McGuigan had had its day, she thought. Maybe she’d go to London with Chris Williams after all – to live in his flat in Mayfair. She could walk in Hyde Park every morning and go shopping – the buzz of the big city sounded rather attractive. They’d look back at Brighton as the place they met – with its wide blue skies and the crowds on the beach. London was, after all, where she’d come from. After all these years, it seemed suddenly possible to go back there and make a home. To get away from Brighton and its piles of dead bodies, its grubby affairs – the mess of the place. Not that the big city was in any way tidy, she smiled. But still. She remembered what someone had once said about Brighton – that when London turned upside down, the loose change fell out of its pockets and landed at the south coast. Brighton felt like that these days – grubby, fluffy change with scraps of old paper. The thing was, it had never seemed possible to leave Jack before.

  Mirabelle picked up the telephone and called the city morgue. The number rang half a dozen times.

  ‘Brighton Morgue, can I help you?’

  ‘Could I speak to Dr Chris Williams? It’s Mirabelle Bevan here.’

  ‘Hold, please.’

  The telephone clicked and whirred and the doctor picked up.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I think I owe you dinner,’ she said, surprised at her flirtatious tone – how light she sounded.

  Chris was duly encouraged. ‘Great! Tonight?’

  ‘Do you think we might ever get to finish a meal at the Old Ship?’

  ‘You mean finish it properly?’

  She didn’t answer that. ‘Busy day?’

  ‘Always. I issued Bone’s death certificate.’

  ‘Strangulation?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be an unexpected end for a man in his position and I can’t find anything else. I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘I’ve been considering your offer. About London.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you at eight, then. Shall I pick you up?’

  ‘No. I’ll see you there.’

  The phone clicked. She could almost feel herself blush at how forward she’d been but there was no point in playing games. No sooner had she replaced the receiver than the phone rang. Mirabelle picked it up with a wry expression on her face.

  ‘Can’t you wait?’ she teased him. ‘It’s only a few hours.’

  ‘Can’t I wait for what?’ It was Vesta’s voice.

  ‘Nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘Mirabelle, you had best come down here. That Indian nurse of yours …’

  ‘She’s hardly mine, Vesta.’

  ‘She’s just tried to kill herself.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Blood spilt cries out for more

  Mirabelle paid the cab driver and didn’t wait for her change. As the cab drove off, she strode up the steps of the children’s home and rang the doorbell. Vesta answered immediately.

  ‘They won’t let me see her,’ she said, pulling back into the shady hallway and sitting down on one of the mismatched chairs that ran down the side. ‘But they haven’t asked me to leave. I said I’d just wait.’ Mirabelle closed the front door behind her. The hallway was silent and the air felt heavy. The door to the sunny downstairs ward was closed and so was the door to the rear of the house, where the office was situated. The only light came from a small window halfway up the stairs, the fanlight over the front door and a single, yellowing bulb of curiously low wattage that hung from a pendant fitting above them.

  ‘What happened exactly?’

  ‘Well, Lali is going home tomorrow. When I turned up, I think they thought I’d come to pick her up early. You know, because th
ere are only three black women in the whole of England and we’re all related.’ Vesta rolled her eyes. ‘I explained I’d just come to visit – to check the kid was OK. I didn’t mention you, of course. I said I was a friend of the family. She’s a sweet little thing – bright too. Can you imagine sending away your daughter like that? I mean, the child is sick and you just put them on a train?’

  Mirabelle licked her lips. ‘I expect they sent an ambulance. That would make more sense, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Still. On her own.’

  ‘In the care of the medical profession.’

  ‘Suicidal nurses,’ Vesta objected. ‘And the sister just went missing. This is hardly a happy place. I wonder how much the parents of the children know.’ It was clear that if and when Noel got sick, he would not be leaving Vesta’s sight. Not even in surgery. ‘Anyway, they said of course I could visit. They took me into the back garden but there was a kerfuffle back inside – screaming and the like. I ran in to see what was going on. Which brings me to the Indian nurse.’

  ‘Uma, you mean.’

