Copyright

COLLINS CRIME CLUB

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Collins Crime Club 2018

Copyright © Stella Duffy and the Estate of Ngaio Marsh 2018

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photographs © Ingrid Michel/Arcangel Images and Shutterstock.com (front), Simon Bradfield/Getty images (back)

Stella Duffy and Ngaio Marsh assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008207106

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008207120

Version: 2019-01-07

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Cast of Characters

Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Acknowledgements and Author’s Note

About the Authors

The Inspector Alleyn Mysteries

Also by Stella Duffy

About the Publisher

Map

Mount Seager Hospital and the surrounding area

CHAPTER ONE

At about eight o’clock on a disarmingly still midsummer evening, Mr Glossop telephoned from the Transport Office at Mount Seager Hospital to his headquarters twenty miles away across the plains. He made angry jabs with his blunt forefinger at the dial—and to its faint responsive tinkling an invisible curtain rose upon a series of events that were to be confined within the dark hours of that short summer night, bounded between dusk and dawn. So closely did these events follow the arbitrary design of a play that the temptation to represent Mr Glossop as an overture cannot be withstood.

The hospital, now almost settling down for the night, had assumed an air of enclosed and hushed activity. Lights appeared behind open windows and from the yard that ran between the hospital offices and the wards one could see the figures of nurses on night duty moving quietly about their business. Mingled with the click of the telephone dial was the sound of distant tranquil voices and, from the far end of the yard, the very occasional strains of music from a radio in the new army buildings.

The window of the Records Office stood open. Through it one looked across the yard to Wards 2 and 3, now renamed Civilian 2 and Civilian 3 since the military had taken over Wards 4–6 and remade them as Military 1, 2, and 3. Those in Military 3 were still very ill, those in Military 1, their quarantine and spirits up, were well into the restlessly bored stage of their recuperation. Each ward had a covered porch, and a short verandah at the rear linking it to the next ward. Before each verandah stood a rich barrier of climbing roses. The brief New Zealand twilight was not quite at an end but already the spendthrift fragrance of the roses approached its nightly zenith. The setting, in spite of itself, was romantic. Mr Glossop, however, was not conscious of romance. He was cross and anxious and when he spoke into the telephone his voice held overtones of resentment.

‘Glossop speaking,’ he said. ‘I’m still at Mount Seager Hospital. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a hundred times, they ought to do something about that van.’ He paused. A Lilliputian voice reaching him from a small town twenty miles away quacked industriously in the receiver. ‘I know, I know,’ said Mr Glossop resentfully, ‘and it’s my digestion that’s had to take it. Here I am with the pay-box till Gawd knows when and I don’t like it. I said I don’t like it. It’s OK, go and tell him. Go and tell the whole bloody Board. I want to know what I’m meant to do now.’

A footfall, firm and crisp, sounded on the asphalt yard. In a moment the stream of light from the office door was intercepted. The old wooden steps gave the slightest creak and in the doorway stood a short compact woman dressed in white with a veil on her head and a scarlet cape about her shoulders. Mr Glossop made restless movements with his legs and changed the colour of his voice. He smiled in a deprecating manner at the newcomer and he addressed himself to the telephone. ‘That’s right,’ he said with false heartiness. ‘Still we mustn’t grumble. Er—Matron suggests I get a tow down with the morning bus … Transport Driver … No, it’s—it’s,’ Mr Glossop swallowed, ‘it’s a lady,’ he said. The Lilliputian voice spoke at some length. ‘Well, we hope so,’ said Mr Glossop with a nervous laugh.

‘You will be quite safe, Mr Glossop,’ the woman in the doorway said. ‘Miss Warne is an experienced driver.’

Mr Glossop nodded and smirked. ‘An experienced driver,’ he echoed, ‘Matron says, an experienced driver.’

The telephone uttered a metallic enquiry. ‘How about the pay-box?’ it asked sharply.

Mr Glossop lowered his voice. ‘I’ve paid out, here,’ he said cautiously. ‘Nowhere else. I should have been at the end of the rounds by now. Tonight, I’ll watch it,’ he added fretfully.

‘Tell him,’ the Matron said tranquilly, ‘that I shall lock it in my safe.’ She came into the office and sat at one of the two desks. She was a stocky woman with watchful eyes and a compassionate mouth.

Mr Glossop finished his conversation in a hurry, hung up the receiver and got to his feet. His tremendous circumference rose above the edge of the table and was rotated to face the Matron. He passed his hand over his face, glanced at it and pulled out a handkerchief. ‘Warm,’ he said.

‘Very,’ said the Matron. ‘Nurse!’

‘Yes, Matron?’ A very small figure in a blue uniform and white cap rose from behind the second desk where she had been studiously avoiding overhearing Mr Glossop’s telephone call.

‘Hasn’t Miss Farquharson got back yet?’

‘No, Matron.’

‘Then I’m afraid you must stay on duty until either she or Miss Warne returns. I wish to speak to Miss Farquharson when she comes in.’

‘Yes, Matron,’ said the small nurse in a very small voice.

‘I’m extremely annoyed with her. And now I want you to telephone Mr Brown’s grandson. Mr Sydney Brown. The number’s on the desk there. Mr Brown has asked for him again. He could come out on the next bus but it would be quicker if he used his own car, and possibly safer as there’s every chance we’ll have a storm to break this weather before the evening’s out. Tell him, as plainly as you can, that his grandfather is adamant he sees him, and time is not on his side. I really do think young Mr Brown ought to have visited before now.’

‘Yes, Matron.’

‘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, I think I am,’ Sister Comfort agreed, more amiably.

The Matron returned and with a brisk nod to Mr Glossop led the way into her office. After they had left her, Sister Comfort stood stock-still in the yard, her head bent down as if she listened attentively 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, across to the row of wards and along the collection of offices hoping that Matron might be on her way back. He wanted someone to sort him out with that cot for the night, he wanted to get some sleep, and above all, he wanted to be on his way with his stack of cash, far too much money to be sitting way the hell out here, locked safe or no.

Wiping his brow and muttering dire imprecations against the weather, the Central Office, the roads and the general state of the nation in wartime, he sat down again, this time in Matron’s own chair. Her desk was covered in papers and he absent-mindedly flicked through them, misplacing the carefully-ordered typed pages of accounts and the hand-written notes.

He shook himself when he realized what he’d done, he’d hate to get in Matron’s bad books and he replaced the sheets carefully one on top of the other, grumbling to himself, ‘If I don’t get away from here at the crack of dawn there’ll be hell to pay, four more rounds to do. Four more and all of them to be paid before Christmas Day with the shops closing up soon enough and turkeys and stuffing and whatnot to cross off the lists. Hell to pay. None of it down to me, not a bit. I told them that old banger had no more in her. If I said it once, I said it a dozen times. I need a new van and hang the expense. Well, now they know the cost.’

Matron checked her watch as she returned to her office. A lovely silver watch, held on an elegant bar, it was given to her by a young man she’d known long ago. He had shyly offered it up just before he left for the last war, the one they had promised would end them all. They had been wrong and the young man had not returned. Not a day passed that she didn’t think of him, and not in a foolish way either, she admitted to herself, standing at the door to her office looking at the dozing irritant that was Mr Glossop, seated in her own chair. With a start, she noticed the papers on her desk had been moved, she crossed to the desk and, making no attempt to keep quiet for the sleeping interloper, she gathered the papers together, settling them once more with a satisfying thump.

‘Well, there we are,’ Glossop woke with a start, pretending he had only closed his eyes for a short while. ‘And how’s it with—you know, the fellow who’s—’

‘Dying?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s the—and the priest chap?’

‘Father O’Sullivan is with him now.’

‘Oh I see,’ Mr Glossop said disapprovingly, ‘All the Catholic doings, smells and bells and that carry on, is it?’

‘Not at all, Father O’Sullivan is an Anglican priest,’ Matron replied, attempting to squash his interest with the look that had her young nurses quaking and, to her chagrin, appeared to further encourage Mr Glossop.

‘Right you are, Matron, I’m sure you’ll tell me when I’m over-stepping bounds. I like a woman who knows her own business.’

Matron decided to ignore him. ‘It’s just gone eight-thirty, Mr Brown’s grandson is coming in on the nine o’clock transport. I hope he makes it in time. You’ll have to excuse me now, Mr Glossop, I’ve work to do.’

Glossop looked at the desk in front of him and realized that the papers he’d been fiddling with had been tidied out of his reach and that he himself was in Matron’s seat.

‘Yes, yes of course. You don’t want a spot of company? Someone to help you go through all those figures? Tricky stuff, numbers, and I’ve a good eye for accuracy, that’s why they gave me the job, of course. You’ve got to have a trusted man on the pay round.’

‘Thank you, but no,’ she cut him off. ‘If you head next door to the Records Office, the young nurse there will take care of you. She knows where the cots are kept and where you’re to sleep and I dare say she’ll be happy to show you to the kitchen. You’ll have to fend for yourself, mind you, our kitchen staff are daily and they left on the last transport back to town. Goodnight, Mr Glossop.’

