The Rising of the Moon by Gladys Mitchell

Author:Gladys Mitchell [Mitchell, Gladys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2014-03-04T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The Death of a Nursemaid

“Tell us!” said I. “Where was it, and who was murdered, and what time? Was it another Ripper murder? Are the police on the job yet?”

“Look here,” said Sparks, “whose murder is it? Yours or mine?”

He was a slow-moving, slow-spoken, fattish, white-faced boy, brilliant at Latin, which he took with the post-Matric form. His father was a clergyman. Sparks was a year older than myself. I was abashed.

“Go on, Sparks,” I said humbly.

“The murder,” said Sparks, “took place in a low alley called Saint George’s Court, almost opposite the police station. The victim is a girl of nineteen of blameless type…at least, it is believed so…”

“Come off it, Sparksey,” said one of his friends. Sparks eyed the interrupter with dignity, and, turning again to me, continued:

“Of blameless type, being one of our own parishioners. Her name is Bessie Gillett. She makes a slight but honest living by acting as children’s nurse at the Manor, residence of Mr. E.N.K. Hopkinson, sometime of the Foreign Office, her charges being the two small grand-daughters of Mr. Hopkinson, his daughter’s children. The post was not of residential type, but the deceased used to attend daily at the Manor House for the purpose of taking the two little girls for a walk, or of amusing them in their nursery should the weather chance to be inclement.”

“Come off it, Sparksey!” said the interrupter, “and get on with the stuff. We want to hear about the blood.” Sparks appealed to the compartment.

“Gentlemen, do you, or do you not desire to apprehend the circumstances which led to this bestial crime?”

“Rather!” said the rest of us in chorus; and two of Sparks’ admirers put the heckler under the seat, and thoughtfully shoved his handkerchief in his mouth to lessen his powers of obstruction.

“It so happened,” continued Sparks, “that my excellent sire, who, as those among you who profess the faith should be aware, is vicar of the parish of Saint George in the East, chanced to be passing by the mouth of the alley on his way home from attending the sick-bed of one Annie Varley, bedridden since Michaelmas twelvemonth, when he heard the sound of running feet. He halted, he can scarcely say why, and a young man named Harry Eldon came out of the mouth of the alley and collided with him, not seeing my father in his haste and terror. When he recognized him…

“ ‘Quick, vicar! A doctor! There’s a dreadful accident!’ he gasped. Fortunately the two of them were within a stone’s throw of the surgery of Doctor Seattle, and they, with the doctor, were soon upon the scene. The poor girl’s death from knife wounds could be assumed immediately. And now, gentlemen, our destination, I perceive. More upon the return journey, if it please you.”

We badgered him for details all the way up to school from the station, but I do not think he knew any more. His father, naturally, had not described the girl’s injuries, but they must have

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