No Known Grave (16 page)

She got out of the chair awkwardly.

“I know what you’ve been getting at, but you’re wrong.”

“In what way?”

“Rudy loves me, and when the war is over we’re going to go back to his country and make a life for ourselves. I’m going to give the baby up for adoption when it’s born, but we can have more. Be better when I’m older anyway.”

Tyler had no response to that. He saw her to the door.

He returned to the desk. The case was like trying to put a puzzle together but with no idea what the picture on the box was – and the nagging feeling that several pieces had gone missing. He couldn’t connect anything to anything else.

There was a knock on the door. It was Sister Rebecca, holding an envelope.

“Inspector, I thought I’d better bring this to you right away. It was in the post bag and it’s addressed to you.”

“How strange. Let me see.”

She handed him the envelope. It was addressed inspector tyler, c/o st. Anne’s Hospital, LUDLOW
, SHROPSHIRE
. Across one corner was the word urgENT. What gave Tyler pause was the familiarity of the printing. Neat, tight block letters, black ink. He took the piece of paper he’d extricated from the pigeon’s leg band and compared the two. The writing was identical. Cautiously, he felt
the envelope, but he could detect no bulges or lumps. He sniffed at it. There was no unusual smell.

“There isn’t a postmark,” he said to the almoner, who was regarding him anxiously.

“I noticed that. Somebody from here must have personally dropped it into the hospital post bag.”

“When could they have done that?”

“Anytime in the last hour or so. We have a delivery once a day. With so many residents, the postman finds it easier just to deposit the sack inside the front door. What with everything going on, I didn’t have time to sort it until just now.”

Tyler slit open the envelope and removed the sheet of paper. This was typed, not handwritten like the envelope. He read it through.

“What is it, Inspector?” asked Sister Rebecca.

Tyler handed her the letter. “Have a read yourself.”

After the tenth line of executions the soldiers get a rest and a slug of schnapps for their nerves. The bodies remain where they have fallen, ten men in each line, seven more lines to come. The stench of blood, guts, and brains, all with a seasoning of cordite from the machine gun, is thick in the air. The soldiers have to move back from the carpet of bodies which is creeping slowly towards them.

The next group is led in from the barn. They are mostly silent, some from defiance, some from sheer shock. All of them in their working clothes, baggy pants, cotton shirts made by wives they will never see again.

There is a young boy who must have officially turned sixteen but whose body is still that of a child. He is small, blond, and tanned from being outdoors. He has put his hand in that of the man beside him, his father probably, but when they line up the captain yells at him to let go. It would have made no difference to the killing, but the captain is edgy, already half drunk. The boy wraps his arms around himself for comfort.

Mattresses have been leaned against the stone wall of the barn so the bullets won’t ricochet. All of them are now splashed and stained with blood. Around them apple trees would have been fragrant with blossoms, except no perfume can withstand the stench of death. One of the men in the new line is grey-haired and stooped. He leans on a stick. In spite of his slowness he is dignified, a man who will not give them the satisfaction of dying a coward’s death.

Earlier the captain has said that any soldier who didn’t want to continue could step down without reprisal, but no one really believes him. They know what punishment can be meted out to the disloyal. Astonishingly, in fact, three men put down their rifles. They are excused. What has become of them, these ones who refused? Do they now weep?

At a command from one of the guards, the new line of villagers take their places in front of the wall. The NCO has already walked around and shot each previous victim in the head to make sure. The old priest comes over to give the men a blessing and comfort them. Most accept his attentions, but the captain becomes impatient. Hurry up, let’s get on with this.

Does he know that he is now condemned for eternity? That they are all condemned?

Sister Rebecca put the sheet of paper down on the desk. Her hand was shaking.

“Inspector, what does it mean? Why has somebody sent you this?”

“I don’t know.”

Tyler held the sheet of paper up to the light. Nothing revealed itself. It was ordinary stationery.

“You said that anybody here at St. Anne’s could have dropped it into the post bag?”

