‘Sergeant Wilson had a bit of a reaction, sir. You know, the sort of thing that can happen after you’ve been keyed up to fight. He got the shakes, couldn’t breathe properly. It seemed to me better that he go with Sister Langtry, so I suggested to her that she remove Sergeant Wilson from the ward, somewhere like her quarters, right away from Sergeant Daggett. That left Sergeant Daggett without— ah—further temptation during the remainder of the night. It also left him in a state of considerable apprehension, which I freely confess I did rather encourage him to feel. Sergeant Daggett, sir, is not my favorite person.’

At the beginning of this speech Sister Langtry merely watched Neil courteously, but when she heard him tell the colonel it had been his idea to remove Michael from the ward, her eyes widened in surprise, then softened in gratitude. The silly, noble, wonderful man! It would never occur to the colonel to doubt that it had been Neil’s doing; he expected men to take charge and make the decisions. But it also seemed Neil knew very well where she had intended to put Michael for the night, and that gave her pause; had the latter part of the night been written even then on her face, or was it just an inspired guess?

‘How was Sergeant Daggett after you returned to the ward, Captain?’ asked the colonel.

‘How was Sergeant Daggett?’ Neil closed his eyes. ‘Oh, much the same as always. An acid-tongued bastard. Not a bit sorry, except for being caught. Full of his usual spite. And carrying on about getting even with us all, but especially with Sister Langtry. Luce detests her.’

So much undisguised dislike of someone dead offended the colonel, until he remembered they didn’t know Luce was dead. He pressed on toward his denouement.

‘Where is Sergeant Daggett now?’ he asked casually.

‘I neither know nor care, sir,’ said Neil. ‘As far as I’m concerned, I would be delirious with joy if he were never to set foot in ward X again.’

‘I see. Well, Captain, you’re honest.’

Everyone could see the colonel trying to make allowances for the precarious emotional balance of the men of X, but when he turned to Nugget his exasperation was beginning to show. ‘Private Jones, you’re sitting there very quietly. Have you anything to add?’

‘Who, sir, me, sir? I had a migraine,’ said Nugget importantly. ‘The classical pattern, sir, it really was—you would have been fascinated! A two-day prodroma of lethargy and some dysphasia, followed by an hour-long aura of scotomata in the right visual field, and then a left hemicranial headache. I was as flat as a tack, sir.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Well, flatter, really.’

‘Flashing lights are not called scotomata, Private,’ said the colonel.

‘Mine were scotomata,’ said Nugget decisively. ‘They were fascinating, sir! I told you, it wasn’t your minimal migraine by a long shot. If I looked at something big, I saw it all, no trouble. But if I looked at a small bit of the big thing, like a knob on a door or a knothole in the wall. I only saw the left half of the knob or knothole. The right half was—I don’t know! Just not there! Scotomata, sir.’

‘Private Jones,’ said the colonel tiredly, ‘if your knowledge of military matters even remotely equalled your knowledge of your own symptomatology, you’d be a field marshal, and we would have been marching through Tokyo in 1943. When you go back to civilian life, I strongly suggest that you consider studying medicine.’

‘Can’t, sir,’ said Nugget regretfully. ‘I’ve only got me Intermediate. But I am thinking about training as a male nurse, sir. At the Repat.’

‘Well, the world will have lost a Pasteur, perhaps, but it may gain Mister Nightingale instead. You’ll do splendidly, Private Jones.’

Out of the corner of his eye the colonel noticed that Matt had returned without Benedict, and was standing in the doorway listening intently.

‘Corporal Sawyer, what have you to offer?’

‘Never saw a thing, sir,’ said Matt blandly.

The colonel’s lips disappeared; he was obliged to draw a deep breath. ‘Have any of you gentlemen visited the bathhouse since Sergeant Daggett’s attack on Sergeant Wilson?’

‘Afraid not, sir,’ said Neil, looking apologetic. ‘Sorry you’ve caught us unwashed and unshaved, but after our little lapse with the whisky last night what we all seemed to need first this morning was gallons of tea.’

‘I do think you might have issued them the top off the APC, Sister!’ snapped the colonel, glaring at her.

Her brows lifted; she smiled slightly. ‘I have it all ready to go, sir.’

The colonel finally reached his denouement. ‘I suppose none of you are aware that Sergeant Daggett has been found dead in the bathhouse, then,’ he said curtly.

As a climax it was dismally ineffective; no one evinced surprise, shock, sorrow or even interest. They just sat or stood looking much as if the colonel had made a particularly banal remark about the weather.

‘Now why on earth would Luce do a thing like that?’ asked Neil, apparently feeling the colonel was waiting for some sort of comment. ‘I didn’t think he’d be so considerate.’

‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Matt.

‘All me Christmases have come at once,’ said Nugget.

‘Why do you assume it is suicide, Captain?’

Neil looked astonished. ‘Well, isn’t it? He’s a bit on the young side to be popping off from natural causes, surely?’

‘True, he did not die from natural causes. But why do you assume it was suicide?’ the colonel persisted.

‘If he didn’t have a heart attack or a stroke or whatever, then he put the kybosh on himself. I’m not trying to say that we wouldn’t have been delighted to assist him, but last night was not a night for murder, sir. It was a night for a wee drop of whisky.’

‘How did he die, sir?’ asked Nugget eagerly. ‘Cut his throat? Stab himself? Hang himself, maybe?’

‘You would be the one to want to know that, wouldn’t you, you little ghoul?’ exclaimed the colonel, looking fed up. ‘He committed what the Japanese call hara-kiri, I believe.’

‘Who found him, sir?’ asked Matt, still in the doorway.

‘Sister Langtry.’

This time their reaction was all he might have hoped for when he had announced Luce’s death; there was an appalled silence as every eye turned toward Sister Langtry. Nugget looked as if he were about to weep, Matt stunned, Neil despairing.

‘My dear, I am so sorry,’ Neil said eventually.

She shook her head, smiled at them lovingly. ‘It’s all right, truly. As you can see, I’ve survived. Don’t look so upset, please.’

Colonel Chinstrap sighed and slapped his hands on his thighs in defeat; what could one do with men who felt no regret at the death of a fellow man, then flew into small pieces because their darling Sister Langtry had had a nasty experience? He rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time and the tea, gentlemen. Good morning to you.’

‘They knew,’ he said, walking down the ward with Sister Langtry. ‘Those smug devils knew he was dead!’

‘Do you think so?’ she asked coolly. ‘You’re quite wrong, you know. They were just trying to get on your nerves, sir. You shouldn’t let them succeed the way you do; it only makes them worse.’

‘When I need your advice, madam, I shall ask for it!’ he snapped, fizzing with rage. Then recollection of his own very delicate position and the dictatory position of Sister Langtry occurred simultaneously, but he couldn’t resist saying, rather maliciously, ‘There will have to be an inquiry.’

‘Naturally, sir,’ she said calmly.

It was all far too much, especially after the kind of night he had passed. ‘It would seem there was no foul play,’ he said wearily. ‘Luckily for him, perhaps, Sergeant Wilson has an ironclad alibi furnished by no less a person than your good self. However, I shall reserve my decision until after the military police have inspected the corpse. If they concur that there is no suspicion of foul play, I imagine the inquiry will be a mere matter of form. However, that’s up to Colonel Seth. I shall notify him immediately.’ He sighed, cast her a quick sidelong glance. ‘Yes, indeed, how fortunate for young Sergeant Wilson! It would be wonderful if all the sisters on all my wards were so solicitous of patient welfare.’