When the tea was made and the bread buttered she loaded everything except the teapot onto the board which served as a tray and carried it down the ward, out onto the verandah. A quick return for the teapot, and everything was ready for them. No, not quite! Though last night she had been so annoyed with them she had never thought to pity them in the morning, the later part of the night and Michael melted her resolve to be hard on them for once. After consuming so much of the colonel’s whisky, they would be dreadfully hung over.
She went back to her office and unlocked the drug drawer, took out the bottle of mist APC. The aspirin and the phenacetin had sunk in coarse white granules to the bottom, the caffeine floated as a straw-colored syrup on top. It was an easy matter to decant off some of the liquid caffeine into a medicine glass. When she had them all assembled outside she would give each man a tablespoon of the caffeine; it was the oldest hospital trick in the world for treating a hangover, and it had saved many a young doctor’s and young nurse’s reputation.
At Neil’s door she did no more than poke her head around it. ‘Neil, the tea’s made! Rise and shine!’ The air in the cubicle smelled foul; she withdrew her head quickly and went into the ward.
Nugget was awake, and gave her a sickly grin as she yanked the netting away from around him, twisted it swiftly into a bundle and threw it upward with an expert flick to rest higgledy-piggledy on the ring; time later to do battle with the Matron Drape.
‘How’s the headache?’
‘All right, Sis.’
‘Good morning, Matt!’ she said cheerfully, repeating her act with the mosquito net.
‘Good morning, Ben!’
Of course Michael’s bed was empty. She turned to go across to Luce, and something of her happiness died. What was she going to say to him? How would he behave during the interview she couldn’t very well postpone much beyond breakfast? But Luce wasn’t in his bed; the net was torn away from under the mattress, and the bed when she unveiled it had been slept in, but was quite cold.
She turned back toward Benedict and Matt, to find both of them sitting on the edges of their beds, their heads in their hands, shoulders hunched, looking as if every small movement provoked pain.
‘Damn the Johnnie Walker!’ she said under her breath as she caught sight of Neil weaving gagging from his cubicle to the sluice room opposite, his face grey-green.
Well, it seemed as usual as if she was the only one capable of locating Luce. So she opened the door next to Michael’s bed, stepped onto the little landing outside, then headed down the plank steps toward the bathhouse.
But it was a beautiful, beautiful day, humidity and all, she thought, half blind with the dizziness of too little sleep and the glitter of the early sun on the grove of palms just beyond the compound perimeter. The light had never seemed so clear, so sparkling, so soft. When she found the clothesline in ruins she simply smiled and stepped over the tangled heaps of shorts, shirts, trousers and underclothes and socks, trying to picture her dear dignified Neil drunk and fighting free of laundry.
The bathhouse was very quiet. Too quiet. Luce was very quiet. Too quiet. He lay sprawled half against the wall, half on the rough concrete floor, a razor in his spasmed hand. His glistening golden skin was strewn with stiffened, cracking rivers of blood, a congealing pool lay stagnant in the hollow of his belly amid other more hideous things, and the floor around him was awash with blood.
She came only as close to him as she needed to see properly what he had done to himself: the mutilated genitals, the hara-kiri slash which had opened up his abdomen from side to side. It was his own razor, the ebony-handled Bengal he preferred to a safety razor because of the closeness of its shave, and his fingers around it were unquestionably the only fingers which had ever been around it: there was nothing artificial about his grip on the handle, nor about the blood sticking razor and fingers inextricably together—thank God, thank God! His head was tilted unnaturally far back, and almost she fancied his eyes moved derisively at her beneath half-lowered lids; then she saw that it was the golden sheen of death in them, not the gold they had been in the gold of his so vital life.
Sister Langtry didn’t scream. Once she had looked, her reaction was instinctive; she stepped quickly back through the door and slammed it shut, scrabbling frantically at the padlock which hung by its unsnapped handle through an eyelet on the door-jamb. With controlled desperation she managed to fling the hinge nailed to the door itself over the eyelet, to thread the padlock back through and press its handle home. Then she leaned against the door limply, her mouth opening and closing, yammering up and down with the nightmarish automatism of a shiny wooden ventriloquist’s dummy.
