Read Online No Known Grave by Maureen Jennings - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maureen Jennings
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cup and then it’s back on duty.”
“Thank you, Sister. You have been very helpful.”
“I’ll bid you good morning then.”
She picked up her mug and left them.
Sister Rebecca turned to Tyler. “I apologize for Sister Ivy, Inspector. She is one of our longest-serving sisters, and she is not at all a worldly woman.”
Maybe not , thought Tyler, but she was rather good at presenting herself as guileless. He’d have to question the orderly about the duration and content of the little chat they’d had. Was it just religious guilt that made her seem as if she was hiding something? Had they simply talked longer than they should have? Had she taken more time than she admitted for her tea break? Was it important if she had? From what she had said, there were short periods of time when patients were not under her direct supervision. But even if somebody had got out, they would hardly have had time to go to the McHattie cottage, commit murder, and return to their room.
Unless of course the murderer and Sister Ivy were, for some incomprehensible reason, in cahoots.
10.
S ISTER R EBECCA OPENED THE DOOR TO A NARROW passageway.
“We did our best to make it a little more presentable,” said Sister Rebecca. “We gave it a new coat of paint and added wall sconces. Nonetheless, I do believe I can still feel the presence of those maids, going up to their bare attic rooms with their candlesticks, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to disturb their betters.”
Tyler raised his eyebrows. “Do I detect a whiff of socialism, Sister?”
“No particular politics, Inspector, just human sympathy.”
At the far end of the passage was a flight of stairs that turned sharply up to the next level. Squeezed between these and the wall was a lift with an iron door. Tucked underneath the stairs was a cot.
“The orderly on night duty rests there,” said the nun.
Tyler glimpsed a magazine partly hidden under the blanket. It was the kind familiar to young men, the kind his mother would have been shocked to see. He wondered if the nun was aware what one of her staff was reading.
The stairs to the third floor were steep.
They reached a tiny landing and Sister Rebecca switched on a low light. There were two doors and she opened one of them.
“Miss Susan Broadbent and Mrs. Caroline Bowman are in here.”
Tyler made a note. Here again there had clearly been an attempt to make the room cheery, with fresh, buttercup-colouredpaint, but there was only one small window, high up. The ceilings sloped and there was little space. It seemed dreary to him, especially after the spacious, light-filled rooms the men enjoyed.
“Miss Broadbent is confined to a wheelchair,” said the almoner. “She was travelling home on leave from London when her train was strafed. We cannot determine the extent of her injuries. They seemed to be superficial, but she is unable to walk.”
Tyler put her on the ABLE list, with a question mark.
“Mrs. Bowman is one of our saddest cases,” said Sister Rebecca. “She is from Liverpool. Her house received a direct hit and she was buried in the rubble along with her two children. They had been sheltering in the pantry under the stairs. Both children were killed, and she herself was not rescued for three days. She has not uttered a word since.”
“Is she mobile?”
“In a manner of speaking. She has her sight and the use of her limbs, but we can get no response from her. She doesn’t move.”
“Does she have any other family?”
“Her parents are deceased. Her husband is fighting in North Africa and we have not been able to contact him. The poor fellow has no idea what has happened.”
Tyler added Mrs. Bowman to the ABLE column, with a double question mark.
“It must be difficult to get the women down those stairs if they can’t walk.”
“Very. We always need two people. But at least we do have the lift, tiny as it is.”
They entered the second room. The walls were painted a soft
“Thank you, Sister. You have been very helpful.”
“I’ll bid you good morning then.”
She picked up her mug and left them.
Sister Rebecca turned to Tyler. “I apologize for Sister Ivy, Inspector. She is one of our longest-serving sisters, and she is not at all a worldly woman.”
Maybe not , thought Tyler, but she was rather good at presenting herself as guileless. He’d have to question the orderly about the duration and content of the little chat they’d had. Was it just religious guilt that made her seem as if she was hiding something? Had they simply talked longer than they should have? Had she taken more time than she admitted for her tea break? Was it important if she had? From what she had said, there were short periods of time when patients were not under her direct supervision. But even if somebody had got out, they would hardly have had time to go to the McHattie cottage, commit murder, and return to their room.
Unless of course the murderer and Sister Ivy were, for some incomprehensible reason, in cahoots.
10.
S ISTER R EBECCA OPENED THE DOOR TO A NARROW passageway.
“We did our best to make it a little more presentable,” said Sister Rebecca. “We gave it a new coat of paint and added wall sconces. Nonetheless, I do believe I can still feel the presence of those maids, going up to their bare attic rooms with their candlesticks, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to disturb their betters.”
Tyler raised his eyebrows. “Do I detect a whiff of socialism, Sister?”
“No particular politics, Inspector, just human sympathy.”
At the far end of the passage was a flight of stairs that turned sharply up to the next level. Squeezed between these and the wall was a lift with an iron door. Tucked underneath the stairs was a cot.
“The orderly on night duty rests there,” said the nun.
Tyler glimpsed a magazine partly hidden under the blanket. It was the kind familiar to young men, the kind his mother would have been shocked to see. He wondered if the nun was aware what one of her staff was reading.
The stairs to the third floor were steep.
They reached a tiny landing and Sister Rebecca switched on a low light. There were two doors and she opened one of them.
“Miss Susan Broadbent and Mrs. Caroline Bowman are in here.”
Tyler made a note. Here again there had clearly been an attempt to make the room cheery, with fresh, buttercup-colouredpaint, but there was only one small window, high up. The ceilings sloped and there was little space. It seemed dreary to him, especially after the spacious, light-filled rooms the men enjoyed.
“Miss Broadbent is confined to a wheelchair,” said the almoner. “She was travelling home on leave from London when her train was strafed. We cannot determine the extent of her injuries. They seemed to be superficial, but she is unable to walk.”
Tyler put her on the ABLE list, with a question mark.
“Mrs. Bowman is one of our saddest cases,” said Sister Rebecca. “She is from Liverpool. Her house received a direct hit and she was buried in the rubble along with her two children. They had been sheltering in the pantry under the stairs. Both children were killed, and she herself was not rescued for three days. She has not uttered a word since.”
“Is she mobile?”
“In a manner of speaking. She has her sight and the use of her limbs, but we can get no response from her. She doesn’t move.”
“Does she have any other family?”
“Her parents are deceased. Her husband is fighting in North Africa and we have not been able to contact him. The poor fellow has no idea what has happened.”
Tyler added Mrs. Bowman to the ABLE column, with a double question mark.
“It must be difficult to get the women down those stairs if they can’t walk.”
“Very. We always need two people. But at least we do have the lift, tiny as it is.”
They entered the second room. The walls were painted a soft
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