Money in the Morgue: The New Inspector Alleyn Mystery. Stella Duffy

really believe your friends out there, giving their all, would begrudge you this? They’re no mates if they would. Looking after servicemen who’re doing their damnedest here or anywhere else, it’s all part of the work. And by the way,’ she added, her well-defined eyebrows raised, a smile on her rigorously carmined lips, ‘we New Zealanders might gripe about being stuck way over here when it’s going to blazes everywhere else, but you’ll find we’re not so keen on you Pommie chaps doing the same. Some of those lads in the military wards are going stir-crazy, they’re spoiling for a scrap. I’d watch it if I were you.’

      Rosamund turned on heels that were definitely not regulation, and flounced off across the hospital yard in a way that several of the recovering servicemen at Mount Seager, taking a breather on the porch of Military 1, found enormously reviving. Even Dr Hughes allowed that being told off by Miss Farquharson was amusing, particularly in conjunction with the way the word ‘Pommie’ sounded in her accent. Rosamund’s New Zealand vowels had been determinedly and intentionally rounded by her years in London. Moreover, he had to admit she had a point. He took note, pulled himself together and, aware that he was now the most senior doctor available to Mount Seager, gave himself to the work with an alacrity that pleased Matron enormously and surprised Sister Comfort even more.

      Even though she didn’t expect their friendship to feel the same in wartime New Zealand as it had been in London before the war, Sarah had expected that she and Luke might take up where the letters had left off. Looking back she found it hard to imagine how carefree they had been, even with the constant pressure of Luke’s studies. Now she sometimes wondered if they had been deliberately blind, willfully ignoring the growing tensions on the Continent. Her sister’s death, her mother’s gnawing grief, the awful news that came to them daily, the broken soldiers she met in her work, young men who very occasionally let slip the mask of bravado, all of it meant that Sarah was no longer capable of ignoring the obvious—Luke had changed. He was hiding something from her and it was driving a wedge between them.

      Along the yard in the anteroom to the Surgery that he had been assigned for the night, Mr Glossop was also preoccupied, shuffling on his cot, too hot and far too irritated to sleep. Yes, he had seen the eminently sensible Matron pocket the key to the safe. He trusted her, she was a fine woman, without a doubt. The hospital safe, however, in a set of buildings as ramshackle as these were proving to be—corrugated iron roofs rattling in the rising wind, the buckets he’d seen strategically placed by nurses in preparation for the brewing storm—well, that was a hell of a lot of cash he’d handed over and he didn’t trust the hospital safe, not as far as he could throw it. Not that he’d be throwing anything, come morning, after a sleepless night on this flamin’ cot. He knew there were a few private rooms here at Mount Seager, his great aunt had demanded one years back. She’d come in with some women’s troubles and had kicked up a hell of a stink about being in a ward with an old Māori lady. Proper tartar his aunt was, giving the nurses what for, and the doctors. Quick as a flash, Matron had come on through, rattled out her orders, and what do you know, but wasn’t the kuia given the private room and not his aunt. That shut the old bism up good and proper. Still though, you’d think they’d have given him a room of his own for the night. It wasn’t as if he was one of the rowdy servicemen, it was a bit of a cow to leave him to a cot in a shoddy anteroom. And by heck, it was sweltering in here. Damn tin roofs, no good to man or beast.

      Mr Glossop was quite right. There were private rooms at Mount Seager, one at the front of every ward, just inside the porch. Wishing to give the dying man the privacy he needed Matron had moved old Mr Brown to the private room of Civilian 3 two weeks earlier. Now she stood outside that room, speaking in hushed and urgent tones with Father O’Sullivan. Young Sydney Brown had been closeted inside with his grandfather for the past fifteen minutes. Matron was about to knock on the door when it opened and Sydney, ashen-faced, stepped out.

      ‘Are you all right, son?’ asked Father O’Sullivan.

      The young man shook his head, fear and confusion in his face, ‘I don’t know, he’s talking daft, I think I need a—’

      Matron took over, ‘Go on in to Mr Brown, Father O’Sullivan. I’ll sort Sydney out with a cup of tea and maybe a splash of whiskey in that tea, eh Sydney? Medicinal purposes. Come on now, I’ll take you to the kitchen and find someone to look after you.’

      Matron put a firm arm on the young man’s shoulder and propelled him away.

      At the porch, she turned back to Father O’Sullivan, ‘You’ll come to find me, Vicar, and let me know how Mr Brown is doing?’

      The vicar and the Matron exchanged a look.

      ‘Yes, of course, Matron.’

      When Matron returned to her office she found Rosamund Farquharson and Sister Comfort waiting for her, Farquharson barely shame-faced despite being well over two hours late for her shift and Sister Comfort even sharper than usual. Both women spoke at once:

      ‘Matron, I must insist you speak to Miss Farquharson—’

      ‘Play fair, Sister, let me explain. I had a win, Matron, a real honest to goodness win, so it took much longer to get away, what with having to pick up my takings. I thought about going home to drop off the money, a hundred pounds is a hell of a lot to be carrying round all night, but I’d have been even later for my shift, and I didn’t want to let you down, so I just—’

      ‘Let us down? Now you worry about letting us down!’

      ‘Enough, both of you,’ Matron held up her hand. ‘Sister Comfort, I’d be grateful if you would go to young Mr Brown, I left him in the kitchen and promised to return to sit with him, he’s quite shaken up. Make him a cup of tea, will you? And here,’ she reached into the lowest drawer of her desk, ‘add a tot of this to it. He’s in shock.’

      Rosamund’s eyes widened at the image of Matron keeping a bottle of whiskey in her desk and it was only Sister Comfort’s immediate complaint that she was not one of the kitchen staff to be sent off to make a cup of tea that meant Matron was angrier with the Sister than at Rosamund’s barely-suppressed glee.

      Sister Comfort held her tongue and stalked off along the yard towards the kitchen block and Matron finally turned to Rosamund.

      ‘How much did you win, Miss Farquharson?’

      Surprised by the unexpectedly bald question, Rosamund responded immediately, ‘Oh, a hundred, Matron. A whole hundred quid. I have to give some of it over to a few people that I … I need to help out, but all the same, it’s put me in a grand mood. I am awfully sorry about being so late and getting Comfort’s nose out of joint, I don’t mean to be such a bother, really I don’t. I guess I’m just not used to such, well, boring work.’

      Matron sighed, ‘Yes, I can imagine for a young woman such as yourself, saving lives and keeping a hospital going in wartime is terribly tedious. I suggest you leave your winnings here. I’ll put them in the safe and you can collect the money when your shift finishes. Minus, of course, the hours I’ll dock from your pay for your late start tonight and the several days you’ve been late over the past weeks. Is ten pounds a fair price, do you think, to keep your job?’

      Rosamund’s large green eyes widened even further, was Matron really threatening to sack her if she didn’t hand over a tenner? Matron was waiting, one hand out for the money, the key to the safe in the other.

      ‘I, well, I—’ stuttered Rosamund.

      ‘It would be awfully difficult getting a job right now, don’t you think, Miss Farquharson? Let alone without a reference. Still, I’m sure there are some factory jobs, somewhere about. Or land work, I believe there are quite a few young ladies working with the shearing gangs these days, what with the shortage of manpower.’

      ‘You wouldn’t,’ Rosamund was flustered, her face as red as her lipstick, ‘I thought—’

      ‘That I was a pushover, just because I’m not vinegar-sharp like Sister Comfort? Then you have another think coming, young lady. Let’s be quite honest, shall we?’ Matron squared her shoulders and turned to face Rosamund, ‘Your behaviour has been