  ‘Yes. As far as I can understand it, she took something from the medicine cabinet – an overdose, I expect. They found her on the floor in the office at the back. All hell broke loose and the other nurses grabbed her and made her sick. They took her upstairs to one of the wards. That’s when I took the chance to call you from the office.’

  ‘Did they call the police? Afterwards, I mean.’

  Vesta shook her head. ‘Not that I saw, and nobody’s turned up. Not a doctor. Not a policeman. Nobody.’ The girl raised her eyes towards the top of the stairs. ‘They said to wait here. I offered to go back into the garden and play with the kids, but the older nurse wouldn’t have it. “We’re dealing with an emergency,” she said. “Staff only. We’ll come and get you when things are settled,” she said. “If you want to wait.” So I did.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Well, fair enough. You hold the fort, then.’

  ‘But …’ Vesta got to her feet.

  Mirabelle put her fingers to her lips. ‘They don’t know I’m here. Leave this to me – I’ll have a snoop and see what I can find. You just cover if you have to.’ She motioned for Vesta to sit down, which she did, albeit unwillingly.

  Gingerly, Mirabelle climbed the stairs, her heels echoing on the linoleum as she rose higher. She moved on to her tiptoes and made it to the top silently. The upper hallway was smaller than the reception area on the ground floor and it was lighter too. Several doors opened off the upstairs landing and another, thinner, set of wooden stairs jutted upwards at an angle to what must at one time have been servants’ quarters. An equally awkward and thin set of stairs ran down the back of the house, where a passageway had been knocked through to the adjoining property. Carrying somebody up the stairs or along the passage would be tricky – the opening was not much more than two or three feet wide and the stairs turned at a sharp angle. No, Mirabelle reasoned, having got Nurse Uma up here, if there were beds on this floor, they’d choose one of those.

  She opened the first door on to an empty dormitory that was tidy but smelled of damp washing. Then she tried the next door, which revealed a similar room, though this time appreciably warmer, with the window open and the sun streaming in. To the rear of the hall there was another door marked ‘Toilet’, which left only one option – a final doorway. Mirabelle rapped on it and waited.

  ‘Yes,’ said a woman’s voice. She sounded uncertain. Then the handle turned and Nurse Berenice’s face appeared. At the sight of Mirabelle, her eyes sank to the floor. She appeared to be alone – the other nurses must have left down the back stairs.

  ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to come here again,’ Berenice said. ‘Frida forbade you.’

  ‘It’s rather awkward circumstances today – unique, you might say. Dr Simpson sent me to see how Uma is.’ Mirabelle kept her voice businesslike and brisk. Berenice seemed to accept this.

  ‘We got her to evacuate,’ the nurse said. ‘That is, we got her to be sick. She’s sleeping now. I thought Ellen must be on the ward, at the royal. I suppose they rang her.’ She pulled back the door to allow Mirabelle to pass.

  This must be the smallest dormitory, Mirabelle realised. It looked out on to the back garden, where the children were running around with all the energy of balls on a pinball machine. The remaining two nurses were with them. Frida was playing catch with a circle of small boys.

  ‘Thank goodness somebody is looking after the children,’ Mirabelle said, nodding towards the window.

  ‘They were outside. They probably hardly noticed,’ Berenice said. ‘They’re playing all right now anyway. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, children are extraordinarily resilient.’

  One little girl had braved the swing and had pushed herself so high, it looked as if she could make a decent attempt to jump through the first-floor window. Now and then there was a shout, partially muffled by the half-drawn curtains.

  ‘It’s difficult to believe how ill some of them are,’ Mirabelle said as she turned her attention back into the room. Along the back wall, there were three single hospital beds. Uma was so thin that it almost looked as if she was a dark puddle that had melted on to the pillow and slipped beneath the bedclothes.

  ‘Do you know what she took?’

  Berenice gave a half-shrug. ‘The cabinet toppled. Everything is broken and muddled on the floor. We’re just lucky she didn’t grab the belladonna or something like that – something more instantaneous. That’s all.’

  ‘Do you know why she did it?’

  The nurse grasped a small gold cross that sat at the nape of her neck on a thin chain. ‘How would I know?’ she said. ‘She didn’t confide in me.’