Knowing himself dismissed, Glossop reluctantly left Matron’s office and went out into the darkening night. And it was still too damn hot by half.

CHAPTER THREE

At nine o’clock Red Cross Transport Driver Sarah Warne swung the Mount Seager bus round Gold’s Corner into the last stretch of the route, known locally as the Long Leg. From Gold’s Corner to the bridge the Long Leg ran straight for fifteen miles across the plains towards the foothills. Before the blackout she used to be able to see the hospital lights for the whole way but since Japan came in the front windows had gone blank. In the aftermath of twilight Sarah could just make out a black mass of buildings against the royal texture of the hills. Behind the hills, the main range, touched on its pinnacles with perpetual snow, awaited the night against a luminous sky. Although the sun was now below the horizon the cusp of Mount Seager was tinctured miraculously with clear rose. The windscreen of the bus framed a vast landscape quite free of human interest, unscarred by human occupation, moving because of its remoteness.

The road was unsealed and from time to time pieces of shingle flew up and banged against the floor of the bus. Sarah knew where the worst pot-holes lay but could not always avoid them. Every time they bumped across a gap or skidded in loose shingle the VADs screamed cheerfully, if a little less loudly than usual because of the young man who sat beside Sarah in the front seat. This was Mr Sydney Brown and they all knew that he was going up to the hospital because his grandfather had been asking for him for weeks and now the old man was nearing the end. Sarah spoke to him once or twice but whatever her observation his replies could be guessed before they were uttered. ‘It is, too,’ ‘I couldn’t say,’ ‘That’s right,’ he said in offended undertones. Sarah thought that perhaps, unlike her, he had not yet seen death at first hand and was sorry for him.

The mountains assumed an incredible depth of blue and the foothills turned more darkly purple. Their margins, folded together in a pattern of firm curves, were faintly haloed with light. The road ran forward into nothingness. The plains on either side of the road and stretching out behind them had taken on a bleached look, seeming to fade rather than to darken as night fell, turning the whole scene into an other-worldly monochrome. Sarah watched the road and her petrol gauge. With one layer of her mind she attended to her job, with another she saw that the landscape was quite beautiful, and with yet another she hunted for things to say to Mr Sydney Brown, or shout to the VADs. Further back, in a hinterland of half-conscious thoughts she wondered if Dr Luke Hughes would come into the Transport Office for his letters that night when she had sorted the mail she carried in addition to her passengers. This last conjecture gradually took precedence in her mind so that when unexpectedly Mr Sydney Brown spoke of his own accord, it was a second or two before she realized that he was joining in conversation with the VADs.

‘Lordly Stride,’ said Sydney Brown.

‘I beg your pardon?’ cried Sarah.

‘Lordly Stride came in and paid a record price,’ said Sydney. ‘I heard it on the air while I was waiting for the bus. Rank outsider.’

An instant babble broke out in the bus.

‘She’s done it! That’s Farquharson’s horse. That’s right, it’s her horse!’ And then the attenuated inevitable coda to most of the VADs’ dialogues: ‘Thass raht.’

‘What are you all talking about?’ Sarah demanded. She was answered immediately by each of her eight passengers. Miss Rosamund Farquharson, the Records Office clerk who usually worked days, had swapped her duty for the overnight shift, and had gone to the races down-country. She had travelled into town on the morning bus and told everybody she was going to back Lordly Stride in the last race. ‘We all said she was mad,’ the VADs explained, but the truth was Rosamund Farquharson was in a mess and needed the money, so much so that what might have felt like a steep gamble to her colleagues had seemed a genuine lifeline when she laid the bet, fingers crossed and whistling hope.

‘You are a lot of gossips,’ Sarah said mildly.

‘It’s not gossip, Transport,’ shouted one of the VADs. ‘She tells everybody about it. She’s not fussy, she doesn’t care who knows. That dress she bought for the races—well, bought! She said herself there was only one shop left where they’d give her credit.’

‘She’s mad,’ said a small nurse profoundly.

‘I’ll say.’

‘Did you hear about her and old Comfort?’ asked a solo voice.

‘Eee—yes!’ the chorus chanted.

‘No. What?’ the nurse demanded.

‘She caught Rosie kissing one of the boys when she brought the mail round.’

‘She’s mad.’

‘Comfort or Rosie?’

‘Both.’

‘I’ll say.’

‘But Roz is being a fool to herself.’

‘No need to ask which of the lads it was.’

Mr Sydney Brown cleared his throat. The voices faltered and were obliterated by the grind of tyres on shingle, body rattles from the bus, and by the not inconsiderable racket of the engine. Sarah began to wonder uneasily on the subject of their discussion. She was surprised to discover in herself a violent distaste for this gossip about Rosamund Farquharson; surprised, because their friendship was a casual affair based on a similarity of experience rather than of taste. They had met properly in the Mount Seager Records Office. Each of them had returned to New Zealand after a long absence in England but while Miss Farquharson perpetually bewailed the lost gaieties of her glorious existence in the London of art school and galleries, Sarah tried very hard to avoid such lamentations. Since the outbreak of war she too had suffered from a painful nostalgia for the old days. Where Rosamund had attended art school, Sarah had three years at Oxford and one at a dramatic school under her belt, in addition to another two years spent struggling to find small pickings in indifferent companies. While Rosamund’s memories were constantly invoked in a rose mist of past bliss, Sarah’s were solid and genuine. After exhausting months in weekly rep, in the farthest flung corners of what her parents’ generation of New Zealanders still referred to as ‘Home’, Sarah eventually fluked her way into a West End production and the most poignant of all her recollections were of London. She was called back to New Zealand for a family crisis when her younger sister became ill. The sister had been expected to recover, but her shocking and sudden death made it impossible for Sarah to leave their widowed mother alone in New Zealand. With a sensation of panic, she had stayed on, and then she was trapped by the war.

‘You’re lucky to have got away. England’s a good country to be out of now,’ the Mount Seager day porter once said, and Sarah had enormously warmed to Rosamund Farquharson when the usually cynical and smart blonde replied fiercely, ‘Do you like to keep clear when your best friends are against it? I should think not. And nor do we.’

A little self-righteously, perhaps, they had formed an alliance. They had few tastes in common. Rosamund had been given two years at the London art school by a generous English aunt. She had, it appeared, been hailed back to New Zealand by her parents upon distracted representations made by this same aunt. Her interests were focused so ruthlessly on young men that she had the air of being a sort of specialist. The leap from small town New Zealand and the humble abode of a school teacher’s family to Bloomsbury studio parties, had reacted upon her like the emotional equivalent of an overdose of thyroid gland. Rosamund had listened first with bewilderment, then with encouragement and finally with the liveliest enthusiasm to monotonous conversations about eroticism, at that time the fashionable topic among art-students. She quickly collected an amazing jargon and a smattering of semi-technical information which, like some precocious reincarnation of the Ancient Mariner, she was quite unable to keep to herself. Rosamund was given to using tediously blasphemous and indecent language, and her favourite recreation was a process she called ‘waking up the old dump’. At first Sarah had a notion that most of Rosamund’s dissipations ruled these purple patches to her telling of them; but with the appearance of Private Maurice Sanders among the recovering men of Military 1 she was obliged to change her opinion.

‘This time,’ Sarah thought with a sigh, ‘I’m afraid she is doing an odd spot of the bonnet-and-windmill business. And with Private Sanders! How she can!’

She switched on her headlamps. About two hundred yards ahead the Long Leg ended abruptly. They had reached the edge of the plains. A great river made its exit from the mountains a mile or two to the west, flowing down from the foothills. With the sheer banks of the riverbed the plains ended as sharply as if they had been sliced away by a gargantuan knife, the foothills rising steeply above and the mountains proper beyond. Sarah changed down. The Long Leg dived into a precipitous cutting and finished emphatically at the deep chasm of the river. The wheels of the bus rattled across the wooden planks of the old bridge. The headlamps found white painted rails and uneven planking, loose boards clattering ominously beneath the weight of the bus. Sarah heard one of the VADs say to another, ‘I hate this part of the trip, the bridge is far too rickety for my liking.’

‘I’ll say,’ her pal replied, ‘and that wooden rail wouldn’t stop a dog from falling in, let alone this bus.’

They giggled nervously as Sarah changed down again and in the split-second while the gears were disengaged the voice of the river could be heard, a vast cold thunder among boulders below the high bridge. As they reached the far side vague shapes of trees and a roof appeared against the steep hill to their left.

‘You can hardly see Johnson’s pub in the blackout,’ said a cheerful VAD.

‘Awkward for Private Sanders,’ said the small nurse. There followed a subdued tittering.

‘I reckon he could find it blindfold.’

‘Shut up. You’re not supposed to know.’

‘Poor old Farquharson.’

With a vicious jab, Sarah sounded the horn. The VADs screamed in unison.

‘What’s that for, Transport? Have we run over anything?’

