twinge of concern.
“No. Closer to your father’s age, I should think.”
“Did you tell him I was here in the flat?”
“I think he knows you are. I only said I’d come and see if you were in.”
I couldn’t think who this man might be. Certainly not someone from the Nursing Service. Nor from the Army. Had someone sent a solicitor to interview me? That would mean serious charges were being brought against me.
I said with more assurance than I felt, “Tell him I shall be down directly. Then put on your hat and shawl, take up your market basket, and leave. Bring back Constable Williams if you can find him.”
“Yes, that’s the very best plan,” she said hurriedly, and turned to go.
I gave her five minutes, and then I took my time descending the stairs in her wake. The door to her sitting room stood open, but as I walked toward it, I couldn’t see anyone waiting inside. I hesitated, then briskly stepped over the threshold.
There was a man standing with his back to me staring out the window. He turned, frowning, and said, “Is that silly woman fetching the constable ?”
I said, “Mrs. Hennessey? I have no idea.”
“Sister Crawford?” He strode across the room and held out his hand. “My name is Stephens. Inspector Stephens, Scotland Yard.”
My mind was in a whirl. If he’d told me he was the King of Siam, I couldn’t have been more astonished.
“May I see your identification?” I asked.
Annoyed, he dropped his extended hand to his pocket and brought out his identification.
I examined it carefully. I’d dealt with Scotland Yard before, I knew what I was looking at. And he was indeed an Inspector.
Gesturing toward the rosewood chairs in front of Mrs. Hennessey’s hearth, I said, “Please.”
He put away his identification and took one of the chairs after I’d sat down in the other.
“I am sorry I didn’t identify myself to Mrs. Hennessey, but I didn’t wish to make my visit generally known.”
“I see,” I answered him, for lack of anything else to say. I couldn’t imagine why he was here. Losing Sergeant Wilkins wasn’t a police matter, it was Army business.
The front door opened, and I could hear Mrs. Hennessey and Constable Williams coming toward us.
Rising again, I went to the sitting room door and said, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hennessey, Constable. I didn’t know it was Mr. Stephens waiting for me. It’s all right. I’d like a—a few minutes in private with him.”
The constable looked my visitor up and down, decided he was fairly respectable and I was under no duress. He said, “Very well, Sister Crawford. I wish you a good day.”
He turned to leave, and Mrs. Hennessey, still uncertain, dithered for a moment. I smiled at her. “It’s all right. Truly it is.”
She nodded finally and hurried to catch up with the constable. We could hear the outer door close behind them.
Returning to my chair, I sat down. I didn’t think I owed the Inspector any apology for my protectors, and indeed, he smiled for the first time.
“The constable was quite right to see that I offered no threat.”
“I have a reputation to protect,” I said simply. “As a nursing Sister.”
“Yes, well, that’s what has brought me here.”
I felt a surge of unease.
“Then perhaps you should tell me.”
“I understand you were the last person to see a Sergeant Wilkins, before he disappeared from The Monarch Hotel on Tuesday last.”
“Yes, that’s true. I looked in on him at nine o’clock, and all appeared to be as it should be. I left him to sleep, and when I came to wake him up the next morning, his bed and his room were empty.”
“What did you make of him? Before this disappearance?”
“He received a medal for gallantry under fire.” I went on to explain my actions and the result, all the while wondering where this was leading.
Surely Sergeant Wilkins wasn’t a spy—or associated with spies? But it was the only reason I could think of for Scotland Yard to take an
Learning to Kill: Stories