“That’s right. The bag just stays in the foyer until I collect it. The delivery is usually about nine o’clock. Does the letter have to do with the murders?”

Tyler shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

The almoner sat down abruptly. “Do you think the letter is referring to a particular incident?”

“It could be,” said Tyler. “Regrettably, I suspect it could also be a compilation of several incidents. An account of helpless
victims being shot for some crime, not specified. The Nazis’ favourite weapon of fear. Reprisal.”

“Reprisal for what? Where?”

“The victims are referred to as villagers. It mentions schnapps, which suggests our Kraut friends. Could be anywhere in occupied Europe.”

“And what does it have to do with the killing of Jock McHattie and his young son?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe somebody is practising their school compositions.” He shoved back his chair angrily.

“May I have a closer look?” Sister Rebecca asked.

“Go ahead.”

She picked up the paper and studied it for a moment. “Inspector, forgive me if I sound like Sherlock Holmes, but I can tell you with some certainty that this letter was typed on one of the machines we have here at St. Anne’s.”

“Good Lord! Explain please, Sister,” exclaimed Tyler.

“We have three typewriters that are available for those of our residents who can use them. They’re not particularly new or well maintained. Sister Clarissa teaches a typewriting class and she complained to me just last week that the letter
w
on one of the machines was jamming all the time.” She tapped the paper. “You can see where that has happened.”

Tyler checked. She was right. “Anything else you can glean from the letter, Madame Holmes?”

“Only what you yourself would notice. The overall typing is even, with no errors or strikeovers. This suggests some expertise. The language is that of a well-educated person. The writer’s English usage is perfect.”

“Any such
literati
spring to mind?”

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps Nigel Melrose, but, frankly, it doesn’t sound like him. Not florid enough.”

“Do you know if he types?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Is there anybody at all in the hospital, staff or patient, male or female, who is a skilled typist?”

“Other than myself, Sister Clarissa is the only one I can think of. But it is not information that would necessarily be on their intake forms.”

“What do you make of the religious overtone? The words ‘condemned for eternity’?”

She gave a little shrug. “Christ taught us not to pass judgement on our fellows. What is described is, in my mind, utterly wicked and without reason, but it is only God who can save or damn, not we mortals.”

She appeared uncomfortable about this profession of her faith.
If it were up to him, he’d be tempted to line up the soldiers against the bloody wall just as they had done to the innocents
.

Tyler returned the letter to the envelope.

“Thank you, Sister. I’ll concentrate on the mechanics for now. I’d better have a talk with Sister Clarissa, your typing teacher.”

“I’ll fetch her.” She hesitated. “I have instructed the sisters to go ahead and celebrate evening prayers. Some of the residents regularly join us and will be expecting it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you.”

Tyler sat a moment longer. He was growing to like the almoner more and more. She reminded him of a teacher he’d had when he was a boy. Miss Harrison was probably younger back then than the almoner was now, but of course to him, she’d seemed ancient. She tended to be strict and rather staid. That is until one unforgettable morning when she announced to the class she was engaged to be married and would be leaving the school
at the end of term. Even to his young eyes, she looked different. Softer, happier. It wasn’t until years later that he identified what had changed in his teacher. She was in love.

Clare, when are you ever coming back to me?

27.

H
E WAS WRENCHED OUT OF THESE THOUGHTS BY THE
return of Sister Rebecca. An older nun was trailing close behind her.

“If you don’t need me to be here, I’ll go back to the common room until Sister Clarissa can take over again.”

“That’s quite all right, Sister. We won’t be long.”

Tyler smiled reassuringly at the other nun.

“Please have a seat, Sister. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your typing class.”

“Oh dear. Why is that?” Her voice was high and shrill.

“Er … let’s just say, I’ve received a rather peculiar letter today. Sister Rebecca is of the opinion that it was typed on one of the hospital’s machines. I’d like to find out who sent it to me.”

“Why do you say it’s peculiar? What’s in it?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose the contents at the moment, Sister. But I’d like to find the letter writer if I can. It is quite well typed. No mistakes or errors.”