It was perhaps as many as five minutes before the yammering stopped, before she could unglue her hands from their flattened stance against the door.
The insides of her thighs felt sticky, and for a horrid humiliating moment she thought she must have wet herself, then realized it was only sweat and the aftermath of Michael.
Michael, oh, Michael! She beat one fist against the door in a sudden frenzy of rage, of despair. God damn Luce to eternal hell for doing this! Oh, why hadn’t those drunken fools in there kept better custody of him? Did she have to do everything herself? Luce, you bastard, you’ve won after all! You utter, foul, insane, maggoty bastard, to have carried your notions of revenge so far…
Oh, Michael! There were tears on her face, tears of a terrible grief at a snatched imperfect brutally brief joy, with all the dear bright morning in ruins at her feet, drowned in blood. Oh, Michael! My Michael… It wasn’t fair. They hadn’t even talked yet. They hadn’t begun to get together the unravelled knots of what had been their previous relationship, hadn’t had the time to knit them into a common thread. And, straightening, moving away from the door, she knew then, knew irrevocably, that there could be no hope of happiness for her and Michael. No relationship of any kind. Luce had won after all.
The walk across the compound she did like a robot, moving quickly and jerkily and mechanically, heading at first she knew not where, then heading in the only possible direction. Remembering the feel of tears on her face, she lifted one hand to wipe her eyelids with its palm, tinkered with the set of her veil, smoothed down her brows. There. There, Sister Langtry, Sister Langtry, you’re in charge of this mess, it’s your damned duty! Duty, remember duty. Not only your duty to yourself, but to your patients. There are five of them who have to be protected at any cost from the consequences of Luce Daggett.
2
Colonel Chinstrap was sitting out on his little private verandah attached to his little private hut, stirring his tea reflectively and not thinking anything very much at all. It was that sort of a day, somehow. A nothing very much at all sort of day. After a night with Sister Heather Connolly it usually was, but last night had been hard in a different way; they had spent most of it talking about the coming disintegration of Base Fifteen and the possibility of continuing their affair when they returned to civilian life.
As it was his habit to over-stir his tea, he was still turning his spoon over and over in his cup when Sister Langtry, looking neat and precise as a pin, marched around the corner of his hut and stood on the grass below him, looking up.
‘Sir, I have a suicide!’ she announced loudly.
He half leaped off his chair, subsided onto it again, then slowly managed to lay the spoon down in the saucer and find his feet. He tottered across to the flimsy balustrade and leaned on it gingerly, looking down at her.
‘Suicide? But this is dreadful! Dreadful!’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said woodenly.
‘Who?’
‘Sergeant Daggett, sir. In the bathhouse. Very messy. Cut himself to ribbons with his razor.’
‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’ he said feebly.
‘Do you want to have a look for yourself first, sir, or do you want me to go straight for the MPs?’ she asked, dragging him inexorably on to decisions he felt he didn’t have the energy to make.
He mopped
his face with his handkerchief, the color so died out of his skin that the grog blossoms on his nose stood out in blue and crimson glory. His hand twitched, a betrayal; he thrust it defensively into his pocket and turned away from her toward the interior of his hut.
‘I suppose I had better have a look for myself first,’ he said, and raised his voice peevishly. ‘My hat, where the devil is my damned hat?’
They looked quite normal as they moved together across the compound, but Sister Langtry set the pace and it kept the colonel puffing.
‘Any… idea… why… Sister?’ he panted, slowing down experimentally, but discovering that she continued to forge ahead without any sort of regard for his wind.
‘Yes, sir, I do know why. I caught Sergeant Daggett last night in the bathhouse attempting to molest Sergeant Wilson. I imagine that at some time during the night Sergeant Daggett was seized by some sort of fit of guilt or remorse, and decided to end his life where the attack had occurred, in the bathhouse. There’s a definite sexual motif—his genitals have been slashed about rather badly.’
