Vesta met Marlene outside the nurses’ quarters at the end of the afternoon. She’d first been introduced by a friend at a jazz club in London a couple of years before. Marlene was a student nurse then, on a weekend’s leave, and she had drunk so much that Vesta had organised a cab to take her home. The second time they’d met, Marlene hadn’t remembered anything about the first evening until Vesta had suddenly turned, and then seeing her in profile had brought it back.
‘Oh yes,’ she had said as if she was transfixed, pointing at Vesta as she worked it out. ‘I remember. You were the angel. The one who got me back safely.’
‘The angel?’
‘The black angel,’ she giggled. ‘I thought my time had come.’
Vesta took this in good humour and, in another dark cellar on another weekend, with Charlie and his friends playing in the background, the women had bonded over bathtub gin and stories of Marlene’s training, which took place at a hospital in East Grinstead. Over the course of this conversation, Vesta had been heartily glad she had chosen secretarial college rather than a medical career. Being a nurse sounded grim, though Marlene seemed satisfied. ‘I like feeling I can help,’ she admitted, her eyes wide and earnest. Vesta liked that feeling too – whether it was with insurance quotes or balancing the ledgers or, like today, trying to unravel a violent murder. Still, actually saving someone’s life must be different, she’d thought as she’d listened to Marlene that second night. On that occasion, it was Marlene who hailed a cab and sent Vesta home. Charlie ended up jamming with a recently arrived American saxophonist who couldn’t get over the time difference. Marlene said it was medically impossible – there was no reason he hadn’t been able to make the change between time zones.
‘He’s a chancer,’ she said. ‘He had ten days on that boat. He probably thinks it makes him more glamorous to keep his wristwatch on New York time. Shall we see if we can find you a ride home, then?’
‘You’re the angel. A proper one.’ Vesta poked her friend’s arm as they climbed the stairs into the chill London night, the air dense with smog and lamplight. The street was deserted and, till a cab came their way, the girls danced on the pavement to the fading beat of the packed basement. There was something childlike about Marlene and dancing with her reminded Vesta of playing on bombsites when she was younger – of days when a couple of bricks could make a shop counter.
Today, as Vesta approached, Marlene looked angelic – curled blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, set off by a royal-blue felt cap and a lick of pale-pink lipstick. Her cheeks were glowing in the spring breeze.
‘Come on,’ she said urgently, as she grabbed Vesta’s arm and hauled her away from the tall, brick nurses’ quarters.
‘What’s the rush?’
‘Sister,’ Marlene hissed, as if no further explanation was required.
Although in civvies, Marlene wore a blue woollen nurse’s cape, which she pulled around her frame. Her hair was pinned in a complicated series of twists that looked as if they must have taken hours.
‘Well, if Sister’s in there, why did you want to meet right outside the place?’ Vesta objected, staring over her shoulder.
Marlene shrugged as if Sister and all that went with her was inevitable. ‘She’s a harridan. She made one girl scrub the lavvies twice. You can’t get anything by her.’
‘It seems a lot of bother.’
‘Oh, I’m not saying Sister is wrong.’ Marlene sounded surprised. ‘Anyway, Brighton is much better than being at the Queen Vic. The patients were nice down there but it was difficult. Burns,’ she explained. ‘I much prefer working on the baby ward.’
‘Baby ward?’ Vesta repeated. She hadn’t known.
It was blowy and the wind followed the women down Elm Grove. There was a pub on the corner and Marlene pulled Vesta into the snug. A fire had been set and the place was ready for the evening ahead.
‘No nurses,’ the barman said, hardly bothering to look up.
Marlene took off her cape. ‘Do I look like a nurse?’
The man scratched his head and his mouth widened into an easy grin, which revealed that several of his front teeth were missing. ‘You do, miss. And we ain’t allowed to serve nurses.’
‘Oh, go on.’ Marlene nudged him over the bar. ‘It’s quiet and we’re desperate. I haven’t seen my chum in ages. Be a pal.’
Vesta drew a large white fiver from her purse to demonstrate it would be worth his while. ‘Two double gins and bitter lemon,’ she said, laying down the note. ‘And whatever you’re having.’
The barman shifted his head, tipping his chin at a pair of oak chairs next to the fire. ‘If I get into trouble . . .’
‘A big man like you? You can’t be afraid of Sister,’ Marlene teased him. ‘Go on. And take sixpence tip.’
It seemed settled. Marlene fell to her knees in front of the grate and lit the kindling with a match. She blew gently to get it started and sat back on her heels. ‘That’s better,’ she said.