‘A reputation,’ said Sarah.

After a final short, steep climb she pulled the bus carefully into the hospital driveway and parked with a shout to the VADs to remember that Matron expected the patients in bed and sleeping by now, and not to disturb them. She turned her attention to young Sydney Brown. With a sudden wave of sympathy she saw the hospital as he must see it, not the ramshackle collection of well-worn buildings she had come to know and value as a genuine place of sanctuary for damaged civilians and out-of-place servicemen. To Sydney Brown the scent of carbolic, the hush now that they were between the wild river and the immense reach of the mountains up ahead, this must have felt a place of foreboding, a dark and jumbled site where his grandfather lay dying. She smiled kindly at him, hoping he could see her in the reflection from the headlamps, bouncing off the back of the storeroom and the boilerhouse, the peeling paint on the old weatherboards even more obvious in the light from the headlamps than during the blistering heat of the day.

‘I’ll take you to Matron, shall I, Mr Brown? We can get you a cup of tea and then in to see your grandfather. I know Father O’Sullivan was expected, so—’

Her voice petered out. What more was there to say?

‘I don’t want tea, I’ll just see the old man.’

Sydney Brown was up and out of his seat, down the steps, and waiting.

Sarah took out her torch, turned off the headlights, and nodded, pocketing the keys. ‘Yes, of course, come along.’

Mr Glossop’s slow, heavy tread had not long retreated back across the asphalt yard when Matron heard the rattle and squeak of the nine o’clock transport rolling up the driveway and into the parking area. The VADs would take a few minutes to sort themselves out from the journey. Sarah Warne was a sensible girl, one of the few she could rely upon, which meant she had a moment to gather her thoughts before she was needed to brief the night staff with Sister Comfort.

Retrieving the paperwork she had hurriedly tidied out of Mr Glossop’s reach, she looked through the papers. Surely he wouldn’t have pried into her private correspondence? She frowned, because that was exactly the kind of behaviour she’d expect of the infuriating fellow. Even so, he wouldn’t have had time to look through them thoroughly. She sat forward in her chair and spread out the papers before her. Almost twenty-five years here at Mount Seager and, while there had been difficult years, in particular during the influenza epidemic after the last war, when she was a newly appointed ward sister and they had been stretched far beyond their capacity, both to care and to cope, things had never before come to this. The bill for roof repairs to the Surgery was two months overdue. After a dreadfully wet winter, they simply hadn’t been able to risk the old corrugated iron roof any longer, it was bad enough in any other ward, but a serious health hazard in the Surgery. A third letter from the local bakery, with a curt note attached from Elsie Pocock, a woman she had known her whole life, and now Matron found herself crossing the road in town to avoid speaking to her. Two further angry demands for payment, one from the farmer who supplied sides of beef ‘at cost!’ as he reminded her in the letter, ‘at cost!’, and another from the milk factory. The extra beds, the military wards commandeered when the men were sent home with scarlet fever and polio, the more serious complications of burns and amputations for the poor lads who would be forever scarred, all of it meant added work for a dwindling staff as ever more of them left to help the war effort themselves. Every day there were extra patients to feed and laundry bills rising through the rusting roof and the men in charge up in Wellington seemed to have no idea at all how their plans affected ordinary people out in the rest of the country. Her creditors had been patient at first, everyone was having to do more on far less in wartime, but time was running out. Matron would have the respite of the Christmas break, with all but the farmers stopping work for a few days, come January however, she would need to pay up, something had to give.

Matron took up her pen and paper and began composing a letter. As she did so she continued her train of thought. If she had been as flighty as young Rosamund Farquharson, silly girl spoiling herself with Sanders, she’d have put money on one of the sure-fire bets the men in Military 1 were so keen on, but Isabelle Ashdown had never laid a bet in her life, not even as a young nurse when all of her fellow trainees put a penny each into the sweepstake on who would be the first to bag a doctor husband. She thought then that betting on men was foolish and gambling on horses even more so, and nothing in the subsequent years had proved her wrong. She frowned, until a month or so ago, she might have thought Dr Luke Hughes could be persuaded to turn on the requisite charm. She had warmed to the young man as soon as he arrived. They had enjoyed several late night conversations, and Matron found his approach to his work both modern and a welcome tonic for the hospital. A sherry party at Christmas had often resulted in a New Year windfall to the hospital donation fund, especially if a handsome young doctor could be persuaded to work his magic, but Dr Hughes had been distracted lately, even a little brusque once or twice, she didn’t trust his ability to elicit generous donations from frosty older ladies. She shuffled the papers back into a neat pile, and wished, not for the first time, that she might fold away her concerns as tightly as the hospital corners she still prided herself on, decades after her initial training, faster and sharper than any of her nurses. Her worries were interrupted by a low rumble of thunder, high up in the mountains and then another soon after, this one much closer.

Matron finished and signed her letter and waited a moment for the ink to dry. She was about to fold it into an envelope when she had another thought and added a post-script, initialling this part of the letter with a flourish, adding it to her pile to be sorted later. Then she stood, the old floorboards creaking in the heavy evening heat, and reached around the safe to pick up a rusted tin bucket. She carefully placed it beneath the worst of the gaps in the old roof that was the only protection afforded her office against the elements, so many years of being over-heated in summer and chilled to the bone in winter, so many years of tidying up others’ mess. She would have to tell the night staff to ready their pails and mops, she doubted that even that latest crack of thunder would be warning enough for them, giddy as they were about the coming Christmas festivities. Many, she knew, had been wishing for a good storm to clear the air, but Matron knew a good storm meant only that a fierce light would be shone on the deficiencies of her hospital. She felt inside her pocket, checked that the safe key was there, warm and protected. She turned off the lamp on her desk. She had her torch in her other pocket and there was no sense risking rain getting through and onto a live electrical wire. She walked out into the night, a smattering of stars were just visible through the rapidly gathering clouds. It was still unbearably hot, but finally the cicadas were silent. The storm would be upon them soon.

CHAPTER FOUR

Rosamund Farquharson had been under orders to return to duty before seven o’clock. Already she was two hours late and had not yet reached the bridge. The bus, she reflected, must be nearly in by now. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Soon there wouldn’t be any more petrol anyway. The fat bag on her lap gave her a grand feeling of independence. A hundred pounds! She could see the pay-out clerk peering at her from his window behind the totalisator. ‘You can collect from the Jockey Club’s offices tomorrow, you know.’ Not she! She wanted to feel the notes in her bag. She supposed twenty pounds would have to go to the people she’d bought the car from. And twenty-five to the dress shop. And another five to Maurice. It would be something to be able to pay back that five pounds to Maurice. She’d be very formal when she gave it to him. ‘It was awfully kind of you. I shouldn’t have let you do it. I’ve been quite worried about it. Thank you so much.’ Or would that look as though she’d noticed the change in him? Would it be better to be casually friendly? ‘Oh, by the way, Maurice, here’s your fiver. I’m rolling in wealth, did you know? Had a marvellous day.’ Let him think she was having fun without him. Hint at an exciting encounter at the races. She’d go to Military 1 as soon as she got in, still wearing the races dress. It made her feel something special and he could see it for himself. Sister Comfort would be on duty but she’d make some excuse. She’d say she’d put a few bob on for him at the races. Or would he think she was—? A feeling of the most bitter desolation came upon her. She experienced, like a physical sickness, a realisation that no matter what she did there could be no return to the old days. As though her pain was a sort of emotional toothache, she began to explore its cavities for the sheer horror of aggravating the screaming nerve. He had lent her the fiver because he was uncomfortable about her. The Johnson woman down at the Bridge pub had cut her out. He was crazy about Sukie Johnson, crazier than he had ever been for Rosamund herself, and that was because she could offer him far more than Rosamund ever could. When Rosamund met up with Maurice now, it was only because he was a patient and she a clerk here at Mount Seager. ‘He’s moved on from me,’ she thought in a crescendo of pain. And having reached a point where she could endure her self-torture no longer she began to hunt for an antidote. She would after all win him back. He’d see her tonight in this lovely frock. He’d be as excited as she was about her winnings. In less than a fortnight he’d be sent back to camp, training and up to the minute tactics and all that. He’d be shipped out again soon enough, but before then she’d see him admit to missing her, she’d borrow a studio and throw a marvellous party for him, a farewell, and a welcome of sorts, welcome back Maurice. Rosamund began to weave plans, muffling her pain with vivid dreams of reconciliation and renewed happiness. By the time she got to the end of Long Leg, the antidote had worked and she felt a kind of gaiety that almost matched the vibrance of her beautiful yellow dress.

It was quite dark when she finally reached the bridge. Her small car bumped over the rattling, uneven planks. At the far end, the road divided. It turned sharply to the left through a patch of dense native bush making a wide angle with a track that ran uphill ending at the Bridge Hotel one way or straight ahead to Mount Seager. As Rosamund drove on to the hospital, her dipped headlamps picked up six white objects that moved alongside the road, stopped, and darted back again. She pulled up short and switched on the beam.

