Patsy was trying to understand how an Australian doctor and his wife could solve a murder when Lucien asked, "Whisky?" holding up a hip flask and a bouquet of water glasses in his large hand.
"I'll have a nip if it's the good stuff," Mattie said, plopping down on the bed beside Jean.
Draping her arm around Mattie's shoulders, Jean held her close. "It's so wonderful to be with you again," she murmured happily while Lucien passed around glasses.
Watching their obvious bond, Patsy felt a sharp pang and remained by the door, her back against the wall. She gulped down her drink.
Lucien filled her glass again. "Mattie hasn't told us much beyond you need our help with this murder," he said carefully. "But I gather that you know more than you told the police?"
Patsy sank into a nearby straight-backed chair, feeling as though she were seated for an interrogation. Turning the glass in her hands, she focused on the amber liquid sloshing inside it. She could sense him standing over her, but unlike many other men, she didn't feel impatience and dominance radiating from him. There was a comfort in his steady presence.
Finally she said, "I know her. I mean, I knew her."
Jean rose quietly and retrieved a notepad and pencil from her handbag before rejoining Mattie on the bed.
"Her name is Teresa Smith. Or it was," Patsy corrected yet again. "I don't know what name she used now." She took a quick sip of whisky, even though her throat was already burning. "I was in a prisoner of war camp. In Malaya after Singapore fell—"
Lucien stopped her with a raised hand. "Was your father Henry Mount? Your mother Diana?"
"Yes," she stuttered.
"I was stationed there before the war with the army. I'd see your parents at parties occasionally—he was in shipping, right?"
She nodded, feeling oddly vulnerable, as if the new life she'd built for herself was being pushed aside like a thick curtain to reveal the fragments of her old world; there was so much she didn't want to think about and yet she must. Staring up at Lucien, she tried to place his face—had he had a beard then? Her mind recalled vague features, but was it what she'd really seen, or a need to touch that gossamer past, before the deprivation of the camp?
"So there was your mother and you...and there was another little girl? My daughter attended a birthday party at your house once."
Her chin barely tipped; head was too heavy to move.
"Your father was in my camp, although we didn't cross paths much," Lucien said, and he was looking at Mattie speculatively. "I think I treated him for cholera once or twice." She returned his gaze with all innocence. "Mrs Smith was in your camp?"
"Yes, but I didn't know her before. Mum would have known her from Father's work. Her husband was just some clerk in the office," Patsy said, unconsciously dismissive.
"And something happened in the camp?" Jean asked, speaking for the first time. She was looking at her husband as she asked the question.
"Mrs Smith was a collaborator," Patsy said bluntly. "She passed along information on other prisoners, and she had sex with the Japanese officers to get special treatment for her and her daughter." She finally looked up, her eyes flaming with fury despite the passage of time. "When Susan died despite that, I didn't care at all."
"Yes," Lucien said simply. He cut through the tension in the room. "When did you next see her? After the war."
"Wednesday before last. I don't know where she came from, or why. I was leaving a home delivery in the afternoon, and there she was on the kerb."
"Was she dressed as a nun then?"
"No, at least I don't think so. Just a normal tweed coat, I assume over a dress. Black stockings. Low heels." Patsy shrugged.
"Did you speak?"
"I asked what she was doing here, and she gave some non answer. I told her to stay away from me."
Lucien cocked his head. "Did she know who you were?"
"I'm the image of my mother." She couldn't look at Mattie and Jean and see their pity.
"Next you saw her the night she died?"
"Yes."
Lucien watched Patsy beginning to lie. This was always the fascinating moment in interviews and why he first asked questions for which he'd receive truthful answers. He could easily see the shift from honesty to duplicity.
"I ran into her again that night—the night she was killed—and she was in the nun's habit. I assumed she was up to her old tricks. I told her to get out of Poplar and stay away. She said that she would and I left her."
"What time was that?"
There it was, the rapid blink that said a lie was close. "Going on six."
Lucien wondered was the lie what was said or what was unspoken? Jean made rapid notes, the scratching of pencil lead loud in the tense room.
"I didn't come back straight away. I didn't trust her. I wanted to follow her and see where she lived; be able to be sure that she'd leave. I was waiting across the street, and when she came out, I went after her, but lost her in the fog. Then her body was discovered back in that side street in the morning."
"Why not go to the police?" asked Jean.
Patsy had a quick answer, too pat for Lucien. "I had been angry with her. We'd quarrelled. I knew it wouldn't look good and I don't like to talk about the past. I have no idea why someone would murder her now."
Relieved at finishing, Patsy swallowed the last of her whisky. She was a lovely girl, Lucien thought dispassionately. Much like Mattie, but more vivid, her makeup brighter, her hair a shocking shade of red, her legs much longer. But it all appeared a shell to him, something impenetrable and polished to a bright sheen, meant to keep others out.