‘Why aren’t you allowed in here anyway?’
‘Oh, they don’t want us picking up doctors. It’s ridiculous. There’s no doctors at this time of day.’
Vesta drew out a chair and sat down. Marlene’s world was increasingly mysterious. ‘So. What’s it like?’ she said. ‘I mean, on the baby ward.’
‘Oh, it’s lovely. Who doesn’t like babies?’ Marlene settled into a tapestry-lined bench opposite. Her eyes softened. She had the knack of making anywhere she landed feel like home. Vesta was not to be distracted.
‘I mean what’s it like for the mothers?’
‘They’re happy after.’ Marlene smiled. ‘It’s much more cheerful than the other place. Hardly any women die these days and the babies are sweet. The Royal is a good hospital. On nights, I see to the feeds, to let the mothers rest. They just stare at you, little things.’
Vesta felt slightly sick as the barman set down the drinks and a pile of change on the bartop. ‘I ain’t serving tables,’ he said.
Marlene got up and brought everything over. It seemed there was nothing she couldn’t just deal with. ‘Where did you get a fiver?’ she said.
‘I always keep one in my purse.’ Vesta sounded nonchalant, as if it wasn’t a fortune. She’d seen the effect a banknote could have – Mirabelle used them all the time. ‘My boss does it. Money can be handy, all right.’
‘Any more murders? Any cases solved?’
Vesta’s expression was serious. ‘Last autumn was the last one. The death looked like a suicide, but it wasn’t. He was my boss’s upstairs neighbour.’
Marlene’s eyes sparkled. ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘I suppose when you work in debt collection . . .’
‘You’d think that, but most of it isn’t that way. I mean, it’s sad, really. People get out of their depth. They owe rent and they just let it slide. Mostly it’s all ledgers. It’s only now and then . . .’
‘Cheers.’ Marlene brought the glass to her lips and sipped delicately.
Vesta sniffed. She didn’t feel like the drink now, but she picked it up to make a gesture and, as the rim neared her lips, she caught a whiff of what smelled like acid. It was as if she didn’t really know herself – she had become so terribly changeable. She put down the glass.
‘How’s Charlie?’ Marlene asked cheerily.
‘Oh, same old.’
‘Is he working today?’
‘Yes. And, actually, I’m working too. There is a new murder. A woman. And I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Really?’ Marlene sounded thrilled. ‘Perhaps we should have got some peanuts. If you’re on expenses.’
Vesta ignored this. Who in their right mind would want peanuts? The thought made her squirm – she couldn’t bear the grease. ‘I wondered about poisons,’ she said. ‘Something that would knock you out.’
‘An anaesthetic?’
‘Maybe. Or more of a tranquilliser. Slipped into a drink.’
‘Ah.’
‘I mean, if you popped in something and it took a while before it knocked you out. You’d make it to bed, say. But, when the drug kicked in, it would take you out of it so completely that someone could stab you and you wouldn’t struggle.’
‘Stab you?’
‘In the stomach. And you wouldn’t feel a thing. You wouldn’t wake up.’
Marlene eyed her glass as she considered carefully. ‘Well, I can get you something if you want. My friend, Harry, works in the pharmacy. He’ll probably want to be paid and I don’t know if you could trust him. I mean, if he saw something in the newspaper and made a connection . . .’
‘Jeez.’ Vesta sounded exasperated. ‘I don’t want to kill anyone. It’s a scenario, Marlene. For this case. I’m trying to figure out how they did it. The poor woman is already dead. That’s what happened to her.’
Marlene didn’t reply at first. She sipped her gin. ‘All right,’ she rallied. ‘Well, is there alcohol involved in this scenario of yours?’’
‘Gin.’
‘Well, that speeds things up. Alcohol makes most drugs work more quickly or more effectively – too effectively sometimes. It gets things to the bloodstream more quickly. Like when you take an aspirin with a cup of tea.’
‘Aspirin?’
‘You know. If you have a headache.’
‘Well, this drug would need to work quite slowly, I suppose. It must have made the person who’d taken it tired. It certainly sent them to bed before they passed out.’
Marlene nodded. ‘Righto,’ she said, considering the implications. ‘Low dosage, I guess. And if you were drinking gin and it made you woozy, you’d just think you were tipsy. Leave it with me. I’ll see what Harry says.’
Marlene had almost finished her drink, but Vesta had only managed a sip. The smell of lemon had entirely lost its allure. Suddenly, she found herself thinking about potato. Soft, fluffy potato. Mounds of it.