He thought she looked relieved, but he wasn’t sure.

“Who in your class would you consider a really good typist?”

“None of them,” she said with a shrug. “They’re useless, to tell the truth. Either can’t see or can’t use their fingers properly.”

“Why are they taking a typing class in that case?”

“Gives them something to do. Mind you, we haven’t been going at it for long. Only two weeks. I’m hoping they’ll improve.”

“So there isn’t anyone among your students who you would call skilful?”

“Not a one. If it’s a good typist you’re looking for, you should speak to Shirley McHattie. She is quite accomplished. At least she is when she puts her mind to it. I asked her if she would help me mark the work, but she didn’t want to. Most distracted, that girl. But that’s not surprising, is it? Given the condition she’s in. Good thing for her Our Lord forgives all sins.”

Maybe the Lord was forgiving, but Tyler had the impression that was a virtue Sister Clarissa didn’t come by easily.

“Could I have the names of the patients who are in your class, Sister?”

“They’re all men at the moment. I’d like the women to come – a secretarial skill is more suitable for a woman – but none are up to it. So I have Graham Coates, Isaac Farber, and Sidney Hill. Daisy Stevens did start, but decided she’d rather do massage therapy.”

“Can anybody use the machines?”

“Oh, yes, but as far as I know, they are not in high demand. They were donated, for which we are grateful, but they’re really not very good. Some of the keys have a way of jamming.”

“The letter
w
, for instance?”

“Definitely that one for sure.”

“Have you noticed anybody else using the machines?”

“No. Not at all.”

She was watching him expectantly, but she didn’t offer any more information, and there didn’t seem anything further to ask.

Tyler stood up. “Thank you so much, Sister.”

She, too, got to her feet, but at the door she hesitated. “The letter you were sent. It wasn’t what you’d call ‘naughty,’ was it?” Suddenly she turned bright pink. “You know what I mean. It didn’t use dirty words, did it?”

“No, it didn’t.”

“And it was well typed?”

“Very.”

“That’s good,” she said ambiguously.

She left and Tyler returned to his chair. What on earth did she mean by that? Who did this elderly nun know who wrote dirty letters?

28.

T
YLER SPENT TIME READING THROUGH THE PATIENT
files but once again drew a blank. There was nothing to connect any of the residents with the McHatties prior to their arrival at St. Anne’s, nor, on the other hand, to suggest that one of them might be insane enough to commit an indiscriminate murder.

He sat back feeling tired and frustrated. Then he noticed a card propped up on the desk. It was a list of telephone numbers: the hospital in Shrewsbury, the police station in Ludlow, the community mother house, and a number for Dr. B. Beck.

Tyler picked up the receiver and dialled the operator.

“I’d like to place a trunk call. London.” He gave the number.

While he was waiting, he lit up a cigarette. Only two left of his self-appointed ration. He’d better make this one last.

The telephone rang for a long time and Tyler was about to cancel the call when the doctor came on the line, sounding breathless.

“Beck here.”

“I have a call from Inspector Tyler,” said the operator. “I’ll put you through, caller.”

“Tom! What a surprise.”

Tyler couldn’t help but feel gratified at the evident pleasure in the other man’s voice.

“I saw a notice in the Ludlow paper that you had taken on the job of inspector,” continued Beck. “I was hoping to see you on my next visit to St. Anne’s.”

The doctor’s English had improved a lot in the two years since Tyler had last seen him. His Austrian accent was now very slight.

“That’s actually where I’m calling from, Doctor. I’m afraid I have bad news. I’ll tell you what’s happened – I’d be most appreciative of your opinion.”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

Tyler filled him in on the previous night’s incidents. Dr. Beck didn’t comment until he had finished.

“I am shocked to my core, Tom. I’ve only made two visits to the hospital so far, and I can’t say I knew that family well. But I saw the two boys playing in the grounds. It is utterly incomprehensible that somebody would take such a young, innocent life.”