  ‘Was there a note?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s very unusual. Berenice. Do you know what happened to Sister Taylor?’

  ‘I told the police everything.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Well, Frida said not to.’

  ‘Not to tell me?’

  ‘It’s none of your business, is it? I don’t know. All these bodies. One after the other.’ She stared forlornly at the figure of Uma, who didn’t move. ‘Father Grogan, God bless his soul, and poor Mr Bone.’

  Mirabelle laid her hand on the bedsheet. There had been no indication before that Gerry Bone was known to the women in the convalescent home. This was new.

  ‘He was a nice man, wasn’t he?’ she said, smoothly, without registering her surprise. ‘I was most upset when I heard he’d drowned.’

  ‘You just can’t tell what’s going to happen next,’ Berenice said, inexplicably.

  ‘It must be terribly difficult for you. I’ll bet Father Grogan was an awful loss.’

  Berenice nodded sadly. Mirabelle thought of the brown felt hats that the little girl had seen hung up in the hall and the fact that Bad Luck Bone had pushed his luck with the women up at Tongdean Avenue.

  ‘Did you know Mr Bone well? Better than the other men, that is?’

  ‘Not better, no. But he was always pleasant enough to me.’

  ‘Why did he come here, Berenice?’

  The nurse looked suddenly panicked. ‘You’ll have to go,’ she said. ‘Frida won’t like it, no matter that Dr Ellen sent you. She’s going to be all right,’ she motioned towards Uma, who gave a little sigh. ‘She needs to sleep it off, is all. I’ll sit with her.’

  Mirabelle’s gaze wandered across the bedside table. A small brown glass bottle was perched in a kidney-shaped dish. They had sedated the poor woman.

  ‘Well, I’d best get going,’ she said.

  Berenice looked relieved.

  ‘Do you need anything sent up? When I go back down, I mean?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  Mirabelle closed the door quietly behind her. She slipped back down the stairs, stopping and pulling back just where they turned, so she couldn’t be seen. Below, in the hallway, Vesta was speaking to somebody.

  ‘I’m sure
we can count on your discretion, Mrs Lewis. For the sake of the family,’ the voice was saying.

  ‘But she’ll need help. Support,’ Vesta objected.

  Mirabelle peered over the edge. Nurse Frida had arrived in from the garden and was guiding Vesta towards the front door.

  ‘Help and support is what we do here. We’re nurses,’ Frida pointed out. ‘It’s really the best place for her.’

  Vesta spotted Mirabelle over the nurse’s shoulder. ‘Couldn’t I say goodbye to Lali? Just for a moment? You could come with me, if you like. It means I can say to her mother that I know she’s all right – after what happened, you see.’

  Frida sighed but she relented. ‘You’ll need to be quick,’ she said. ‘It’s almost time for juice and biscuits.’ Turning, she led Vesta through the downstairs ward.

  Mirabelle tiptoed the rest of the way down the stairs and let herself out of the front door, crossing the road to take up her usual position in front of the rose bush. Vesta appeared at the top of the steps not much more than a minute later. Nurse Frida must have rushed Vesta and Lali’s goodbye. She had hardly crossed the threshold when the door snapped shut behind her.

  Vesta looked smug as she crossed the road. ‘That is, without doubt, the worst den of snakes I ever walked into. And that’s saying something.’

  ‘Bone had been there,’ Mirabelle said. ‘In the home.’

  ‘Bone? The man who washed up on the beach? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he was a gangster and hardly appropriate company for sick children and nurses. The nurse upstairs treated it as normal – I’d say he’d been there more than once.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to tell the superintendent?’

  Mirabelle bit her lip.

  ‘Mirabelle, do you think this place is some kind of ghastly cover operation? They could be running drugs out of the place. Or the white slave trade. Or patching up mobsters who get into fights. Or anything.’

  A giggle escaped Mirabelle’s lips. ‘Slave trade,’ she repeated. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, who is there to look after these children properly? Who?’ Vesta put her hands on her hips, as if she wanted, herself, to get on with the job.