‘Are you all right?’
Vesta nodded. She hesitated. She hadn’t told anyone yet. No one but Mirabelle and she had guessed. ‘The thing is,’ she said, biting her lip, ‘that I might be coming to see you soon. In a professional capacity, I mean.’
Marlene looked blank. ‘I’ll ask him as soon as I can, don’t worry.’
‘Not that.’ She laid her hand on her stomach. It seemed an outrageous action and she blushed. Marlene’s eyes widened.
‘Oh, Vesta, that’s wonderful.’ She flung her arms around her friend. ‘You must be thrilled.’
Vesta was clearly not thrilled. ‘I’m more curious,’ she said. ‘And a little scared, if I’m honest.’
‘What on earth are you scared of?’
Vesta found she couldn’t say.
‘And Charlie – he’ll be a great dad. He’s so patient!’ Marlene sounded as excited as Vesta knew she ought to feel. Her eyes filled with tears.
‘Do you think so?’ She sniffed. ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’
Marlene regarded her friend. Charlie would be the perfect father. He knew right from wrong, but he’d teach his children that gently. More than that, he’d teach the kid to cook – that had to be a bonus. Vesta looked tortured. ‘You haven’t told him yet, have you?’ Marlene understood suddenly.
Vesta shook her head.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It just seems overwhelming. Having a baby. Being a mother. I don’t know if it’s for me.’
‘Well, it’s a bit late for that,’ Marlene said. ‘Oh, Vesta, it will be marvellous. There’s no need to be afraid. Not of the birth. Not of anything. I’ll show you.’ The girl sprang to her feet and pulled the nurse’s cape around her shoulders with one hand while hauling Vesta to her feet. ‘Are you having that?’ Marlene asked, gesturing towards Vesta’s scarcely touched glass. Vesta shook her head and Marlene smiled, lifted the drink and drained it. ‘To the baby,’ she said.
As they marched back into the stiff breeze and made their way towards the hospital entrance, it came into Vesta’s mind that the Royal had been built as a workhouse. She wondered if it was haunted and how many paupers had brought their babies there, poor things. How many had died. She told herself off for being melodramatic, but she couldn’t help it. Marlene was oblivious. ‘It’s good it’s the afternoon. There’s visiting,’ she prattled.
Through the heavy double doors all trace of the workhouse was gone. The light through the long windows was opaque and there were notices on the walls about hygiene and keeping quiet. A man with a bunch of flowers overtook them, bursting through the doors and pushing past an old lady who was manoeuvring a tea trolley across the green linoleum.
‘New father,’ Marlene explained. ‘I bet you. Charlie will be the same.’
‘How long does it take?’ Vesta asked. ‘You know.’
In the warmth, Marlene slowed her pace to leisurely. She slipped her arm comfortingly through Vesta’s. ‘You haven’t a clue then? It varies. I mean, different women are different. A couple of hours maybe, if you’re lucky. Worst ways, a whole day and night. Maybe more. There’s no point in lying.’
‘And it’s painful?’
‘Always. Though you get a baby at the end of it – as a consolation prize. And there’s gas and air, which takes the edge off. We’ll look after you, Vesta. I’ll look after you. I promise.’
‘Do many women die?’
Marlene turned to face her friend. ‘You shouldn’t think like that. And the answer is no. Things have improved a lot and the midwives are marvellous. One or two people don’t make it, but most women are fine. Especially young healthy women like you.’
They turned on to the stairwell. ‘I think they put the maternity unit up here because of the view,’ Marlene said, with a smile. ‘There’s quite a bit of sitting around in bed, you see. And we do classes. Bathing baby. That kind of thing.’
Along a corridor, they passed a ward full of cots. The long wall was glazed as a viewing gallery, which afforded a panorama of tiny faces. Inside, three nurses in pristine uniforms fussed between the cots. At the window, an older woman, a grandmother it had to be assumed, stared at a child in a pink cardigan. She put a gloved hand up to the glass and just grinned. Inside, a different baby was picked up and taken out by a grey-haired nurse. Vesta’s expression asked the question.
‘She’s taking it to the mother, you dodo.’ Marlene rolled her eyes. ‘Didn’t you have babies in your house? I mean, when you were growing up? Don’t you know anything?’
Vesta thought. There had been her younger brother, but she’d hardly noticed him. Along the street, many of the women had had babies, but Vesta hadn’t shown an interest. She’d never got involved. ‘The thing is, with the Blitz, most kids were sent away,’ she said vaguely.
