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

to some distant, almost inaudible sound. Presently, however, she turned into Military I but went no further than the porch; standing there in a dark corner and looking out obliquely across the yard at the Records Office. A few moments later a VAD scurried out of the ward. She experienced what she afterwards described as one hell of a jolt when she saw Sister Comfort’s long heavy-jowled face staring at her out of the shadow.

      ‘Doing the odd spot of snooping, that’s what she was up to, the old stinker,’ said the VAD. ‘She’s got a mind like a sink. And anyway,’ the VAD added complacently, ‘my fiancé’s in the air force.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      Matron took a key from her pocket and opened the safe.

      Mr Glossop hesitated and she looked to him, ‘Yes?’

      ‘Are you quite sure you don’t have a single spare tyre out here, Matron?’

      ‘As I told you earlier, Mr Glossop, on both occasions that you asked, we do not. There are two spare tyres for the transport bus, that’s all. You know as well as I do that the bus is far bigger than your van, the tyres simply won’t fit. We’ve all had to make sacrifices for the war, up-to-the-minute repairs and plenty of extras in stock being just two of them.’

      ‘If you say so,’ he grumbled.

      She looked at Glossop’s pay-box, sizing it up with a practised eye. ‘I’m afraid that great case of yours is too big,’ she said. ‘Try.’

      Mr Glossop approached the japanned box to the safe. It was at least three inches too long.

      ‘Oh, Lord!’ he said. ‘Things have been like that with me all day.’

      ‘We shall have to find something else, that’s all.’

      ‘It’ll be all right. I won’t let it out of my sight, Matron. You bet I won’t.’

      ‘It’ll be out of your sight when you’re asleep, Mr Glossop.’

      ‘I won’t—’

      Matron shook her head. ‘No. I can’t take the responsibility. We’ll give you a shake-down in the anteroom to the Surgery. I don’t expect you’ll be disturbed, but we can’t have the door locked, our medicines are stored in there and I can’t guarantee something won’t be needed in the night. The money’s done up in separate lots, isn’t it?’

      ‘It is, yes. I’ve got it down to a system. Standardized rates of pay, you know. I could lay my hand on anybody’s pay with my eyes shut. Each lot in a separate envelope. My system.’

      ‘In that case,’ said Matron briskly, ‘a large canvas bag will do nicely.’

      She took one, folded neatly, from the back of the safe. ‘There you are. I’ll get you to put it in that and you’d better watch me lock it up.’

      With an air of sulky resignation, Mr Glossop emptied one after another of the many compartments in his japanned box, snapping rubber bands round each group of envelopes before he stowed them in the bag. The Matron watched him, controlling any impatience that may have been aroused by the slow coarse movements of his hands. In the last and largest compartment lay a wad of pound notes held down by a metal clip.

      ‘I haven’t made these up yet,’ Mr Glossop said. ‘Ran out of envelopes.’

      ‘You’d better count them, hadn’t you?’

      ‘There’s a hundred, Matron, and five pounds in coins.’ He wetted his thumb disagreeably and flipped the notes over.

      ‘Dirty things,’ said the Matron unexpectedly.

      ‘They look lovely to me,’ Mr Glossop rejoined and gave a stuttering laugh.

      He fastened the notes, dropped them in the bag and shovelled the coins after them. Matron tied the neck of the bag with a piece of string from her desk. ‘Wait a moment,’ she said. ‘There’s a stick of sealing-wax in the top right-hand drawer. Will you give it to me?’

      ‘You are particular,’ sighed Mr Glossop.

      ‘I prefer to be business-like. Have you a match?’

      He gave her his box of matches and whistled between his teeth while she melted the sealing-wax and sealed the knot. ‘There!’ she said. ‘Now put it in the safe, if you please.’

      Mr Glossop with difficulty compressed himself into a squatting posture before the safe. The light from the office lamp glistened upon his tight greasy curls and along the rolls of fat at the back of his neck and the bulging surface of his shoulders and arms. As he pushed the bag into the lower half of the safe he might have been a votary of some monetary god. Grunting slightly he slammed the door. Matron, with sharp bird-like movements, locked the safe and returned the key to her pocket. Mr Glossop struggled to his feet. ‘Now we needn’t worry ourselves,’ said Matron.

      As she turned to leave, the little nurse from the Records Office appeared in the doorway. ‘Yes?’ Matron said. ‘Do you want me?’

      ‘Father O’Sullivan has come, Matron.’

      Beyond the nurse stood a priest with a nakedly pink face and combed-back silver hair. He carried a small case and appeared impatient to see the Matron.

      ‘Excuse me, Mr Glossop, this is quite urgent, you know. I’ll send someone to fetch you to the Surgery anteroom,’ Matron said, and folding her hands at her waist walked out into the yard leaving Mr Glossop wiping his brow at the exertion he had just endured. He heard their voices die away as they moved off in the direction of Mr Brown’s private room.

      ‘… not long …’

      ‘… Ah … such a time … Is he …?’

      ‘… Very. Failing rapidly, but then he does keep rallying. It can’t possibly go on, of course. I’m not one to believe in miracles, although with the storm …’

      The telephone in the Records Office pealed and the little nurse hurried back to answer it. To Mr Glossop her voice sounded like an echo: ‘… Mr Brown’s condition is very low,’ she was saying. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so … failing rapidly.’

      Mr Glossop gazed vacantly across the yard at Military 1. His attention was arrested by something white that shifted in the porch entrance. He moved a little closer and then, since he was of a curious disposition and extremely short-sighted, several paces closer still. He was profoundly disconcerted to find himself staring up into Sister Comfort’s rimless spectacles.

      ‘Beg pardon, I’m sure,’ he stammered. ‘I didn’t know—getting dark, isn’t it? My mistake!’

      ‘Not at all,’ said Sister Comfort. ‘I could see you quite clearly. Good night.’

      She stalked off, down the steps and along the yard, no doubt to harangue yet another benighted soldier, and Mr Glossop turned away with elephantine airiness.

      ‘Now what the hell,’ he wondered, ‘is that old cow up to?’

      While Matron took Father O’Sullivan to minister to Mr Brown, Mr Glossop spent the next twenty minutes fidgeting and worrying in her office. He sat first in the chair opposite Matron’s desk, a lower chair than the one behind her desk, ideal for chastising foolhardy young nurses and miscreant soldiers, he assumed. He loosened his tie still further and rolled up the sleeves of his creased shirt. ‘Too damn hot by half,’ he thought, hoping Matron was right and the storm that had been threatening for days would finally make its way over the mountains tonight, clearing the air. ‘Not too wet though,’ he added to his wishes, ‘that damn bridge is worrisome enough, without the river rising as well.’ The chair creaking beneath his weight, he struggled to his feet and paced several times around Matron’s office. With effort, he bent down and tried the handle on the safe, reassuring himself that it was secure. He looked outside again,