We’re supposed to be two organisations devoted to the care of the sick and the professional needs of those who look after them. We prolong life. We do not take it.’
Penrose thought about Sach and Walters and others like them, and wondered where their crimes fitted into Miriam Sharpe’s view of her profession. ‘Miss Peters isn’t a nurse, though.’
‘That’s hardly a distinction allowed for by the headline “Killer arrested at the heart of nursing”. And you haven’t answered my question. Is she a suspect? I have a right to know how much disgrace Celia Bannerman has brought on us, if only to try to limit the damage.’
That antagonism was there again, and he was interested to see that she made no attempt to hide it. She was right, of course: the papers would go to town on a story like this. ‘I’m not ruling anything out at the moment,’ he said cautiously, ‘but I want to talk to Lucy Peters primarily because she was Marjorie’s friend and I hope she might give me an insight into aspects of her life which other people can’t. Nothing more than that at this stage.’ He paused, thinking back to the
She seemed surprised by his change of direction. ‘That’s correct. I did my probationary period there and stayed on afterwards, first as a staff nurse and eventually as matron.’
‘When was that?’
‘From 1896 until 1916, when the college was established. Why?’
‘Did you know Amelia Sach and Annie Walters?’
‘What can that possibly have to do with anything?’
He repeated the question, although the expression on her face had already given him his answer, and, when she said nothing, added: ‘Marjorie Baker’s father, who was also found dead last night, was Jacob Sach, Amelia’s husband. I believe that Marjorie’s death has something to do with the crimes and execution of those two women. Anything you can tell me about their history may help, no matter how irrelevant it seems.’
‘I knew
‘I’d heard as much, yes.’
‘They were both trained midwives—Sach was young and ambitious, I gather; Walters was very much of the old school, a time when nursing was not the caring profession which it is today. Some people may tell you that I belong to that school myself, Inspector, but they confuse discipline with hard-heartedness; one does not necessarily lead to the other.’ Penrose nodded; he had already seen enough of Miriam Sharpe’s style to know exactly what she meant, but he wondered where she was going with her story. ‘Walters was the product of an emotionless regime, one which trained women to be psychologically robust, particularly in their dealings with patients. I’m not excusing what she did later on; plenty of nurses were trained in that way, but very few of them, to my knowledge, went on to be killers. But that environment blended with her particular mentality to create devastating results. In the late 1890s, we had a number of stillbirths at St Thomas’s; that was not unusual in itself, but the number continued to escalate and the authorities were obliged to investigate. Walters was in attendance at many of these births, and it was thought that she may have been responsible.’
‘In what way?’
‘If a baby is suffocated at the point of delivery, before it has a chance to take its first breath, then the death will appear to all intents and purposes like a stillbirth. She was reported by one of her colleagues, but there was no proof and of course she denied it. She was dismissed, but no criminal charges were brought because of the lack of evidence. Gossip was rife amongst the nurses, as you can imagine, and there’s no question that Sach would have heard about it. She left shortly after-wards to have her own child, but I often wonder if it was that incident which sowed the seeds of the scheme which she developed later, and I feel to a certain extent responsible. You see, Inspector, I reported Annie Walters to my superior and began the chain of action against her. It’s a turning point, in hindsight, which disturbs me a great deal.’
‘You could hardly have kept quiet, though. Who knows how many more lives might have been lost? More, probably, than Sach and Walters took.’
‘Oh, I know, and I have no doubt that what I did was right. But the lesser of two evils is still evil, Inspector. You must see that all too often.’
He nodded, intrigued by a connection with the past which he had certainly not expected but unable to see how it aided his present concerns. ‘Indeed I do, Miss Sharpe, and thank you for being so frank. Now, I’d like to see Miss Peters’s room.’
‘I’ll get someone to show you where it is.’
‘Please don’t worry. I’ve got to go back to reception—I’ll ask there.’
There was no sign of Fallowfield in the foyer, so Penrose collected the key to Lucy’s room from the night porter and followed the directions he was given to the servants’ area on the third floor. The bedroom he wanted was just along the corridor from Josephine’s, but it lay at the back of the house and, without the enviable view across Cavendish Square, its modest size made it oppressive and gloomy—not a great deal different from Lucy’s Holloway accommodation, he thought wryly, looking at the narrow single bed and basic furniture.
There was no great sense of belonging in the room, and it did not take him long to establish that the wardrobe and bedside chest of drawers held nothing of any interest. There was nowhere else to look except the bed, and there he had more luck: underneath the blanket, tucked by the pillow so that it wasn’t obvious at a glance, he found the most valuable thing that Lucy Peters owned—a Box Brownie camera. He picked it up, surprised, and wondered if she’d come by it honestly or if it was another item missing from the club. Either way, it wouldn’t take long to find out if anything helpful was on it. He checked the rest of the bed, then felt under the pillows and drew out two picture postcards, one of a row of beach huts and some sand dunes, the other of a lighthouse. There was no writing on either one, so he guessed that Lucy had bought or been given them as a souvenir of a visit. He looked at the location names printed on the back, and found that they were pictures of the Suffolk coast—one from Walberswick, the other Southwold. It was the second time he had seen Walberswick mentioned in a matter of hours; the first had been on Ethel Stuke’s address card, and somehow he didn’t think that was a coincidence.
He slipped the postcards into his jacket pocket and picked up the camera. Just as he was about to leave, the door opened and he was surprised to see Celia Bannerman. At first, he thought she had been told that he wanted to see her, but the look of astonishment on her face soon told him that whatever had brought her to Lucy’s room, it wasn’t him. ‘I’m sorry to barge in on you, Inspector,’ she said, flustered, ‘but I didn’t expect to find anyone in Lucy’s room.’
‘Can I ask why you’re here?’
‘It sounds silly, I suppose, but I thought she might appreciate some familiar things near her when she comes round.’
Penrose glanced at the bare walls and surfaces. ‘She doesn’t strike me as the type to collect much,’ he said, a little sarcastically. ‘And my understanding is that she may not come round at all.’
She stared defiantly at him, having regained her usual composure. ‘It’s wise to stay positive, in my experience.’ She pointed at the camera in his hand, and he noticed that her hand and wrist were bandaged. ‘You’ve found that, I see. The owner will be pleased to have it back.’
‘In due course, Miss Bannerman. I need to hold on to it for now. It’s fortuitous that you’re here, though—I wanted to ask you a few questions about Lucy’s accident. Did you see what happened?’
‘No. I’d just left the drawing room and was coming down the corridor to the stairs when I heard Lucy’s screams. I ran to the staircase immediately, but she was already lying in the stairwell.’
She had the sense not to offer more information than was asked for, Penrose noticed. ‘And you assumed she’d fallen?’
‘I didn’t assume anything at first—I just went to help her. But afterwards, of course that’s what I thought. What other explanation could there be? Her shoelace was undone, and she’d obviously tripped over that on her way up the stairs or lost her balance through the weight of the pan. Lucy should never have been carrying something like that up the stairs on her own,’ she added, taking the words right out of Penrose’s mouth, ‘but the lift is out of order and I suppose she thought she had no choice.’
‘Did you touch the pan?’
‘I moved it when I went to help her. I blame myself for what’s happened, I’m afraid—I should have been more vigilant.’