How could she speak so effortlessly when she was walking so damned quickly? ‘God spare me days, Sister, will you bloody slow down?’ he shouted. Then what she had said about genitals penetrated, and the dismay crept over him as lankly as a jellyfish. ‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’
The colonel took but one brief look inside the bathhouse, which Sister Langtry had unlocked for him with rock-firm hands. He dodged out again barely hanging onto his gorge, but also determined that he was not going to lose it in front of this woman above all people in the world. After a period of deep breathing which he disguised by strutting about with his hands behind his back, looking as important and thoughtful as his gorge would let him, he harumphed and stopped in front of Sister Langtry, who had waited patiently, and now eyed him with faint derision. Damn the woman!
‘Does anyone know about this?’ he asked, bringing out his handkerchief and mopping his face, which was gradually returning to its normal high color.
‘The suicide, I don’t think so,’ she said, voice coolly considering. ‘Unfortunately the attempt to molest Sergeant Wilson was witnessed by Captain Parkinson and Sergeant Maynard as well as by me personally, sir.’
He clicked his tongue. ‘Most regrettable! At what time did the attempt to molest Sergeant Wilson occur?’
‘Approximately half-past one in the morning, sir.’
He stared at her in mingled suspicion and exasperation. ‘What on earth were you all doing buzzing round the bathhouse at that hour? And how did you permit any of this to happen, Sister? Why didn’t you put an orderly in the ward overnight, if not a relief nurse?’
She stared back expressionlessly. ‘If you’re referring to the attack on Sergeant Wilson, sir, I had no basis to suppose Sergeant Daggett’s intentions lay in that direction. If you’re referring to the suicide, I had absolutely no indication that such were Sergeant Daggett’s intentions regarding himself.’
‘Then you have no doubt that it’s suicide, Sister?’
‘None at all. The razor was in his own hand when the injuries were inflicted. Didn’t you see that for yourself? Holding a Bengal to cut down deeply instead of to scrape the surface of the skin is the same hold reinforced by strength.’
He resented the inference that his gorge had not permitted his staying long enough to inspect the corpse as thoroughly as apparently she had done, so he switched tactics. ‘I repeat, why did you not have someone stand guard in the ward during the night, Sister? And why did you not report Sergeant Daggett’s attack on Sergeant Wilson to me immediately?’
Her eyes opened guilelessly wide. ‘Sir! At two in the morning? I really didn’t think you’d thank me for rousing you at such an hour for something which was not a true medical emergency. We broke it up before Sergeant Wilson sustained any physical harm, and when I left Sergeant Daggett he was in full possession of his wits and his self-control. Captain Parkinson and Sergeant Maynard agreed to keep an eye on Sergeant Daggett during the night, but provided Sergeant Wilson was removed from the ward, I did not see any necessity to restrain Sergeant Daggett forcibly, nor to have him placed under arrest and taken into custody, nor to start yelling for staff assistance. In fact, sir,’ she concluded calmly, ‘I was hoping not to have to draw your attention to the incident at all. I felt that after talking to Sergeant Daggett and to Sergeant Wilson when both of them had recovered somewhat, everything might be resolved without an official fuss. At the time I left the ward I was optimistic such would prove to be the case.’
He seized upon a new item of information. ‘You say you removed Sergeant Wilson from the ward, Sister. Just what do you mean by that?’
‘Sergeant Wilson was in severe emotional shock, sir, and considering the circumstances I thought it advisable to treat him in my own quarters rather than in the ward right under Sergeant Daggett’s nose.’
‘So Sergeant Wilson was with you all night.’
She looked at him fearlessly. ‘Yes, sir. All night.’
‘All night? You’re sure it was all night?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s still in my quarters, as a matter of fact. I didn’t want to bring him back to the ward until after I had talked to Sergeant Daggett.’
‘And were you with him all night, Sister?’
A tiny horror crept into her mind. The colonel was not busy thinking salacious thoughts about her and Michael; he probably didn’t consider her the least capable of salacious activity. He was contemplating something far different than love—he was contemplating murder.
