Silence for the Dead(83)

He seemed to consider this critically for a moment, frowning behind his spectacles. “The likelihood is, Nurse Weekes, that he’ll find out eventually.”

“Possibly.”

“And you still wish to do it.”

“I have to.”

As we heard water running in the lav, Mabry leaned closer and whispered in his crisp voice: “If you want a man to drop something, you have to give him something else to grab onto. Bring him by my room.”

And then he was gone, quick and quiet on his long legs, and Mr. Deighton emerged to continue his tour.

Perhaps I should have spared him, but when Captain Mabry gave a command in that patrician voice, you followed it. I led Mr. Deighton down the corridor. He looked a little pale. “Are you quite well, sir?”

“Yes, fine, thank you.”

“The air in that lavatory can be rather oppressive, or so I’ve heard. And there is sometimes a problem with mold. I can make a note.”

“There is nothing the matter, Nurse. I appreciate your concern. What is that noise?”

A great racket was coming from Mabry’s room. I paused, hoping I wasn’t about to heap one catastrophe over another. Then I pressed forward.

We found Mabry in the act of sliding his bed across the room toward the window, sweat breaking out over his pale forehead. He did not look at us as we approached the door.

“Mr. Mabry!” I exclaimed in my best outraged voice. “You’re moving your bed again!”

I turned to Mr. Deighton, who had gone even paler at the sight of one of his mental patients apparently in full mania. “I’m so sorry about this, sir,” I said. “Mr. Mabry sometimes thinks he’s back at the Front, shoring up shell defenses.”

“We need more sandbags!” Mabry said gamely as he slid the bed.

“Mr. Mabry!” I snapped. “Stop it right now. You’re supposed to be at exercise. Move that bed back right now or I’ll have to give you another emetic.”

The captain looked at me and slumped. He really was an admirable actor. “I can’t, Nurse,” he said in a pitiful voice I could never have imagined coming from him. “I used up all my energy pushing it. I can’t put it back.”

“Well, this is a pretty problem!” Boney herself could not have been more put out. “Now what are we going to do! If that bed isn’t put back in its place, we’ll both be in trouble.” I turned to Mr. Deighton. “You don’t think you could trouble to help him, sir? His fit seems to have passed. I’m quite sure he isn’t dangerous at the moment.”

Mr. Deighton seemed to have frozen in place. “Beg pardon?”

“I’m so sorry to trouble you,” I said. “It won’t take a minute. Otherwise I’ll be here coaxing him all day. He goes quiet as a kitten when his fits have passed. You’ll see. Mr. Mabry! Be nice to the kind gentleman, or you’ll get a double dose of castor oil after supper.”

“Yes, Nurse.”

“Well, I—”

“Please, sir?” I looked up at him, all sweet hopefulness and worship.

He looked down at me, startled, as if he’d just noticed me there. Then he looked about, as if for another candidate. Then his mother’s likely lessons about helping ladies and the less fortunate finally awoke, and he sighed. “Very well.”

He set down the briefcase and entered the room, poised on the balls of his feet as if hunting a leopard. “Go to the other side,” he nearly shouted, as if madness made the captain hard of hearing, his voice nearly cracking with fear. “Grab the end.”

They grappled with the thing, and I slid the briefcase neatly out of the doorway with my foot. In the corridor I snapped it open and riffled through it as fast as I could.

“What are you doing!” Mr. Deighton gasped. “The other way. No, the other way!”

There were sheaves of papers in there. I nearly despaired until I found a neat envelope, sealed and uncreased, with the date written on the front in Matron’s handwriting. I pulled out the envelope and slid it into the pocket of my apron, next to the handwritten pages from the men.

After Mr. Deighton had emerged, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, and we had started off down the corridor with unseemly haste, I turned back to see the captain emerge from his doorway, book in hand. Behind Mr. Deighton’s back, I gave him a salute. He looked surprised. At first I thought he wouldn’t respond; then, as we turned the corner, he raised his hand to his temple and saluted me back, the gesture strangely dignified in his madman’s pajamas.

? ? ?

I didn’t know things had gone wrong, not truly, until it came time for Mr. Deighton to take his leave—given the option, it seemed no one ever stayed the night at Portis House—and Matron didn’t come to help us see him off.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Boney, contrite. “Matron is feeling unwell and she has gone to lie down for a rest.”

Nina and I stared at her in open shock. It was unthinkable for Matron to rest—in bed!—during the workday. Mr. Deighton took it in very bad grace, but he clutched his briefcase and left after giving us a sullen lecture about duty and respect to our superiors. He took his secrets with him, and though I was glad to see him go, I wished I’d had a little more time with the contents of that briefcase.

“You’re not serious,” I said to Boney when Mr. Deighton had gone.