"You'd have nothing to worry about," he said quietly, "that's not much of a motive."
"I feel she's responsible for women and children dying. She received food and medicine by collaborating. She could have shared, and she didn't." Patsy's voice was as flat as if reading out of the phone book.
Lucien leaned against the wall and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea who would want her dead?"
"As I said, I had no idea she was in England, let alone in Poplar. I don't know if her husband survived—I couldn't tell you what he looked like. He was just another clerk in my father's large office."
"Can she go to the police now? Nurse Franklin said the Scotland Yard detective is coming tomorrow to take over the case," Jean reminded them. "Patsy could simply say that she didn't recognise her when she first saw the photograph. No one looks their best dead," she pointed out practically. "And you were a child when you last saw her."
"I'd never forget her face," Patsy growled.
Jean tugged down her dressing gown over her legs and murmured, "I wouldn't mention that then."
"Trixie also said the local police are sympathetic to Nonnatus House?" Mattie said.
"You've met Peter," Patsy told Mattie. She explained to the Blakes, "Sergeant Noakes is married to a former Poplar midwife. He's even lived with us now and then. He's well-known and liked. But he's only a uniform sergeant. This will be a Detective Inspector."
Mattie wasn't deterred. "So perhaps you could offer your services, Lucien. Explain that you're a police surgeon in Australia."
Patsy was interested in this information. Mattie had only told her that she'd asked friends to help, and that they had experience solving murders. She'd assumed that meant they were private detectives.
Lucien laughed. "I very much doubt Scotland Yard would accept the assistance of a small town police surgeon from the colonies."
Jean didn't appear to have heard this. She checked her notepad. "Right. So we need to determine if this Noakes fellow can be trusted to take into our confidence. If we reveal our background, he may actually give us less information than if we continue in our curious tourist performance."
Mattie gave her a quick hug. "You were very good tonight. Up there with your Elvira in Blithe Spirit."
Jean elbowed her with an affectionate nudge, and Lucien noted Patsy's brief pained expression. He returned to the matter at hand. "We should try to find this Mr Smith—do you happen to remember his Christian name, Patsy?"
"I'm afraid not."
"We'll have to see if Teresa was using her real name, and from there, perhaps find the husband if he survived."
Jean made the note. "And where did she get a habit?"
"That I do know," Patsy said. "With the discovery of the body, the case of the missing laundry from the back garden washing-line was solved. Peter, that is Sergeant Noakes, checked first with Sacred Heart, the nearest Catholic church, because he knew she wasn't a member of this order. They couldn't identify her, but did tell him that their nuns had had missing laundry as well."
"Duly noted," said Jean efficiently, scribbling this down. "Gossip must be flying down in the markets," she added, "I'll go shopping tomorrow, and see what I can gather."
"I'll chat up patients tomorrow as well. Surely someone has heard or seen something," said Lucien.
This wasn't how detectives in the cinema solved crimes, but Patsy had no other option. She stood, wavering a bit, more from the resurfacing emotions than the alcohol. "Thank you, but I suppose that I should get to bed. District rounds start bright and early."
It was Jean who came to Patsy, took her hands and gave them a squeeze. "It'll be alright," she said. Patsy turned away from her concern.
"Let's sneak back to our rooms," said Mattie, following her through the door.
In the corridor, they waited until their eyes adjusted to the dimness. Mattie repeated her friend's assurance. "It'll turn out fine, Patsy."
"I'm so close to having everything I want," Patsy muttered. "Delia is to move in soon. I love my work here—"
Mattie put her arm around Patsy's shoulders for a hug.
"You're not going to tell them, are you? About Delia and me?"
"Of course not. If as you say, it has nothing to do with this case?" Mattie looked at her friend searchingly.
"No. But surely the police would tell Sister Julienne and she wouldn't let Delia come; have me removed from duty." Patsy's tone became near hysterical, alarming Mattie. This was so unlike her very controlled friend.
When Mattie and Patsy had first met, Mattie had thought the other redhead was great fun, a skilled nurse, but had recognised the guarded expression in her eyes, like shutters drawn closed the closer friends they became—it was Lucien's gaze. Eventually though, Mattie's quiet, patient manner and weeks of chats over coffee and biscuits late into the night had finally led to a discussion if those people attracted to the same sex could change.
"No, I don't believe so," Mattie had said, remembering Lucien's tutelage after the unsettling case with the man who killed a rival for his male lover. More weeks passed before Patsy had haltingly confessed of feelings that she'd always had, never knew a time when she didn't, and how she felt trapped by these attractions.