‘We went to Devon. It was fun. My brother had to help but I was too small. Where did you go?’ Marlene asked.
‘We didn’t go anywhere. We were black. I mean, people don’t want black kids. Mum thought it was best just to keep us. You know, in Bermondsey.’
‘Gosh. Were you bombed?’
‘The other side of Peek Freans’ was bombed. But we were fine.’
‘So there weren’t many babies then?’
‘No.’ Vesta knew that wasn’t entirely true. The thing was, she had always kept her distance from the business of motherhood. She knew perfectly well that having babies kept women at home. More than that, it kept them in Bermondsey and, from quite a young age, despite loving her parents, Vesta had wanted to leave. That was what she was afraid of now, she realised. That was the thing that was holding her back from telling Charlie. She was scared that she’d love the baby so much she’d end up stuck in the house. She was afraid that she wouldn’t matter any more. That she’d get fat and old, scrubbing the floors and washing nappies. Like all the other women. Like her mother. She felt tears well up. Her mother, after all, was an inspiration – wonderful, joyful Mrs Churchill. Everyone loved Ella. She’d worked all her life to look after her family and she’d loved every minute of it. But Vesta did not want to end up that way.
‘I just can’t see how to do it,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s the thing.’
Marlene withdrew a cotton handkerchief from her pocket. ‘Now, now,’ she said. ‘Nature does it, Vesta. Really.’
Vesta blew her nose. Nobody seemed to understand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go down.’
Their shoes echoed on the stairs and, at the bottom, she handed Marlene back the handkerchief. ‘You can leave the tranquilliser thing to me.’ Marlene smiled. ‘I’ll ring on the telephone. There’s a payphone in the nurses’ home, though I might have to pick my moment. Quite often they listen in case girls are planning to sneak out.’
Vesta gave her a hug. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
As they came out of the double doors, an ambulance had pulled up and a man was being taken out on a stretcher. Vesta halted, as her attention returned to the larger world. That was the other thing – the way this child, growing in her belly, seemed to drink all of her attention so she had nothing left for herself, or Charlie or any of the things in which she’d normally take an interest. It was controlling her appetite. Her taste. Her inclination to sleep. Now, coming on to the pavement, she blinked as she recognised the recumbent figure being unloaded. Yes, it was him, she thought, pushing her way towards an orderly who was hauling the stretcher on to a trolley.
‘Fred,’ Vesta called. The man on the stretcher looked up with some effort and wheezed as she approached. He was clearly unable to form a sentence. His chest heaved and he tried to lift his head but it seemed terribly heavy. He looked thinner than when Vesta had seen him only a few hours before and his skin was an alarming colour of grey. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘He fell over in the street,’ the orderly said. ‘It looks like bronchitis. Are you a relation?’
Vesta just stared at him. ‘No,’ she said flatly. Fred might have looked grey but he was nowhere near black.
‘Out of the way, please, miss.’
She ignored him. Instead, she clasped Fred’s hand over the thin blanket. ‘Can I get anyone for you, Fred? Your wife, maybe?’
Fred shook his head. His breath rattled and the words came out half formed. She leaned in. ‘Tell Mirabelle,’ he managed. ‘My son. Behind the picture. She’ll get it.’ He fell back on to the canvas, exhausted.
The orderly tutted. ‘Now, now. That’s enough. We need to get you on to the ward.’
Vesta felt helpless as the trolley was wheeled away. ‘Which ward do you think they’ll put him on?’
‘Twelve,’ said Marlene, sounding businesslike. ‘They can do a lot for bronchitis, but then . . . if it turns out TB . . . It’s on the other side of the building.’
Vesta felt her heart sink. ‘Mirabelle is out on a job,’ she said. ‘I can probably get hold of her later.’
‘I’ll drop in on the old guy, if you like. Was his name Fred, did you say?’
Vesta nodded. ‘He’s a friend of my boss. He has this place, where he sells things.’
‘A shop, you mean?’
‘Not exactly.’ Vesta felt ashamed. All these shady dealings and shady people. Usually, she found investigations glamorous, but today, somehow, it didn’t feel that way. The hospital was a place of life and death and no glamour about it. ‘I’ll come back to visit him over the weekend,’ she promised, clasping Marlene’s hand. As she turned away, she realised she wouldn’t mind seeing the baby room again. She hadn’t realised that newborns were so tiny. The image of a little dot in a blue cardigan over the nurse’s shoulder remained with her as she headed down the street.