The white objects were resolved into pyjama-clad shins, cut off at the bottom by socks and boots and at the top by army great-coats, the poor fellows must have been sweltering in them. Rosamund leaned out of the driving window.

‘And what the hell do you think you’re up to?’ she asked pleasantly.

‘That’s all right, Miss,’ said a sheepish voice. ‘On your way.’

‘Turn them lights off for Gawsake,’ cried a second voice.

Rosamund switched off the lights and produced a torch which she turned on the owner of the sheepish voice, revealing a long sallow face with a disgruntled expression and a pair of watchful eyes.

‘Private Pawcett, I see.’

‘How’re you doing, Rosie? You haven’t seen a thing now, have you?’

‘Who knows?’ said Rosamund. ‘You’re taking a chance, aren’t you? This is the third time. You’ll catch a packet this trip, Bob.’

‘Cut it out, Rosie, be a sport.’

‘We’ll see. Who are your friends?’

The circle of light shifted. A second face, darker than the first, with smart, bright eyes, blinked nervously.

‘Hul-lo!’ said Rosamund. ‘The pride of Military 1 on the razzle. What’s come over our Corporal Brayling? You don’t usually let yourself get mixed up in your mates’ antics, Cuth.’

An unsteady hand moved across his face.

‘He’s fed up,’ Private Pawcett explained. ‘Poor old Cuth’s fed up. Look, his missus is going to have a kid and they won’t let him off to go and see her. He’s feeling that crook about it all he had to do something. Hadn’t you, Cuth?’

‘I wouldn’t of gone to the house,’ Corporal Brayling protested. ‘I told them I wouldn’t go near her. I could’ve just sent a message. I don’t want to give her the fever. I’m OK now anyway, none of us are infectious and we’ll get discharged soon enough. Ah, it’s all no good.’

‘Tough luck,’ said Rosamund lightly.

‘We brought ’im along for a drink,’ Private Pawcett said. ‘He needed it.’

‘“We”?’ Rosamund repeated. ‘That reminds me. I haven’t met the third gentleman.’

The light dodged about a little, momentarily revealing a bank covered in wild thyme and a thicket of dark leafy scrub, before it found the third figure, coming to a stop upon the back of a sleek dark head.

‘Turn round,’ Rosamund said breathlessly.

He turned slowly.

The silence was broken by Corporal Brayling digging Private Pawcett in the ribs. ‘Come on, Bob, reckon we’d better get a move on,’ he said.

‘You’re right there, mate. OK Cheerio, Rosie!’

‘Hooray, Rosie!’

They moved away, their heavy boots crunching up the loose shingle.

‘Had a good day, Roz?’ Maurice Sanders cried.

Private Pawcett and Corporal Brayling picked up their pace a little, the better to be away from whatever their mate was about to say to the Farquharson girl. No doubt about it, she knew she had a face on her and a fair shift of a shape at that, but Sanders couldn’t half push his luck at times.

‘He needs to go easy on her, can’t play around with a girl like that and not come unstuck in the end,’ said Corporal Brayling.

‘As if you’d know,’ sniggered Private Pawcett.

‘I wouldn’t want to know, would I? Not with my Ngaire hapū and the baby coming soon enough. I’m not like you blokes.’

‘Nah sport, sure you’re not.’

‘I’m not,’ Brayling insisted, his step slowing, his voice dangerously low.

Pawcett laughed unkindly, the extra pint he’d downed before they left the pub meant he didn’t notice the change in Brayling’s tone, ‘You mean her old man’d drag you off back to the pā and go old-style Māori on you if you cheated his girl?’

Brayling stopped in his tracks and Pawcett realized he’d gone too far. In the faint spill of light from the porch of Civilian 1, the solid and strong Māori man looked as fierce as ever he’d seen him. Pawcett kicked himself, his mother had always said his mouth would get him hung one of these days.

‘Mate, I’m sorry,’ Pawcett said. ‘I didn’t mean it, not like that, but you’ve got to admit, your Ngaire’s old man is one hell of a—’

‘Rangatira? Chief? Too right he is,’ Cuthbert Brayling answered his own question. ‘And his iwi and mine go back a long way, all the way “back to the pā”, if you like. I’d never muck around with these girls like you lot. My Ngaire, she’s a queen, she’s everything to me.’

‘Cuth, mate, play the—,’ Pawcett stopped himself just in time, ‘Play the game.’

Their voices faded in the darkness. They’d served together now for almost two years, alongside their reckless mate Sanders, trusting each other with their lives, comrades and brothers, and it was only back in New Zealand that the differences between them became bigger than the bonds forged in action. They were both relieved to be alongside the hospital offices now, it meant they had to hush, it meant they had to work together. If there was one thing they’d learned in the army it was how to work together.

Brayling doubled over and started moaning, Pawcett held him up, they stumbled towards the door of Military 1, making as much noise as they could, no sneaking in, no pretending they hadn’t been out playing the wag.

Pawcett called out as they crossed the threshold, ‘Hey Nurse, Nursey! Cuth’s only been and gone sleepwalking again, we told you what a palaver it was with him over in Africa, give us a hand girlie, will you?’

The little nurse started up at his words and hurried to the porch door, shushing him as she went.

Pawcett kept up his loud recitation, well aware that none of the men in the ward would be sleeping yet and they’d enjoy the scene he was about to give them.

‘Problem is, Nurse, you lot insist we have an afternoon kip every day, but where’s the rest when we’ve to keep an eye out for Cuth? A caution he is for sleepwalking, honest. And Gawd knows where Sanders has got to. He was worried about Cuth heading over to the river, stone me if we’re not in for a flood the minute that storm hits, or worse, what if he’d got into one of those tunnels under here? The place is riddled with them. Be a love and help us out, will you?’

Sanders meanwhile, was offering Rosamund his best self-satisfied grin. Faced with his cheery good looks, his twinkling eyes and the dark curl that fell over his left eye, no matter how often he combed it back, not to mention the knowing smile that Rosamund had promised herself she would ignore, she felt her resolve melting away. The tough carapace of a girl who cared nought for his charms, a girl who was as easily distracted by other young men as Sanders was by Sukie Johnson, faded all too swiftly into that old yearning. It was a wanting made still more painful because Rosamund knew Maurice would have spent his stolen hour at the pub carrying on with Sukie over the bar, hoping that her old man was as daft as he looked. Still, she had rehearsed her lines and she knew her new yellow dress looked pretty darn good, so she gave it her best shot.

‘Oh, it’s you Maurice, I might have known you’d be out carousing with the boys.’

Sanders smiled his lop-sided grin, ‘You should have come along, Rosie, plenty of honest blokes in the saloon bar, a lovely girl like you’d have no trouble picking up a beau, ’specially not in a frock like that, showing it off for all you’re worth.’

His words stung, but Rosamund brazened it out, ‘And get into even hotter water than I am already, two hours late for my shift and Sister Comfort on the warpath? No fear. Besides, the Bridge Hotel’s lost some of its allure lately.’

‘Blimey! “Allure” is it now? There’s a phrase if ever I heard one. Picked that one up in London did you? Fair enough. I reckon a backwater boozer like the Bridge isn’t for the likes of you. Mind you, the beer’s a darn sight cheaper there than it is back in town, and some of us,’ he stepped closer, too close, but Rosamund stood her ground, ‘some of us aren’t quite as fit in the pocket as we ought to be, are we, love?’

Rosamund smiled and slowly lifted her handbag, she reached in, clicked open the clasp on her mother’s red leather purse and carefully peeled away a five pound note from the larger bundle. She planted a deep red kiss right on Captain Cook’s face on the outer note of the bundle before she put it safely back in her purse. She was glad to see the sight of the money wiped the smile off Maurice’s face, if only for a moment.

‘Didn’t you hear?’ she asked lightly.

‘Hear what?’

‘I’d have thought it’d be all round Mount Seager by now, can’t imagine the girls on the late transport would be talking about anything else, you know how they love a gossip.’

‘What would? Where’s all that money from, Roz? Who’ve you robbed blind?’

‘My horse only went and came in, Maurice. So here’s your fiver, and I’ll thank you for the loan, and that’s you and I quits, don’t you think?’

‘Ah, Roz love, come on girl, don’t give a bloke a hard time. I’ll be given my clean bill any day now and once we’re off back to camp I reckon they’ll ship us out again quick as you like. You can’t blame me for taking my chances, can you?’

Rosamund was about to answer him truthfully, to say that of course she didn’t blame him, she couldn’t imagine how horrid it must be to be lying out here in the hospital, hating being ill and then worrying even more about getting better, knowing that would mean heading back off to war and still no end in sight, things getting worse by the week if the news from England was anything to go by. The lads might bluster to each other, bluster to the nurses as well, but before Maurice had turned his lovely smile to Mrs Johnson across the bar of the Bridge Hotel, he’d confided some of the horrors to her. His worry that it had made him look soft had only made her warm to him more. She was about to give in, about to step forward, ready to turn off the torch, when a far brighter light shone on the two of them and Sister Comfort’s furious whisper saved her from herself.