"Do you think treatment could change me?" she'd asked. "Would you be willing to—"
"No," Mattie had said again, "Love is the only treatment you need."
Though now Mattie saw that supporting Patsy to take this risk may lead to her exposure. Mattie whispered urgently, "Delia is your alibi for when Teresa died. You may have to ask her—"
"No," Patsy said sharply, a snake's hiss in the darkness.
They were at Mattie's box room door. "I have my own rounds tomorrow. Best get to sleep." She gave Patsy another quick hug. "Everything will seem better in the morning."
Tense, Patsy said, "If you say so," and hurried away to her own room.
Phyllis, who'd been slipping out to use the toilet, stood in her dark doorway and watched the young women part, curiosity and concern on her plain features.
Pulling her dressing gown close against the chill, Jean carefully reviewed her notes before putting the notebook in her handbag. "At first blush, Patsy seems such a strong young woman, but then to hear her story—there was something about her at the dinner table. I just couldn't put my finger on it at the time. Now her tension makes sense."
"Yes," Lucien said shortly, removing his gown and tossing it over the footboard.
"You don't trust her?"
"I trust Mattie. But she has to know that we'll find the killer, and if it's Patsy, we're not going to just walk away. I hope Patsy is worth her trust."
He decided not to tell her about his prickle of concern. Mattie had always been one to dive into a case, particularly if a friend was involved. She'd been remarkably silent while he'd interviewed Patsy.
He turned down the covers on the two single beds that were pushed together to make a marital bed for the visitors. He frowned at the arrangement; each bed had a single cover tucked in between the mattresses, thus they'd not be able to snuggle together in the middle as had become their way. Not exactly the honeymoon suite at the Savoy it would seem. Then he noticed the crucifix over the bed and grimaced. There'd been an uncertain moment when Sister Julienne had led the prayer over dinner and he'd actually thought that Jean wasn't going to bow her head. She did, but he'd felt tension coming off her. This wouldn't help the situation.
Jean dropped her dressing gown from her shoulders. She draped it beside his and stood shivering. It was so damp and cold in this country. She was glad for packing her more practical satin pyjamas under all the frivolous night dresses meant only to be worn long enough to entice her groom into removing them. This set offered slightly more warmth, and would do for scampering across the corridor to the toilet.
Lucien saw that Jean had on her silk pyjamas, not one of her lovely chiffon nighties, a parade of pastel clouds which had pleased him greatly. Was she warning him off? He was unsure for the first time since before their wedding day. Pushing this away, he returned to the situation at hand: "At the least, I'd say she's keeping quite a bit to herself. It's going to make this case difficult. We're not on our home patch, after all."
"We'll be fresh eyes," Jean said. She burrowed under the eiderdown, grateful for the warmth. Lucien slid into his side, shivering as well. Unable to snug against him with the covers tucked, she lay her hand on his shoulder. "Yes, we will have to trust Mattie's instinct. She's not failed us before."
It had been so wonderful to see Mattie again, after she was unable to attend their wedding. Almost as much as Jean's sons not being present, the empty chair where she should have been was painful. Ignoring the disapproving stares of the very proper guests in the Savoy tearoom, Lucien and Jean had enveloped Mattie in hugs, tears streaming. After catching up on the news from Ballarat, she'd explained that she was no longer seconded to St Bart's but was assigned to an East End district, Poplar, where she performed social work among the poor.
"Is this what you really want to be doing?" Jean had asked, her fingers still clasped with Mattie's.
"More than anything," Mattie had assured them. After a pause, she'd added, "But there's something you can help me with."
In her honeymoon glow, Jean had foolishly assumed it would be a boy so she was shocked when Mattie said, "There's been a murder, you see."
She'd told them a nurse she'd worked with at The London may become a suspect in the crime. "I told her that I know just the people to help," Mattie said with confidence. "If you find the real killer, she won't be in any danger." Dipping her head so they couldn't see her eyes, she sipped her tea.
Jean and Lucien had exchanged speculative looks over Mattie's bowed head. They were quite certain that the situation wasn't as simple as the young woman was making out, but knew they must help her. Just as they'd suspected, this was going to be a complicated situation.
Snapping off the light, Jean said, "We'd best get to sleep." She tried to scoot close but was thwarted by the barrier of tucked-in covers again, which left her straining to reach his cheek for a kiss. To her consternation, he didn't turn his face to return the kiss. He was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
"Goodnight," she murmured, tugging the covers under her chin against the cold. Usually, his greater weight would dip the mattress, and she could be pulled in like a moon to an orbit.
"Night," drifted from his side of the bed and it sounded very final.
They'd made love every day since their wedding. In the first few furious days, this hadn't shocked her. It had been so very long for her, and for him too, she'd been surprised to learn.
