T expect you’ll think so. I am Jo’s heir, at least I think I am. She told me about three months ago that she had made her will and that she was leaving me all she had. She gave me the name and address of her solicitor,“t can let you have the information. They haven’t yet written to me but I expect they will, that is if Jo really made her will. But I expect she did. She wasn’t a girl to make promises she didn’t fulfill. Perhaps you would prefer to get in touch with the solicitors now7 These things take time, don’t they?”
“Did she say why she was making you her legatee?”
“She said that she had to leave her money to someone and that I would probably do most good with it I didn’t take the matter very seriously and neither, I think, did she. After all she was only thirty-one. She wasn’t expecting to die. And she warned me that she’d probably change her mind long before she got old enough to make the legacy a serious prospect for me. After all she’d probably marry. But she felt she ought to make a will and I was the only person at the time who she cared to remember. I thought that it was only a formality. It never occurred to me that she might have much to leave. It was only when we had our talk about the cost of an abortion that she told me how much she was worth.”
“And was it-is it-much?”
The girl answered calmly: “About £16,000 I believe. It came from her parents’ insurances.”
She smiled a little wryly.
“Quite worth having you see, Superintendent. I should think it would rank as a perfectly respectable motive, wouldn’t you? We shall be able to put central heating in the vicarage now.
And if you saw my fiance’s vicarage-twelve rooms, nearly all of them facing north or east-you would think I had quite a motive for murder.“
III
Sister Rolfe and Sister Gearing were waiting with the students in the library; they had moved from the nurses’ sitting-room in order to occupy the waiting time with reading and revision. How much the girls were really taking in was problematic but the scene certainly looked peaceful and studious enough. The students had seated themselves at the desks in front of the window and sat, books open before them, in apparent absorption. Sister Rolfe and Sister Gearing, as if to emphasize their seniority and solidarity, had withdrawn to the sofa in front of the fire and were seated side by side. Sister Rolfe was marking with green biro a pile of first-year students’ exercises, picking up each notebook from a stack on the floor at her feet, and adding it, when dealt with, to the growing pile which rested against the back of the sofa. Sister Gearing was ostensibly making notes for her next lecture, but seemed unable to keep her eyes from her colleague’s decisive hieroglyphics.
The door opened and Madeleine Goodale returned. Without a word she went back to her desk, took up her pen and resumed work.
Sister Gearing whispered: “Goodale seems calm enough. Odd, considering she was supposed to be Fallon’s best friend.”
Sister Rolfe did not raise her eyes. She said drily:
“She didn’t really care about Fallon. Goodale has only a limited emotional capital and I imagine she expends it all on that extraordinarily dull person she’s decided to marry.”
“He’s good-looking, though. Goodale’s lucky to get him, if you ask me.”
But the subject was of a secondary interest to Sister Gearing and she didn’t pursue it. After a minute she said peevishly:
“Why haven’t the police sent for someone else?”
“They will.” Sister Rolfe added another exercise book, liberally embellished in green, to a completed pile by her side. “They’re probably still discussing Goodale’s contribution.”
“They ought to have seen us first After all, we’re Sisters. Matron should have explained. And why isn’t Brumfett here7 I don’t see why she should be treated any differently from us.”
Sister Rolfe said: Too busy. Apparently a couple of the second-year students on. the ward have now gone down with flu. She sent over some sort of note to Mr. Dalgliesh by a porter, presumably giving information about her movements last night I met him bringing it in. He asked me where he could find the gentlemen from Scotland Yard.“
Sister Gearing’s voice became petulant:
“That’s all very well, but she ought to be here. God knows, we’re busy too! Brumfett lives in Nightingale House; she had as much opportunity to kill Fallon as anyone.”
Sister Rolfe said quietly: “She had more chance.”
“What do you mean, more chance?”
Sister Gearing’s sharp voice cut into the silence and one of the Burt twins lifted her head.
“She’s had Fallon in her power in the sick bay for the last ten days.”
“But surely you don’t mean…? Brumfett wouldn’t!”“
“Precisely,” said Sister Rolfe coldly. “So why make stupid and irresponsible remarks?”
There was a silence broken only by the rustle of paper and the hiss of the gas fire. Sister Gearing fidgeted.
“I suppose if Brumfett’s lost another two nurses with flu she’ll be pressing Matron to recall some of this block. She’s got her eyes on the Burt twins, I know.”
“Then she’ll be unlucky. This set have had their training disrupted enough already. After all, it’s their last block before their finals. Matron won’t let it be cut short”
“I shouldn’t be too sure. It’s Brumfett, remember. Matron doesn’t usually say no to her. Funny though, I did hear a rumor that they aren’t going on holiday together this year. One of the pharmacists’ assistants had it from Matron’s secretary that Matron plans to motor in Ireland on her own.”
My God, thought Sister Rolfe. Isn’t there any privacy in this place? But she said nothing, only shifting a few inches from the restless figure at her side.
It was then that the wall telephone rang. Sister Gearing leapt up and went across to answer it She turned to the rest of the group, her face creased with disappointment.
“That was Sergeant Masterson. Superintendent Dalgliesh would like to see the Burt twins next please. He’s moved to the visitors’ sitting-room on this floor.”
Without a word and with no signs of nervousness, the Burt twins closed their books and made for the door.
IV
It was half an hour later and Sergeant Masterson was making coffee. The visitors’ sitting-room had been provided with a miniature kitchen, a large recess fitted with a sink and Formica covered cupboard, on which stood a double gas-ring. The cupboard had been cleared of all its paraphernalia except for four large beakers, a canister of sugar and one of tea, a tin of biscuits, a large earthenware jug and strainer, and three transparent air-tight packets of fresh-ground coffee. By the side of the sink were two bottles of milk. The cream-line was easily discernible, but Sergeant Masterson prised the cap away from one of the bottles and sniffed at the milk suspiciously before heating a quantity in a saucepan. He warmed the earthenware jug with hot water from the tap, dried it carefully in the tea towel which hung by the side of the sink, spooned in a generous quantity of coffee and stood waiting for the kettle’s first burst of steam. He approved of the arrangements that had been made. If the police had to work in Nightingale House this room was as convenient and comfortable as any and the coffee was an unexpected bonus which mentally, he credited to Paul Hudson. The Hospital Secretary had struck him as an efficient and imaginative man. His couldn’t be an easy job. The poor devil probably had one hell of a life, sandwiched between those two old fools, Kealey and Grout, and that high-handed bitch of a Matron.
He strained the coffee with meticulous care and carried a beaker over to his chief. They sat and drank companionably together, eyes straying to the storm-wrecked garden. Both of them had a strong dislike of badly cooked food or synthetic coffee and Masterson thought that they never got closer to liking each other than when they were eating and drinking together, deploring the inadequacies of the meals at the inn, or as now, rejoicing in good coffee. Dalgliesh comforted his hands around the beaker and thought that it was typical of Mary Taylor’s efficiency and imagination to ensure that they had real coffee available. Hers couldn’t be an easy job. That ineffectual couple, Kealey and Grout, wouldn’t be much help to anyone, and Paul Hudson was too young to give much support.