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

      ‘Somebody very sick?’ asked Mr Glossop, opening his eyes wide and drawing down the corners of his mouth.

      ‘Possibly dying. It must be said, we have expected this for weeks and the gentleman seems to rally every time. It cannot go on though, and it’s very important to the old man that he sees his grandson,’ said the Matron crisply before turning back to the nurse and adding, ‘Father O’Sullivan is cycling over from visiting a local parishioner to sit with old Mr Brown, make sure he finds me as soon as he arrives, will you? He arranged this visit a few days ago, but I’d like to update him on the old gentleman’s condition first. Now come along with me, Mr Glossop, we’d better lock up that money of yours. Is there much?’

      ‘It’s all in the box,’ he said, and lifted a great japanned case from the floor. ‘Should have been empty by now, you know. Four more staffs are paid off after I leave here. As it is—’

      ‘Mount Seager Hospital speaking,’ said the little nurse into the telephone. ‘I have another message for Mr Sydney Brown, please.’

      ‘Just on a thousand,’ said Mr Glossop behind his hand.

      ‘God bless my soul, of course I understood you were carrying payrolls for several locations, but that is an enormous responsibility,’ rejoined the Matron.

      ‘Exactly what I’m always telling Central Office,’ Mr Glossop replied, glad to have the Matron’s understanding.

      They went out to the steps. The little nurse’s voice followed them: ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Not long, Matron says … Yes, he’s asked for you again.’

      ‘Just along here,’ said the Matron.

      Mr Glossop followed her down the yard that formed a wide lane, flanked on one side by offices, each with its distinguishing notice, and on the other by the wards set at intervals in sun-scorched plots, their utility gloriously interspersed by the roses which so recklessly floundered over the barb wire fences in front of the connecting verandahs. From the covered porch of each ward came a glow of diffused light. The asphalt lane was striped with warmth. The usual tang of mountain air was missing in the sultry evening and the subdued reek of hospital disinfectants seemed particularly strong to Glossop’s sensitive nose.

      As they drew level with Military 1, the porch door slammed open and in a moment a heavy figure in nurses’ uniform flounced into the yard. A chorus of raucous voices yelled in unison: ‘And don’t let it occur again.’

      The nurse advanced upon Mr Glossop and the Matron. Her face was in shadow, but her glasses caught a gleam of reflected light. A badge of office which she wore on the bosom of her uniform was agitated and her veil quivered. She took two or three short steps and stopped, clasping her hands behind her back. In the ward the raucous voices continued in a falsetto chorus: ‘Temperatures normal! Pulses normal! Bowels moved! Aren’t we lucky?’

      ‘Matron!’ said the stout nurse in an agitated whisper. ‘May I speak to you?’

      ‘Yes, Sister Comfort, what is it?’

      ‘Those men—in there—it’s disgraceful. This entire notion of allowing them leeway now that they’re recuperating—’

      ‘Is a well-proven method for speeding up recovery. Rest and silence, Sister Comfort, is the old-fashioned way, the men benefit tremendously when we give them something to think about that is neither their illness nor their return to the war. Distraction is a nurse’s best ally. However, I do agree there’s far too much noise,’ the Matron nodded. ‘Will you excuse us, Mr Glossop?’

      Mr Glossop moved away.

      ‘Now, Sister,’ said Matron.

      ‘It’s disgraceful,’ Sister Comfort repeated in a grumbling voice. ‘I’ve never been treated like it in my life before. The impertinence!’

      ‘What are they up to?’

      ‘Temperatures normal! Pulses normal! Bowels moved! Aren’t we lucky?’

      ‘Just because I happened to pass the remark when I’d been round the ward,’ Sister Comfort said breathlessly. ‘They turn everything I say into ribaldry. There’s no other word. I can’t speak without them calling after me like parrots. And another thing, three of them are still out.’

      ‘Which three, Sister?’

      ‘Sanders, Pawcett and Brayling, of course. They had leave to go as far as the bench at the main gate.’ Sister Comfort’s voice trailed away on a note of nervousness. There was a brief silence broken only by the Matron.

      ‘I thought I had made it quite clear,’ Matron said, ‘that they were all to be in bed by seven. Distraction by day, rest by night, you know the rules.’

      ‘But, I can’t help it. They won’t obey orders,’ complained Sister Comfort.

      ‘They’re getting better,’ Matron said, ‘and they’re bored.’

      ‘But how can I keep order? Almost ninety soldiers and hardly any trained nurses. The VADs are not to be trusted. I know, Matron. I’ve seen what goes on. It’s disgusting.’

      ‘Nurse! Come over here and hold my hand,’ sang the patients.

      ‘There!’ cried Sister Comfort. ‘And the girls go and do it. I’ve seen them. And not only that—that Farquharson girl in the Records Office—’

       ‘Nursey, Nursey, going to get worsey.’

       ‘Come and hold my hand.’

      ‘Where is Sergeant Bix?’ asked the Matron.

      ‘Several of the men are due to be discharged this weekend coming and he has a huge amount of paperwork to get through before he can let them go. He’s not much use anyway, Matron, in my opinion, far too warm with the men. They’re the worst lot of patients we’ve ever had. Never in my life have I been spoken to—’

      ‘I’ll report you to Matron,’ said an isolated falsetto. ‘Call yourselves gentlemen? Well!’

      ‘Did you hear that?’ Sister Comfort demanded. ‘Did you hear it?’

      ‘I heard,’ said Matron grimly. The chorus was renewed. She folded her hands lightly at her waist and with an air of composure walked through the porch doors into the ward. The chorus faded away in three seconds. The isolated voice bawled a final line and died out in a note of exquisite embarrassment. Mr Glossop, who had hung off and on in the doorway to Matron’s office, approached Sister Comfort.

      ‘She’s knocked them,’ he said. ‘She’s a corker, isn’t she?’ He waited for a reply and getting none added with an air of roguishness: ‘It’s a wonder she hasn’t made some lucky chap very happy, isn’t it?’

      With a brusque movement Sister Comfort twisted her head so that the light from Matron’s office fell across her face. Mr Glossop took a step backwards and then checked as if in surprise at himself.

      ‘What is the matter?’ asked Sister Comfort harshly.

      ‘Nothing, I’m sure,’ Mr Glossop stammered. ‘Nothing at all. You looked a little pale, that’s all.’

      ‘I’m tired out. The work in that ward’s enough to kill you. It’s the lack of discipline. They want military police.’

      ‘Matron’s fixed them for you,’ said Mr Glossop, and recovering from whatever effect he had experienced he added in his fat and unctuous voice: ‘Yes, she’s a beautiful woman, you know. Not appreciated.’

      ‘I appreciate her,’ said Sister Comfort loudly. ‘We’re very friendly, you know. Of course, in public we have to be formal—Matron and Sister and all that—but away from here she’s quite different. Quite different.’

      ‘You’re privileged,’ Mr Glossop murmured and cleared his throat.

      ‘Well,