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

strong as one would expect and yet once back home it seems their fiercest gripe is an over-strict regime, the cost of a pint or a badly-ridden filly. As if all they have been through were but a dream. What a piece of work is man, eh Fox?

       So it is that I end this missive where I began, unable to tell you my exact location, nor why I am here, nor to whom I must answer. I trust that by the time you receive this, the winter nights will be shorter, the evenings drawing out. No matter the world we find ourselves in whenever this war is finally over, I have no doubt there will always be need of the long arm of the law, we will be kept in busy employ.

      He signed the letter with a careful hand and addressed the envelope with his customary precision. If he could not write the letter he ought to write, he would at least make a damn good fist of the one he found himself able to complete.

      Alleyn looked at the clock for the third time that hour, noted that time was passing no faster than it had yesterday evening or the evening before and took a file of notes from a combination-locked briefcase. He found the pages that had given him pause when he’d first received the file and read them through once again.

      In early November a garbled message had been picked up by local services monitoring radio frequencies. It didn’t appear to be in code at first, merely a message sent out, quite possibly from a youthful radio enthusiast, in the hope that anyone out there might respond. It was only when the message was picked up once more, and then a third time, each time from a different frequency, that the information was passed up the ranks. Once the counterespionage team had the information they quickly linked the timing of the messages to brief sightings of a Japanese submarine off the east coast. The vessel had been sighted twice, once reliably confirmed, the second time less certain, but when it became clear that the sightings coincided with the despatch of the second and third radio messages, even the unconfirmed sighting was taken seriously. From there it took but a short time to break the code. The actual information in the messages was not of any great substance, for they noted the military presence at Mount Seager hospital which was a matter of public knowledge and the submarine had already disappeared from view. However, the combination of radio messages and the two sightings was felt serious enough for the senior statesmen in Wellington to despatch Alleyn to Mount Seager to pick up what information he could from locals and patients alike. Alleyn and his superiors both understood that they might well be on a wild goose chase, the submarine had not been sighted for over five weeks, no further coded messages had been intercepted, and what the Inspector found was a simple country hospital, a set of army offices and, beyond the usual human dramas that any group of people were prone to, nothing to report. Until a day ago, when Alleyn’s contact at the hospital had delivered the latest sealed file. A new message had been intercepted, in a different code, not all of which had been deciphered, but it was now believed that a series of coordinates were to be transmitted in the morning after midsummer’s night. There was no information as to what the coordinates might reference, and still no clear understanding of the intended recipient of the messages, but the time factor meant that Alleyn had spent all day yesterday and most of last night on alert and, as midsummer’s night began, was no closer to knowing who or what he was looking for. It was all exceedingly frustrating.

      ‘There are more things in heaven and earth—’ Alleyn muttered under his breath, the end of the line cut off by a tremendous clap of thunder and simultaneous flash of lightning, illuminating the length of the yard beyond the front window and then the rain took on an even more driving tone. By now, the racket of the downpour was almost farcical, Alleyn decided he was incapable of rational thought and took to his bed. If he must play the invalid, he might as well act the part. There would be no sleep with this noise, but at least he might lay down and read. Twenty minutes later Chief Detective Inspector Roderick Alleyn of Scotland Yard was happily roaming the blasted heath with King Lear, the wind, rain and thunder outside providing admirable support.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      In the private room of Civilian 3 another tragedy was finally played out. Young Sydney Brown had pulled himself together enough to return to his grandfather’s bedside and the little nurse in the room had sensibly allowed him the privacy that this time required. Forty-five minutes later when Sister Comfort came to check on Sydney she had found him hunched over a pillow, hugging it to his chest as he looked on in horror at the old man, still and already becoming cold in his bed. Now Father O’Sullivan prayed quietly, the nurse awaited Sister Comfort’s orders, Sydney tried not to show his revulsion at sitting alongside a dead body for the first time in his life, and failed miserably.

      Dr Hughes knew enough about nurses and their understanding of patient protocols to take his cue from Sister Comfort, so he waited in silence for the older woman to speak. After an appropriate time of silence had elapsed, the exact number of minutes being something Sister Comfort had judged to perfection after all these years, she spoke up and, with no effort to lower her voice or soften her usual strident tone, gave her orders.

      ‘Dr Hughes, wait here, I’ll fetch the relevant paperwork and be with you in a moment. I shall pop in to Matron when I go to the Records Office and let her know.’

      Dr Hughes offered to fetch the paperwork himself, but he was over-ruled as Father O’Sullivan sprang up from his hard wooden chair at the head of the bed, ‘No need for either of you to divert yourselves, I’ll alert Matron. You’ve plenty to do. I’ll go to her straight away.’

      He was gone from the small room before Sister Comfort could protest that it was more usual for her to pass on this kind of news and for the vicar to stay with the bereaved.

      Her next words to Sydney were sharper to match her frown, ‘Mr Brown, if you’d like to go along with the nurse, she’ll find somewhere for you to rest for the night.’

      ‘What? Rest? Nah, no thanks, Sister, but I can’t be—’ he shook his head, ‘I mean, I’ve got to go, things to do.’

      Sydney Brown sounded as if he might make a run for it at any moment and Sister Comfort immediately squashed him.

      ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Brown. The next transport is not due to leave until six o’clock in the morning and even then it will depend on the state of the roads. Frankly, I’d be very surprised if anyone leaves Mount Seager tomorrow morning. A storm like this has a bad habit of bringing down a flash flood and making the bridge too dangerous to cross. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been cut off by the river and I doubt it’ll be the last. Nurse, if you will?’

      The shocked Sydney Brown stumbled to his feet, fidgeting with his collar and cuffs as if he might square up for an argument and then, seeing the determination in Sister Comfort’s eyes, he followed the nurse, his feet scuffing at the polished floor, his arms still wrapped around the pillow he held as a comforter.

      Sister Comfort looked after them frowning, ‘Foolish lad, doesn’t know when he’s well off.’

      Dr Hughes was no longer surprised by Sister Comfort’s brusque manner. Whatever the situation, whether he would have spoken carefully or forcefully himself, Sister Comfort could be relied upon to crash into any scenario with neither care nor finesse. He noticed now, as he had several times before, that her manner was actually remarkably useful. The little nurse, who appeared as inexperienced with death as Sydney Brown, had assumed the mantle of her office and was now the epitome of efficiency, as Sister Comfort had no doubt intended, while Father O’Sullivan had left with his unusually prayerful demeanour quite put away. In fact, he had looked much more like his regular self, a figure Rosamund Farquharson once mischievously but accurately described as looking ‘like a bank clerk who somehow found himself in a priest’s cassock and forced to deliver a sermon’.

      Sister Comfort turned to Dr Hughes when the others were gone, ‘I shall send Will Kelly to deal with the body and get it down to the morgue. We’ll have to be fast, he’ll not keep in this heat.’

      She turned on a silent heel and was gone.

      Left alone with the corpse, Dr Hughes shuddered and turned his back on the dead man. He had seen far too much