The men of X made no attempt to hide their dislike of the dead man, nor did they hinder Sergeant Watkin’s investigations by any of the means they had at their disposal, from assumed lunacy to assumed withdrawal. At first Sister Langtry had feared they would be recalcitrant, for loneliness, segregation and idleness sometimes did lead them to play childish games, as they had on the afternoon of Michael’s admission. But they rallied to the call of good sense and cooperated splendidly. As to whether Sergeant Watkin found talking at length to them a pleasant task, he didn’t say, though he paid rapt attention to everything, including Nugget’s lyrical description of the scotomata which had prevented his seeing more than mere knobs and knotholes, and then only the left halves.
Michael was the only member of ward X the quartermaster asked to see personally, but it was a friendly talk rather than an interrogation. He held it in his own office simply because ward X was a difficult place in which to obtain any real privacy.
Though Michael didn’t realize it, his own appearance was his best defense. He reported in full uniform save for his hat, and so did not salute when he came in, only stood to attention until bidden to sit down.
There’s no need to worry, Sergeant,’ said Captain John Penniquick, his desk clear except for the various papers pertaining to the death of Sergeant Lucius Daggett. The pathologist’s report covered two handwritten pages, and indicated besides a detailed description of the wounds which had caused death that there had been no foreign substances in stomach or bloodstream such as barbiturates or opiates. Sergeant Watkin’s report was longer, also handwritten, and included synopses of all the conversations he had had with the men of X and with Sister Langtry. Forensic investigations were extremely limited in a wartime army, and did not run to fingerprinting; had Sergeant Watkin seen anything suspicious he would heroically have done his duty in this respect, but a wartime army SI sergeant was not very conversant with fingerprints. As it was, he had seen nothing suspicious, and the pathologist had concurred.
‘I really only wanted to ask you about the circumstances which led up to Sergeant Daggett’s death,’ the quartermaster said, a little uncomfortably. ‘Had you any suspicion that Sergeant Daggett intended to proposition you? Had he made any sort of advance to you before?’
‘Once,’ said Michael. ‘It didn’t go anywhere, though. In all honesty I don’t think Sergeant Daggett was a proper homosexual, sir. He was a mischief-maker, that’s all.’
‘Are your own leanings homosexual, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you dislike homosexuals?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve fought alongside and under the command of them, sir. I’ve had friends who were inclined that way, one very good friend especially, and they were decent blokes. That’s the only thing I ask of anyone, that he be a decent bloke. I reckon homosexuals are like any other group of men, some good, some bad, and some indifferent.’
The QM smiled faintly. ‘Have you any idea why Sergeant Daggett had his eye on you?’
Michael sighed. ‘I think he got at my papers and read them, sir. I can’t think why else he would have looked at me twice.’ He stared very directly at the QM. ‘If you’ve read my papers, sir, you’ll know this isn’t the first time I’ve been involved in trouble about homosexuals.’
‘Yes, I know. It’s very unfortunate for you, Sergeant. Did you leave Sister Langtry’s room at any time during the night?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘So after the incident in the bathhouse you never saw Sergeant Daggett again?’
‘No, sir, I never did.’
The QM nodded, looked brisk. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
After Michael had gone Captain Penniquick gathered all the papers concerning the death of Sergeant Lucius Daggett into one sheaf, pulled a fresh piece of paper into the middle of his desk, and began to write his report to the super.
6
Though Base Fifteen was still three or four weeks away from its appointment with extinction, for the five patients and one nursing sister of ward X all sense of belonging to any kind of community ceased upon the death of Sergeant Lucius Daggett. Until the result of the inquiry they walked on eggshells around each other, each so conscious of the huge unspoken undercurrents which sucked and thundered through the ward that anything more than a bland contact with the others could not be borne. The general misery was a palpable thing, the individual miseries touchy and secret and shaming. To speak of it was impossible, to generate a false gaiety equally so. Everyone simply prayed for an innocuous finding at the end of the inquiry.
Not so immersed in her own troubles as to lose sight of how fragile these her men were, Sister Langtry watched for the slightest sign of breakdown in any and all of them, including Michael. Strangely, it didn’t appear. Withdrawn they were, but not from reality; they had withdrawn from her, flung her into a chilly outer orbit where she was merely called upon to do unimportant things, like get their early morning tea, get them out of bed, get them through the cleaning, get them down to the beach, get them into bed. Courteous and deferential they always were; truly warmly friendly, never.
She wanted to beat her fists against the wall, cry out that she didn’t need punishing like this, that she too suffered, that she wanted, needed desperately, to be drawn into the circle of their regard, that they were killing her. Of course she couldn’t do that, didn’t do that. And since she could only interpret their reaction in the light of her own guilt, the path her own thoughts trod, she understood very well what they were too basically kind to tell her in so many words. That she had failed in her duty, and so failed them. Madness, it must have been madness! To have so lost all regard for what was the right thing to do for all her patients that she had spiritually abandoned them for the sake of her own physical gratification. The balance and insight which would normally have assured her this was far too simple an assumption had entirely deserted her.
Honour Langtry had known many different kinds of pain, but never a pain like this, all-pervasive, self-perpetuating, asphyxiating. It wasn’t even that she dreaded walking into ward X; it was the bitter knowledge that there was no longer a ward X to walk into. The family unit was broken.
‘Well, the verdict’s in,’ she said to Neil on the evening three days after Luce’s death.
‘When did you hear?’ he asked, but as if it didn’t really interest him very much.
He still came for those private little chats with her, but a chat was all it could be. Banal observations about this and that and the other thing.
‘This afternoon, from Colonel Chinstrap, who stole a march on Matron. Since she told me later, I got it twice. Suicide. The result of an acute depressive state following an acute burst of mania—claptrap, but convenient claptrap. They have to put something impressive down.’
‘Did they say anything else?’ he asked, leaning forward to ash his cigarette.
‘Oh, we’re none of us too popular, as you can imagine, but no blame is attached to us officially.’
He kept his voice light as he asked, ‘Did you get your knuckles rapped, Sis?’
‘Not officially. However, Matron had a few words of her own to say on the subject of my taking Michael to my quarters. But luckily my blameless reputation stood me in good stead. When it came right down to it she just couldn’t imagine me hauling poor Michael off with any but the purest of motives. As she said, it merely looked bad, and because it looked bad, I let the whole side down. I seem to have been letting whole sides down all over the place lately.’