‘Miss Farquharson! I shall see you in Matron’s office in five minutes. As for you, Private Sanders, you’ve had your final warning. I’m taking this to Sergeant Bix, I can promise you that.’

Rosamund shook herself and stepped back, almost glad of the trouble, and Maurice Sanders watched her walk away from him, lit by Sister Comfort’s torch. Taking in the line of the neatly-fitting yellow dress he pursed his lips to whistle and only just stopped himself.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he thought, ‘you’ve given the poor girl enough of a run around as it is. Let her be.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Sarah Warne was at her desk in the Transport Office. She was trying to work out the shift rosters for the next fortnight and two of her fellow drivers had already called in sick over Christmas and Boxing Days. She didn’t blame them, she might have pulled the same trick herself if she hadn’t been in charge of the rota, or if she wasn’t well aware that Dr Luke Hughes was also working the full Christmas shift. She frowned, Luke had been distant lately, unusually so. There was something going on and Sarah was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Sarah and Luke met when she was in the West End and he in his second year of surgical studies across the river at St Thomas’s. She knew herself very fortunate to have made it into a West End cast. It wasn’t a major role and in truth, Sarah sometimes wondered if she was a major role sort of actress. She wasn’t sure she had the temperament to be a leading lady, and even though she was the right age, she certainly wasn’t an ingénue either. Hers was a steady, reliable character, useful for steady, reliable parts, those that held the story rather than the audience’s attention. She had been cast because she could do the job and do it well, she was calm and capable when others might fly up into the heights of passion or down to despair, depending on the notices on any given night. The reliable actress was not the most glamorous role in a company, but it was vital and Sarah understood theatre well enough to know she would stay in work a lot longer than some of the glossier girls from dramatic school and weekly rep.

She and Luke were introduced at a post-show drinks party that trekked from their rabbit warren of backstage rooms to the closest pub and on to the Café de Paris. Sarah recalled that she and her fellow actors had arrived, flushed with the success of that night’s show and the several drinks they’d had to celebrate. Luke was leaving when the dashing young leading man spotted him, clasped him to his breast and introduced him all around the bar as a dear old school chum. At first Sarah thought Luke Hughes was shy, not used to the noise and bustle of a group of actors, the back-slapping and kissing, at least two cocktails required to bring them down to the level of ordinary conversation. Left alone with him for a few minutes she tried to make conversation but his replies were so taciturn that she changed her mind and decided he was positively rude. She forgave him a little when he checked his watch, saw that it was gone two o’clock, announced himself exhausted from a day’s surgical assisting and, ignoring the imprecations of the theatricals, said he must leave them to their pleasures. She forgave him a little more when he leaned in to whisper an apology for his behaviour and invited her for supper to make up for his appalling manners that evening—‘Just as soon as these blasted final exams are out of the way’. She was grateful that her fellow cast members were too busy to overhear, fully engaged as they were in outdoing each other with tales of the worst digs they’d endured in provincial tours. Had they heard it, such a proposal would have provoked an inordinate amount of whistling and nudging among her peers and the rather good-looking Dr Hughes would have hightailed it out of the building as fast as his two feet could carry him, with no chance of a slipper on the stair to find him again.

A fortnight later Sarah met Luke for supper and, both keeping such odd hours, both understanding the strains of a team depending upon them—although Sarah well knew that she was not the pivot for matters of life and death that Luke was, regardless of how desperately important her fellow actors believed the theatre to be—a sincere friendship developed. The friendship was definitely edging towards romance when Sarah opened the door of her little flat to a telegram notifying her of her sister’s sudden illness and that her widowed mother needed her help. The long journey home took Sarah from soft London summer to a bitter New Zealand winter and her sister’s death, and all too soon afterwards came that awful, inevitable morning in early spring that brought the declaration of war. Mrs Warne was even happier to have Sarah home then, far from the horrors that London would surely face, even though Sarah herself would have liked nothing better than to do her bit for the city she adored.

Sarah and Luke became proficient correspondents, sending long, honest letters full of friendship and a growing understanding, letters in which Luke proved himself far more open on paper than he had often been in person. Then came a year with just a postcard or two, Luke stationed at a military hospital close to battle lines and Sarah worried for his safety as the months dragged on and the news became darker every week. Finally there was a glimmer of hope and she was understandably delighted when military efficiency determined that a British doctor serving in North Africa was better suited to accompanying a contingent of wounded New Zealand servicemen than returning to England and, while there, he should take a six month stint at a hospital now dealing with military casualties. That hospital turned out to be Mount Seager of all places.

Luke found his first few weeks at Mount Seager extremely difficult. He was not daunted by the workload, the outdated equipment, the broken-down buildings, or the leaking roofs that haunted Matron’s nightmares, these were nothing compared to the hospital tents in which he had been working for the past months. His upset was a champing at the bit of duty. So many of his friends from school were out in the field, the majority of his medical colleagues were caring for wounded soldiers in the heat of battle or coping with the atrocious conditions in London, Birmingham, Glasgow, with wave after wave of casualties coming in from the nightly raids. Luke bitterly missed being in the centre of things and being useful. He spent his first month in New Zealand in a severe funk until Rosamund Farquharson took him to task.

‘Don’t be such a prig, Dr Hughes.’

Luke had been going through his files just before a ward round and hadn’t realized he was grumbling aloud about ‘this blasted backwater’. He certainly didn’t expect a reply from the office staff, no matter how much Miss Farquharson fancied herself quite the catch.

Never one to hold back when she had something to say, Rosamund gave him a piece of her mind, ‘We all want to do our bit, but not everyone can be the hero just because we fancy it, not even the likes of you with your clean white coat and London certificates on the Surgery Office wall. Yes, you probably could be getting your hands dirtier somewhere else, but come on, do you really believe your friends out there, giving their all, would begrudge you this? They’re no mates if they would. Looking after servicemen who’re doing their damnedest here or anywhere else, it’s all part of the work. And by the way,’ she added, her well-defined eyebrows raised, a smile on her rigorously carmined lips, ‘we New Zealanders might gripe about being stuck way over here when it’s going to blazes everywhere else, but you’ll find we’re not so keen on you Pommie chaps doing the same. Some of those lads in the military wards are going stir-crazy, they’re spoiling for a scrap. I’d watch it if I were you.’

Rosamund turned on heels that were definitely not regulation, and flounced off across the hospital yard in a way that several of the recovering servicemen at Mount Seager, taking a breather on the porch of Military 1, found enormously reviving. Even Dr Hughes allowed that being told off by Miss Farquharson was amusing, particularly in conjunction with the way the word ‘Pommie’ sounded in her accent. Rosamund’s New Zealand vowels had been determinedly and intentionally rounded by her years in London. Moreover, he had to admit she had a point. He took note, pulled himself together and, aware that he was now the most senior doctor available to Mount Seager, gave himself to the work with an alacrity that pleased Matron enormously and surprised Sister Comfort even more.

Even though she didn’t expect their friendship to feel the same in wartime New Zealand as it had been in London before the war, Sarah had expected that she and Luke might take up where the letters had left off. Looking back she found it hard to imagine how carefree they had been, even with the constant pressure of Luke’s studies. Now she sometimes wondered if they had been deliberately blind, willfully ignoring the growing tensions on the Continent. Her sister’s death, her mother’s gnawing grief, the awful news that came to them daily, the broken soldiers she met in her work, young men who very occasionally let slip the mask of bravado, all of it meant that Sarah was no longer capable of ignoring the obvious—Luke had changed. He was hiding something from her and it was driving a wedge between them.

Along the yard in the anteroom to the Surgery that he had been assigned for the night, Mr Glossop was also preoccupied, shuffling on his cot, too hot and far too irritated to sleep. Yes, he had seen the eminently sensible Matron pocket the key to the safe. He trusted her, she was a fine woman, without a doubt. The hospital safe, however, in a set of buildings as ramshackle as these were proving to be—corrugated iron roofs rattling in the rising wind, the buckets he’d seen strategically placed by nurses in preparation for the brewing storm—well, that was a hell of a lot of cash he’d handed over and he didn’t trust the hospital safe, not as far as he could throw it. Not that he’d be throwing anything, come morning, after a sleepless night on this flamin’ cot. He knew there were a few private rooms here at Mount Seager, his great aunt had demanded one years back. She’d come in with some women’s troubles and had kicked up a hell of a stink about being in a ward with an old Māori lady. Proper tartar his aunt was, giving the nurses what for, and the doctors. Quick as a flash, Matron had come on through, rattled out her orders, and what do you know, but wasn’t the kuia given the private room and not his aunt. That shut the old bism up good and proper. Still though, you’d think they’d have given him a room of his own for the night. It wasn’t as if he was one of the rowdy servicemen, it was a bit of a cow to leave him to a cot in a shoddy anteroom. And by heck, it was sweltering in here. Damn tin roofs, no good to man or beast.