‘I did not leave Sergeant Wilson’s side until I came on duty half an hour ago, sir, and I discovered Sergeant Daggett only minutes after coming on duty. He had then been dead for several hours,’ she said, her tone brooking no argument.
‘I see,’ said Colonel Chinstrap, tight-lipped. ‘This is a pretty mess, isn’t it?’
‘I disagree, sir. It isn’t pretty at all.’
He returned to the main theme like a worrisome dog. ‘And you’re absolutely sure that Sergeant Daggett did or said nothing to indicate a suicidal state of mind?’
‘Absolutely nothing, sir,’ she said firmly. ‘In fact, that he did commit suicide staggers me. Not that it’s so inconceivable he’d take his own life. Only that he chose to do so with so much blood, so much… ugliness. As for the assault on his own masculinity—I can’t even begin to grasp why. But then, that’s the trouble with people. They never do what you expect them to do. I’m being quite open and honest with you, Colonel Donaldson. I could lie and say Sergeant Daggett’s state of mind was definitely suicidal. But I choose to speak the truth. My incredulity over Sergeant Daggett’s suicide doesn’t alter my conviction that it is suicide. It can’t be anything else.’
He turned and began to walk toward X, setting a sober pace which she seemed content to follow at last. By the collapsed clothesline he paused to poke about in the heaps of laundry with his swagger stick, reminding Sister Langtry of the matron of a mixed-sex teenage camp looking for suspicious stains. ‘There seems to have been a bit of a fight here,’ he said, straightening.
Her lips twitched. ‘There was, sir. Between Captain Parkinson and some shirts.’
He moved on. ‘I think I had better see Captain Parkinson and Sergeant Maynard before I send for the authorities, Sister.’
‘Of course, sir. I haven’t been back to the ward since I discovered the body, so I imagine none of them know what’s happened. Even if any of them have tried to get into the bathhouse, I locked it before I went to find you.’
‘That at least is something to be grateful for,’ he said austerely, and suddenly realized life was offering him the perfect opportunity to slap Sister Langtry down for good. A man in her quarters all night, an absolutely sordid sexual mess culminating in a killing—by the time he was finished with her, she’d be pilloried and out of the army in disgrace. Oh, God, the bliss! ‘Permit me to say, Sister, that I consider you have botched this entire affair from start to finish, and that I shall
make it my personal business to see that you receive the censure you so richly deserve.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ she exclaimed, apparently without irony. ‘However, I consider that the direct cause of this entire affair was two bottles of Johnnie Walker whisky which were consumed in full last night by the patients of ward X. And if I only knew the identity of the brainless fool who was responsible for giving Captain Parkinson, an emotionally unstable patient, those two bottles yesterday, I would take great pleasure in making it my personal business to see that he receives the censure he so richly deserves!’
He tripped going up the steps and had to grab at the rickety banister to save himself. Brainless fool? Blithering idiot! He had forgotten all about the whisky. And she knew. Oh, she knew, all right! He would have to forget revenge. He would have to backpedal very quickly indeed. Damn the woman! That smooth and oh, so fearless insolence was bone deep; if her nursing training had not eradicated it, bloody nothing ever would.
Matt, Nugget, Benedict and Neil were sitting at the table on the verandah, looking ghastly. Poor souls, she hadn’t even given them the caffeine she had skimmed off the top of the mist APC, and she couldn’t very well dole it out to them now, with Colonel Chinstrap looking on.
At sight of the colonel they all rose to attention; he sat down heavily on one end of a bench and was obliged to make a flying leap for its middle when it tipped dangerously.
‘As you were, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Captain Parkinson, I would greatly appreciate a cup of tea, please.’
The teapot had already gone through several refills and one remake, so the tea Neil poured with a none-too-steady hand was fairly fresh. Colonel Chinstrap took the mug without seeming to notice its ugliness, and buried his nose in it gratefully. But eventually he had to put the mug down, at which time he glared sourly at the four men and Sister Langtry.