William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

see,” Kristian said behind Callandra. He excused himself between the nurses and looked down the open chute which took linen straight to the laundry and the huge copper boilers where it was washed. He peered down it for several seconds and they all waited in silence.
    “I cannot see anything,” he said finally, stepping back again. “There must be something blocking the way or I would be able to see the baskets at the bottom, or at least a light. But we will argue later as to who put it there. In themeantime, the thing is to remove it.” He looked around for something to accomplish the task, and saw nothing.
    “A broom?” Callandra suggested. “Or a window pole. Anything with a long handle.”
    The nurses stood still.
    “Go on,” Callandra commanded impatiently. “Go and find one. There must be a window pole in the ward.” She pointed at the nearest ward entrance along the corridor. “Don’t stand around, fetch it!”
    Grudgingly the younger woman started, hesitated, and glared back at her companion, then continued on her way.
    Callandra peered down the chute. She could see nothing either. Obviously the obstruction blocked it entirely, but how far down it was, she could not judge.
    The nurse came back with a long-handled window pole and gave it to Kristian, who poked it down the chute. But even when he leaned as far as he could, he met with no resistance. The obstruction, whatever it was, was beyond his reach.
    “We’ll have to go down and see if we can dislodge it from below,” he said after another unsuccessful try.
    “Er—” The younger nurse cleared her throat.
    They all turned and looked at her.
    “Dr. Beck, sir.”
    “Yes?”
    “Lally, she’s one of the skivvies what does in the operating theater and like. She’s only thirteen and she’s made like a nine-penny rabbit. She could slide down there easy, and there’s laundry baskets at the bottom, so she wouldn’t hurt herself.”
    Kristian hesitated only a moment.
    “Good idea. Fetch her, will you?” He turned to Callandra. “We should go down to the laundry room to make sure there’s a soft landing for her.”
    “Yes sir, I’ll go for her,” the younger nurse said, and she went quickly, breaking into a run as she turned the corner.
    Callandra, Kristian, and the other nurse went the opposite way, to the stairs and down to the basement and the dark,gas-lit passages to the laundry room where the huge coppers belched steam and the pipes clanked and rattled and poured out boiling water. Women with rolled-up sleeves heaved wet linen on the end of wooden poles, muscles straining, faces flushed, hair dripping. One or two looked around at the unusual intrusion of a man, then immediately returned to their labor.
    Kristian went over to the base of the laundry chute and peered up, then backed out again and glanced at Callandra. He shook his head.
    She pushed one of the large wicker baskets closer under the bottom of the chute and picked up a couple of bundles of dirty sheets to soften the fall.
    “It shouldn’t have got stuck,” Kristian said, frowning. “Sheets are soft enough to slide, even if too many are poked down at once. Maybe someone has been putting rubbish in as well.”
    “We’ll soon know,” she replied, standing beside him and looking up expectantly.
    They had not long to wait. There was a muffled call from above, faint and completely indistinguishable, then a moment’s silence, a shriek, a curious shuffling noise, another shriek. A woman landed in the laundry basket, her skirts awry, arms and legs awkward. Straight after came the small, thin form of the skivvy, who shrieked again and scrambled to her feet, clambering like a monkey to escape the basket and falling onto the floor, wailing loudly.
    Kristian bent forward to help the other woman up, then his face darkened and he moved his hand to hold Callandra back. But it was too late. She had already looked down and knew as soon as she saw her that the woman was dead. There was no mistaking the ashen quality of her skin, the bluish lips, and above all, the terrible bruises on her throat.
    “It’s Nurse Barrymore,” Kristian said huskily, his voice catching in his throat. He did not add that she was dead; he saw in Callandra’s eyes that she knew not only that, but also that it had been no illness or accident which had caused it. Instinctively he stretched out his hand as if totouch her, almost as if some compassion could still reach her.
    “No,” Callandra said