Mr Glossop was quite right. There were private rooms at Mount Seager, one at the front of every ward, just inside the porch. Wishing to give the dying man the privacy he needed Matron had moved old Mr Brown to the private room of Civilian 3 two weeks earlier. Now she stood outside that room, speaking in hushed and urgent tones with Father O’Sullivan. Young Sydney Brown had been closeted inside with his grandfather for the past fifteen minutes. Matron was about to knock on the door when it opened and Sydney, ashen-faced, stepped out.

‘Are you all right, son?’ asked Father O’Sullivan.

The young man shook his head, fear and confusion in his face, ‘I don’t know, he’s talking daft, I think I need a—’

Matron took over, ‘Go on in to Mr Brown, Father O’Sullivan. I’ll sort Sydney out with a cup of tea and maybe a splash of whiskey in that tea, eh Sydney? Medicinal purposes. Come on now, I’ll take you to the kitchen and find someone to look after you.’

Matron put a firm arm on the young man’s shoulder and propelled him away.

At the porch, she turned back to Father O’Sullivan, ‘You’ll come to find me, Vicar, and let me know how Mr Brown is doing?’

The vicar and the Matron exchanged a look.

‘Yes, of course, Matron.’

When Matron returned to her office she found Rosamund Farquharson and Sister Comfort waiting for her, Farquharson barely shame-faced despite being well over two hours late for her shift and Sister Comfort even sharper than usual. Both women spoke at once:

‘Matron, I must insist you speak to Miss Farquharson—’

‘Play fair, Sister, let me explain. I had a win, Matron, a real honest to goodness win, so it took much longer to get away, what with having to pick up my takings. I thought about going home to drop off the money, a hundred pounds is a hell of a lot to be carrying round all night, but I’d have been even later for my shift, and I didn’t want to let you down, so I just—’

‘Let us down? Now you worry about letting us down!’

‘Enough, both of you,’ Matron held up her hand. ‘Sister Comfort, I’d be grateful if you would go to young Mr Brown, I left him in the kitchen and promised to return to sit with him, he’s quite shaken up. Make him a cup of tea, will you? And here,’ she reached into the lowest drawer of her desk, ‘add a tot of this to it. He’s in shock.’

Rosamund’s eyes widened at the image of Matron keeping a bottle of whiskey in her desk and it was only Sister Comfort’s immediate complaint that she was not one of the kitchen staff to be sent off to make a cup of tea that meant Matron was angrier with the Sister than at Rosamund’s barely-suppressed glee.

Sister Comfort held her tongue and stalked off along the yard towards the kitchen block and Matron finally turned to Rosamund.

‘How much did you win, Miss Farquharson?’

Surprised by the unexpectedly bald question, Rosamund responded immediately, ‘Oh, a hundred, Matron. A whole hundred quid. I have to give some of it over to a few people that I … I need to help out, but all the same, it’s put me in a grand mood. I am awfully sorry about being so late and getting Comfort’s nose out of joint, I don’t mean to be such a bother, really I don’t. I guess I’m just not used to such, well, boring work.’

Matron sighed, ‘Yes, I can imagine for a young woman such as yourself, saving lives and keeping a hospital going in wartime is terribly tedious. I suggest you leave your winnings here. I’ll put them in the safe and you can collect the money when your shift finishes. Minus, of course, the hours I’ll dock from your pay for your late start tonight and the several days you’ve been late over the past weeks. Is ten pounds a fair price, do you think, to keep your job?’

Rosamund’s large green eyes widened even further, was Matron really threatening to sack her if she didn’t hand over a tenner? Matron was waiting, one hand out for the money, the key to the safe in the other.

‘I, well, I—’ stuttered Rosamund.

‘It would be awfully difficult getting a job right now, don’t you think, Miss Farquharson? Let alone without a reference. Still, I’m sure there are some factory jobs, somewhere about. Or land work, I believe there are quite a few young ladies working with the shearing gangs these days, what with the shortage of manpower.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Rosamund was flustered, her face as red as her lipstick, ‘I thought—’

‘That I was a pushover, just because I’m not vinegar-sharp like Sister Comfort? Then you have another think coming, young lady. Let’s be quite honest, shall we?’ Matron squared her shoulders and turned to face Rosamund, ‘Your behaviour has been abysmal, since the day you arrived. You’ve made a fool of yourself with Private Sanders, and don’t make that face, I could hardly have failed to notice, you have the entire team of VADs gossiping about you, and goodness knows what the soldiers in Military 1 say in private, given their words in public are bad enough. There is a man dying here tonight, alone but for a grandson who, I now discover, barely knows him and chose not to visit him until tonight, despite several requests. You have a chance to redeem yourself, take the consequences of your actions and get to work on a new start. It is the one chance I will give you.’

Matron’s voice was low and considered, but her words cut far deeper than Sister Comfort’s scolding. Rosamund tried to respond but, when she opened her mouth, she found she had no words to express her shock. Matron nodded in satisfaction.

‘Leave your winnings with me, I shall lock the money in my safe and, when your shift is finished in the morning, you may collect the balance of ninety pounds.’

Matron finished her words, emphasising the word ‘ninety’ to assure Rosamund that she meant to follow through with her threat.

Rosamund clicked open her purse, dumped the bundle of notes on Matron’s desk and rushed from the office. Had she been in any state to slam the door behind her, she would have done, instead the warm wind did the job for her, slamming the door and rattling the whole office with its force.

Matron sat down and looked at the notes, at the key in her hand, and the neatly gathered pile of unpaid demands littering her desk. The small office shuddered as another gust of wind battered the thin weatherboard walls, a shock of lightning briefly lit the sky beyond the bare window, a stronger crack of thunder hard on its heels, and finally the downpour began. Matron leaned back in her worn leather chair and nodded. At least the torrent would keep anyone else from her door for the moment.

CHAPTER SIX

The occupant of the private room at the front of Military 1 was also having a difficult evening. He had been trying for some time to write a letter, a letter that was overdue and yet, for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to put pen to paper this evening. Nor had he managed to do so on any of the three evenings preceding. The rain now drumming a fierce tattoo on the corrugated iron roof above, syncopated with that which fell on the curved frame of the porch beyond, might have had something to do with it, but he feared his inability to express himself on paper was the symptom of a deeper malaise. It was just possible that he was homesick.

‘My dearest Troy’, he began again.

He stopped, looked at the page, crossed out the three words and took a clean sheet of paper.

‘Darling Troy’.

Shaking his head, he took up a third sheet of paper and tried once more.

‘My Troy’.

Again he faltered. ‘You utter dolt, Alleyn,’ he whispered to himself, conscious of the ward full of men mere feet away beyond the flimsy partition walls that formed the small private room he had been assigned as the base for this operation.

‘Troy is far from being a fool,’ he went on, ‘she knows very well there is a great deal to do with your work that you cannot say to her and even more that you struggle to say in person, let alone on paper. And God knows when this letter will get to her. Just write the words, you blasted idiot.’

He could not. Whether it was the incessant rain drowning all possibility of contemplation, or the sense of several dozen men beyond the thin walls, few of them sleeping, all with their own worries, all missing their own loved ones, Alleyn knew himself defeated.

He stepped away from the small table that served as a desk, stretching as he did so. He reached for his pipe and lit it, holding the match for a moment in his long, thin fingers. By the light of the match, and that thrown from the dimmed desk lamp, he saw himself reflected in the side window. A tall man stared back, a raised eyebrow rapidly followed by a frown. He rubbed his nose and sighed, cracking the window open a little further to shift the reflection and let in the scent of the drenched roses that were all about the hospital. The roses, at least, would be glad of the rain. Alleyn was glad of it himself, he’d been sleeping badly in the fierce heat of the past week, and it hadn’t helped that the secrecy of his task here at Mount Seager meant he had been cooped up in this private room almost the whole time since he had arrived under cover of darkness a week earlier, awaiting word from his superiors. The reason for his arrival at Mount Seager was known only to Alleyn himself, the Chair of the Hospital Board, an old and trusted friend of the most senior man in the New Zealand police force, and a single contact at the hospital. Matron appeared to have bought the story that Alleyn was the Chair’s English cousin, a writer collecting traditional tales in the Antipodes, cut off from home by the war and struck down by the kind of nervous distress known only to the most modern of artists and then only those with a private income. The tale was given out that he needed rest and quiet, and so rest and quiet—or as much as the men of Military 1 would allow—had been prescribed. He had been in place for the past week, listening through the partition walls, noting movement beyond this side window and the smaller one that opened onto the porch with a good view of the yard beyond, and studying the notes and observations passed on by his contact. As yet, there had been no development worth reporting to his superiors and nothing at all to write to Troy.

Alleyn looked at the travel alarm clock on his table, it was almost a quarter past ten. The grumbling and subdued guffaws of the men next door would abate soon. He sat down at the table, took up a clean sheet of paper and tried again.