"You didn't have to...to not—" she'd said, her flushed face buried in his neck.
"Yes, I did," he'd promised, lips against her ear as though sharing a secret.
Away from Ballarat, on the ocean liner, all became like a dream really. No longer a housekeeper, she was Deborah Kerr in An Affair to Remember. Her dashing gentleman in evening dress, his gaze caressing her features through candlelight, his fingertips tracing the back of her hand over the dinner table..and then the parts she never saw happen on screen.
She had his complete focus. No patients, no cases, no old files to thumb through. Learning her body, her every response, where she was ticklish, what touch would make her gasp or whimper, became his duty as important as any oath he'd made in life.
It had become an undertow which pulled her deeper and deeper. When she thought that he couldn't find anything more to give her, he did. Even as she was sated, arousal rose again with just the stroke of his fingertips on her wrist as he took her hand—she'd never experienced anything like this before. The desire she remembered with Christopher had been short-lived, overcome by raising her sons and the farm's needs. In the last years, it became fleeting intimacy when Christopher would crawl atop her, muttering both promises and apologies in the same beer-soaked breath.
This was something completely different. But Lucien made love to her, but not with her, she came to realise with frustration. When she tried to turn the tables on him, shatter his control just once, he'd hold her hands away, firm but gentle, and his kisses drugged her back into submission. Within moments, she'd hear herself groan, "Oh bloody hell, what does it matter?" and he'd chuckle as a reply.
Lifted above him by the wave's curl for agonisingly delicious long minutes; her soul centred at that inner place that every thrust of his hips found, feeling the tension of his bunching chest muscles under her palms, the thud of his pulse where her fingertips grazed his heated skin...and she'd rock to and fro, finally sliding slowly down the face of the crest, pure, pure pleasure—the sun above...burning heat and great joy. There was no singular harsh jolt of completion, but ripples of ecstasy, rolling through her limbs like the currents carrying the ship.
Only when she'd settle to the mattress beside him would she remember her better intentions and chide, "Let me give you pleasure," but he'd just flash that blinding smile as he stroked the damp curls from her cheek.
"I'm so very happy, Jean. I don't need anything more."
Apparently he didn't need it tonight. The voyage was over; the ship had docked. Like Deborah and Cary, perhaps now they were parted on the pier. The apron would be tied at her waist and the stethoscope draped around his neck.
She glanced over at Lucien, feeling shy. His eyes were closed but she knew he wasn't asleep, and his distance only made her more uncertain. She rolled away, clutching the coverlet. Her hands clasped together under her chin. This building, with the familiar mix of musty parchment, incense, and furniture polish, smelled just like the church that had been her second home all her life, Sacred Heart. She hadn't said her evening prayers since the night before her wedding. Perhaps it was time to fall back into that old habit too. The honeymoon had been a dream come true, but it was time to put that in a box...right? The sin of gluttony—desire, overwhelmed all common sense. Yes, order must be restored to their lives. Perhaps she should seek out Poplar's Sacred Heart and confess— Then she remembered that she couldn't do that, and her grip tightened on the covers.
Lucien peered over her shoulder and saw her lips moving in prayer. That was new...or rather, something that she hadn't done in front of him yet. Had she wanted to do it all along but felt too uncomfortable? He shifted as far away as he could on the narrow mattress to give her some privacy. Four weeks of her legs twined with his, her arm flung low across his belly, her gentle snores against his collarbone, her curls tangled in his beard...he hadn't slept so deeply for years. Of course, the vigorous exercise beforehand surely had something to do with that.
Not tonight. He turned carefully on his side, his back to her. For the first time since their wedding night, he dreaded sleep. What if he suffered terrors? He'd been lying there, fighting back this thought but now there was no escaping it. His temptation to reach for Jean—had he been using her all this time to bring on exhaustion? To lose himself in her taste, her scent, her eager response? He couldn't use her again. He had a job. That would do. His mind jittered to Patsy Mount, her lies, her problem.
Jean had said that Patsy didn't look like a camp survivor. Were they marked? Could anyone tell? When he looked in the mirror, he still couldn't see his broad shoulders and barrel chest, the spread of his middle. He only saw the bones protruding, a rack for the few scraps of cloth that he dared to consider garments, his ashen cheeks where hardly any beard would grow, and those eyes. Damn those eyes.
He pulled in a shaking breath. Breathe. Think. Focus. He glanced over his shoulder at Jean again, but there was just the outline of her hunched back under the thick covers. He dared to whisper, "Jean?"
Her reply was quick: "Yes, Lucien?"
"I'll need to get a look at that body first thing," he told her.
Her eyes snapped open. Yes, the honeymoon is over.
~ end chapter 2