My dear Fox,

As will be abundantly clear to you, my perspicacious friend, I am now well and truly arrived in New Zealand. You know I began my work in Auckland, welcomed rather fulsomely by the estimable local police force of that fair city. You will understand when I say I am grateful to have been spared their enthusiasm any longer. I was diverted almost at once from my appointed city and, that matter dealt with—a longer tale, for another time—I have been sent on dispatches to an altogether different part of this astonishing land. Of course I am not able to indicate precisely where, suffice it to say that were I allowed to have a good look around I should come back to you with tales of glorious scenery and majestic landscapes. There is, understandably, a growing unease to do with matters offshore. For those of us at home in London it has, I confess, been a little too easy to assume these lands at the end of the earth are safe from the ravages of war, but while their cities remain unharmed, their people are a different matter. A great many sons have left for King and Country, and too many have not returned. Those who have returned have often done so in very different health from that with which they left. There is a mix of concern for ‘Home’ as many of them still call it, an understandable concern for their own young men, coupled with a palpable worry that Japan is edging closer by the day. I must say, I fear they are right and it turns out my superiors in this endeavour hold the same view, with good cause. It is to be hoped that Troy is as accommodating as our own dear Scotland Yard. In addition to the personal trials of being so long from home, I admit to finding the idea of yet another summer Christmas quite absurd, however extraordinary the surrounding scenery. I fear I shall never accustom myself to the idea of good old St Nick in cricket whites. The time, Brer Fox, is quite out of joint.

I shan’t go into the details of my current abode, other than to say that my legendary skills have detected not one but two affairs of the heart that are, true to form, failing to run smooth. I have also noted an understandable if tiresome degree of complaint from the stout fellows confined to the ward rather than barracks. The Matron here has a very modern approach to their convalescence, giving them ample opportunity, once they are well enough, to roam the grounds, play card and board games, read from well-stocked shelves. She maintains that distracting them from their injuries and illness will afford them far faster recuperation than the more usual enforced rest. She may well be right, they are very young after all, and young heads can be easily swayed when difficulty hits. Many of these chaps are the good sort who signed up right away, gung-ho and ready to take on the worst that Hitler could throw at them, the youngest among them have had to grow up awfully fast. No doubt they’ve seen sights akin to those that you and I cannot forget. The bonds forged between unlikely mates are as 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 of death in the past two years and even an old man dying of natural causes disturbed him. He tried to calm his breathing, clenched his fists to still his shaking hands, but it was no good, the sight of the dead man took him back to the heat of battle, the stench of war, the bloody and broken young men calling for his help. These were the cries that infested his dreams, interspersed with the awful silence of death, the silence that now woke him whenever he tried to sleep. Dr Hughes became almost faint, quite dizzy and turning into the room, he grasped the foot-rails of the bed to steady himself. He forced himself to open his eyes. Here he was, in the old man’s room. There was the corpse. Yes, the man was dead, but he was old, nothing dreadful had happened to him, his was not a life cut off in its prime.

Brought back to the room, he looked about himself and took in the peeling paint at the window, a bucket catching heavy drips of rain. He knew the New Zealanders were finding it hard, sending off so many healthy young men to fight had a real effect on the home front. Early in his tenure he’d innocently remarked on the distance from the theatre of war and Matron’s response had been swift.

‘We’ve all we need here in New Zealand to look after ourselves and we’re grateful for it, but we’re feeling the pinch as our lads go off and we send the best of us away. We felt it in the first war too. There’s only so long anyone can give and give before they break.’

Dr Hughes understood that an entire generation of men missing after the first war, the loss of strong young men now, had taken its toll on the nation’s spirit as well as its economy. He’d had money worries of his own and understood how debilitating it could be to scrimp and save. His family were very ordinary and his whole way through medical school he had been on scholarships and bursaries. Even so, his money worries were as nothing to the nightmares he now dealt with on a regular basis. He’d taken on the night shift in order to try to avoid the dreams, but they felt even more brutal when they arrived in the light of day and the one person he had confided in had been most frightened of his fears. When Luke tried to explain to Sarah why he was afraid to sleep, fearful of what might come, he saw worry and perhaps even shock in her eyes as he talked of the walking wounded in his dreams, mumbled in garbled language about his fear. The words she eventually spoke were intended to be comforting and she had tried to understand, but he was sure he had said too much. He was worried that she now thought him a coward and, in response, he had closed himself off from her. Luke knew she must be confused and upset by the way he had been avoiding her. Sarah was a lovely girl and she deserved someone better than him, he would have to tell her that. He groaned inwardly, he knew only too well that some lives could seem hopeful on the outside and yet inside it was all turmoil and upset. Take young Sydney Brown for example. All of twenty-one, about to inherit his grandfather’s farm, lock, stock and barrel, and seemingly no happier about it than had the entire estate gone to a stranger.

‘Thing is, I don’t flamin’ well want to be a farmer, that’s the cow of it,’ Sydney had said, whispering across the old man when Luke came in to check on Mr Brown, ‘I want to be an engineer, I want to make things happen. I never wanted the farm at all. I can’t stand being stuck out here in the sticks. I’ll sell it quick as I can and be off.’

Luke’s reveries on the uncertainties of fate were cut off by the welcome arrival of Will Kelly, the night porter. Kelly was famed at the Bridge Hotel for his ability to drink gallons of lemonade shandy, his drink of choice, with no obvious effect, yet a single tot of whiskey, rum, or brandy—Kelly wasn’t a fussy man—would have him drunk as a lord and twice as foolish in no time at all.

‘Ah, it’s himself, is it? The young doctor, and good evening to you too.’

Kelly clattered into the private room and halted his forward trajectory by the noisy but effective method of clanging his ancient trolley into the hospital bed. He set to work right away, rolling the covers back from old Mr Brown and readying his trolley and body bag to house the deceased.

As he worked he sang quietly, ‘Full fathom five thy father lies, of his bones are coral made—’

Kelly broke off to look at Luke’s aghast face, ‘Don’t you worry at all. Not your fault, this old fellow. Time’s the culprit here, nothing you could’ve done to save this one, don’t go blaming yourself.’

‘I know that, of course I know it was his time. It was his grandson, he wanted to see Sydney,’ the doctor protested. ‘We all thought he was holding on for the young man.’

‘Well, that’s the way with the dying, hang on when you expect them to go, pop their clogs when they’re meant to hang on. Never can tell. Tricky ones, the dying are. The lad was lucky to be here when he went, more often than not the family hang around for hours or days, waiting for the final words, the last breath, then the minute they nip out for a cup of tea, there you go, he shuffles off his mortal coil. I reckon they prefer to be alone when they go. He was a lucky young fellow all right. Come on then, old boy, let’s be having you,’ Kelly said as he manhandled the corpse into the body bag.

Luke frowned and took a few steps backwards, eager to get away from the sight of Kelly rolling the corpse into the canvas bag.

‘I have to go, there are forms, Matron has the papers ready and I need to sign them.’

‘Death and taxes, always the way. You hurry along to the office, they’ll have the paperwork ready and want it signing, always want a name to a death, that they do and yours is as good as any other once you’ve your fancy letters after it.’

With that Will Kelly finally finished struggling with old Mr Brown, fastened the bag, rolled the bagged body onto the trolley and pushed off and out of the room. Luke heard him as he headed along the yard towards the morgue, hidden away at the far end of the row of wards, singing through the rain.

‘Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change, Into something rich and strange.’

Luke had to admit that Kelly had a fine baritone, and an apposite choice in his Shakespeare. He turned out the overhead light as he left the room, remarking how especially empty it felt with the dead man removed, as if death really did have a presence of its own. The doctor took a deep breath and forced himself to pay attention to where he was. He was no longer in a field hospital, he was no longer surrounded by heat and dirt and flies. He was here, at Mount Seager and as the ghastly images receded from his mind, he looked across to the Transport Office. The dimmed light was on. Very well. He would sign the paperwork for old Mr Brown and then he would go to Sarah and speak to her. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and walked across the yard.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mr Glossop, uncomfortable on his cot in the anteroom, finally decided he’d had enough. He should have been at home by now in his cosy little cottage, drumming rain outside, his apple trees and the big walnut getting a welcome soaking, a fine night’s sleep ahead knowing his work was done and done well. Not tonight. There was something not right, he was sure. It wasn’t just the rain, nor was it the heat, heavy despite the sheets of water dropping from above. He needed to be sure the money was secure and he’d move this darn cot down to sleep alongside the safe if he had to. No one would say Jonty Glossop was not a conscientious man. He’d just missed the last war, too young by a year, and while he was not officially too old this time round, they’d sent him home when he offered to take up his papers and serve, told him he needed to get into shape, get fit. The nerve of it, in his prime and told he wasn’t forces material. It rankled even now, but he wasn’t one to bear a grudge, not Jonty. He found a valuable job, stuck with it, and proved he could do it well, even with all the trouble from the van, the fuss every week to get the rounds done on time, always some hold-up at one of the destinations, you’d think they didn’t want paying, some of them. Well, he’d make sure they got paid tomorrow and catch his death of cold for his pains no doubt.

Mr Glossop’s shirt was badly stained with sweat when he finally managed to get the cumbersome cot down to a manoeuvrable size. He made a half-hearted attempt to at least wipe off his face before he left the anteroom, she might be a stickler for propriety, but Matron was surely a lovely woman. She had a few years on him, but he liked that in a woman, always had, none of these flighty young things had any appeal, too clever by half and all too ready to come the madam. All right, he would arrive at Matron’s door bedraggled with rain, but if she happened to be in residence, he’d rather not be dripping sweat as well.

Standing on the steps to the Surgery, he looked along the yard. The rain was tearing down as expected, but other than the high wind driving the torrent down from the mountains, it was quieter outside than inside. Now that he was not directly beneath the corrugated iron roof the drumming rain seemed less insistent and the asphalt it fell upon sent up a damp heat and the cloying smell of warm, wet tar. He was about to step down and out of the shelter of the office door, when he saw a flash of white in the distance, up by Military 2. Glad he had turned out the lamp in the anteroom, he peered ahead. It was hard to judge in the dark and rain, but Glossop thought he could make out the large shape of a starched uniform, white veil blowing in the wind, scurrying up to Matron’s office. She stopped at the door, waited a moment and then scurried back out of the rain into Military 1. A lucky escape, he wouldn’t mind pleading his case to Matron, but he didn’t fancy having to persuade that mis-named harridan Comfort that she wasn’t the only one around here who took her work seriously. He had taken just a few steps into the yard when another blasted light shone out, from Civilian 3 this time, and he ducked back into the doorway of the anteroom. Peering out, he saw a figure, the vicar presumably, judging by the dark coat, heading straight for Matron’s office. There was a brief burst of light and then he was inside. Well then, Matron was definitely in situ. Perhaps she’d leave with the vicar, Mr Glossop thought, there would be formalities to be done if the old fellow had died. Not long afterwards, he saw another figure heading towards Matron’s office, up to the door and then, after a brief pause, away again. It must have been that fool of a porter, Matron was wise not to open the door to him. Glossop frowned, he could either spend the night in the anteroom or wait a little longer on the step and hope the coast cleared. He thought more clearly about the woman in question. Matron was an efficient woman, she wouldn’t be closeted in her office with the vicar for long, she had far too much to do. He now saw another figure heading into the yard from the ward, the young doctor no doubt. All this to-ing and fro-ing in the rain must surely point to the old man popping off, Mr Glossop reasoned. Rain dripping from his bulbous nose, Mr Glossop allowed himself a brief smile as the light fell once more from Matron’s door and the vicar stepped out, no doubt he and Matron were heading off again to deal with the old man. Just at that point there was a huge roll of thunder, a crack of lightning directly above the hospital, and Jonty Glossop—who would not have admitted this to a living soul, and hadn’t even admitted to himself that his fear of thunder and lightning was one of the reasons he was not happy sleeping alone in the anteroom—turned back into the Surgery, put his hands over his ears and screwed up his face with his eyes shut tight. He opened them only after there had been another long rumble of thunder and the lightning had flamed all around, brilliant light shining through his closed eyelids. When he looked along the yard there was no one in sight. The Matron must have made her way back to Civilian 3 with the vicar and presumably the doctor, paperwork for the old bloke, death had its own offices. Good, it would give him time to set himself up in front of the safe, maybe he’d even play possum and pretend he was sleeping when Matron came back in. She could hardly send him back to that awful anteroom, all the way through the rain, once he was soundo, now could she?

Head down, the rain slicking his greasy curls against his deeply lined forehead, Glossop made his way along the darkened yard. Arriving at the door to Matron’s office, he knocked politely. It was possible they had tried to step out when his back was turned or when his eyes were closed, and thinking better of it had gone back inside. He wouldn’t want Matron to find him lacking in manners. He knocked again and, satisfied there was no one in the office, he tried the handle and was immensely gratified when the unlocked door admitted entrance. Mr Glossop gave a curious shake of his shoulders, with his enormous belly and his wet curls, he looked for all the world like a drenched bulldog who had somehow acquired the coat of a poodle. Then he launched his bulk and the unwieldy cot into the office, closing the door behind him.

He smiled, talking to himself as he often did on the long drives across the plains between his payroll drops, ‘Right then, Jonty Glossop, let’s get to work. You get this cot up and give her your best Sleeping Beauty impression when she gets back. By the time she’s done with the old man and the vicar and that daft-as-a-brush porter, not to mention the drippy Pommie doctor, she might even wake you with a peck on the cheek, glad to see someone with half a grain of sense in her office.’

Glossop was still struggling to put the cot back together when, in a brief lull in the rain, he heard a woman’s voice. He stood stock still, terrified it was Matron returning before he had made up his bed. The voice didn’t sound like hers though, it was lighter, younger, and definitely more agitated than he would expect from that august lady. Glossop would not have called himself an eavesdropper, but it was an acknowledged fact that he preferred the company of the ladies to that of his fellow men. It was one of the reasons he had been glad to take on the payroll deliveries, volunteering to be drop-off man when the younger, fitter chaps who might have been a more obvious choice went off to do their bit. Apparently the government that considered him not fit for active service didn’t mind him taking the risk of actual highway robbery. His colleagues in accounts thought him both brave and a little foolhardy to give up the cushy nine-to-five and a desk of his own, but none of them had worked out that the payroll drop took him to four hospitals, three schools and the two factories on hush-hush war work. At all but one of these establishments there was either a young lady with a good head for figures—as if that was the most interesting thing about her—or an older lady with a willing ear for his traveller’s tales. If Glossop could persuade one of them to pour him a cup of tea after a long drive, then he’d not say no to a fresh girdle scone and a chat into the bargain, before he pushed off again on his lonely route. Despite his eagerness to lie down, Glossop couldn’t help leaning closer to the thin weatherboard wall to listen to the woman’s voice. It was hard to make out exact words, what with the wind and rain, but the young lady was clearly upset, her voice raised. He strained to hear what was said and to whom, but the wind in the middle of the yard whipped up and span around the office, so much that he was unsure if the voices were coming from the Transport Office on the far side of Matron’s or the Records Office he’d passed in his run and stumble along the yard. He caught a clipped tone to the ends of her sentences that made her sound as if she were one of those girls who’d been off to London or Paris and come home to New Zealand determined that everyone should know she had travelled, she was not just another country girl looking for a quarter-acre paradise and nothing more. Those girls he could do without. Glossop was attaching the last leg of the cot and he nodded to himself, he might be lonely sometimes, but loneliness had its compensations.

Whether it was contemplating the compensations of his life, or the lateness of the hour, just past eleven o’clock and he was an early to bed, early to rise man, even on summer nights, Glossop’s fat fingers took on a sudden dexterity and with a snap, click, clunk, the cot was whole. Finally he lay down along the length of old canvas, the damp would not deter him now. Mr Glossop gave in to gravity and the fabric beneath him strained, shuddered, but held. The arguing voices were stilled, even the rain seemed to be lessening a little, or perhaps he was simply so used to it now that he didn’t notice, and he felt himself relax for the first time since that damned flat tyre this afternoon. He knew he might be in the bad books when Matron returned, but with any luck she and the vicar would be some time yet. He could rest here, perfectly stationed between the door and the safe. All he needed was forty winks and he’d be right as rain. Glossop chuckled to himself at the absurd term given the weather and the fact that Matron’s tin bucket was catching fat drips not two feet from his nose. He reached out his hand to the safe, giving it a solid pat to reassure himself that he was the close guard this moment needed. Disconcertingly, the safe rocked a little beneath his hand. He lifted and dropped his hand again, and again the safe rocked. Glossop opened his eyes, the cot groaned as he raised himself up on his elbows, and he stared at the safe. This time he slapped his meaty palm on the side of the heavy iron frame. As if affirming his worst fears, he heard a gentle click and the safe door swung open. It was empty. Horribly, obviously, empty. Glossop was suddenly very hot and at the same time, utterly chilled. He let out a strangled yelp that turned into a full-throated roar, rolling off the cot and up onto his knees he crawled his way to the office door. He wrenched the door back on its hinges, crying out into the rain and the wind in the yard beyond.

‘Thief! Robbers! Safe. Thief. Help! Thief. No!’

It was a few moments before the lights in both Military 1 and 2 came on, the civilian wards took a little longer, the door to the Transport Office was flung open and Sarah Warne rushed out, quickly followed by Dr Hughes. On the other side of Matron’s office the Records Office door was opened and Rosamund Farquharson stood back, careful not to let the rain ruin her new dress or her beautifully set curls, careful too to ensure that no one noticed Maurice Sanders slip past her to join his fellows from the ward as they came rushing out to stare in bemused amazement at the round, red-faced man bawling highway robbery into the tempest from his place on his knees in Matron’s office doorway.

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