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 to touch her, almost as if some compassion could still reach her.

"No," Callandra said softly. "Don't…"

He opened his mouth as though to remonstrate, then realized its uselessness. He stared down at the dead woman's body, his eyes rilled with sadness. "Why would anyone want to do this to her?" he said helplessly. Without thinking, Callandra put her hand on his arm, gripping it gently.

"We can't know yet. But we must call the police. It seems to be murder."

One of the laundry women turned around, perhaps her attention caught by the skivvy, who was beginning to shriek again, and she saw the arm of the dead woman above the edge of the laundry basket. She came over and gaped at the corpse, then screamed.

"Murder!" She drew in her breath and screamed again, piercingly, her voice high and shrill even above the hiss of steam and clatter of pipes. "Murder! Help! Murder!"

All the other women stopped their work and crowded around, some wailing, some shrieking, one slithering to the floor in a faint. No one took any notice of the skivvy.

"Stop it!" Kristian ordered sharply. "Stop this minute and go back to your work!"

Some power in him, some tone or manner, caught their innate fear of authority, and one by one they fell silent, then retreated. But no one returned to the coppers or the piles of steaming laundry gradually cooling on the slabs and in the tubs.

Kristian turned to Callandra.

"You had better go and inform Sir Herbert, and have him call the police," he said quietly. "This is not something we can deal with ourselves. I'll stay here and make sure no one disturbs her. And you'd better take the skivvy, poor child, and have someone look after her."

"She'll tell everyone," Callandra warned. "No doubt with a great deal added. We'll have half the hospital thinking there's been a massacre. There'll be hysterics and the patients will suffer."

He hesitated a moment, weighing what she had said.

"Then you'd better take her to the matron and explain why. Then go and see Sir Herbert. I'D keep the laundry-women here."

She smiled and nodded very slightly. There was no need for further words. She turned away and went to where the skivvy was standing, pressed up against the capacious form of one of the silent laundrywomen. Her thin face was bloodless and her skinny arms were folded tightly around her body as if hugging herself to keep from shaking so violently she would fall over.

Callandra held out her hand toward her.

"Come," she said gently. "I'll take you upstairs where you can sit down and have a cup of tea before you go back to work." She did not mention Mrs. Flaherty; she knew most of the nurses and skivvies were terrified of her, and justly so.

The child stared at her, but there was nothing awe-inspiring in her mild face and untidy hair and rather comfortable figure in its stuff gown. She bore no resemblance whatever to the thin fierce person of Mrs. Flaherty.

"Come on," she said again, (his time more briskly.

Obediently the child detached herself and followed a step behind as she was accustomed.

It did not take long to find Mrs. Flaherty. All the hospital knew where she was. Word ran like a warning whenever she passed. Bottles were put away, mops were pushed harder, heads bent in attention to labor.

"Yes, your ladyship, what is it now?" she said grimly, her eyes going to the skivvy with displeasure. "Not sick, is she?"

"No, Matron, only badly frightened," Callandra answered. "I'm afraid we have discovered a corpse in the laundry chute, and this poor child was the one who found her. I'm about to go to Sir Herbert and have him fetch the police."

"Whatever for?" Mrs. Flaherty snapped. "For goodness sake, there's nothing odd about a corpse in a hospital, although for the life of me, I can't think how it got to be in the laundry chute." Her face darkened with disapproval. "I hope it is not one of the young doctors with a puerile sense of what is amusing."

"No one could find this amusing, Mrs. Flaherty." Callandra was surprised to find her voice so calm. "It was Nurse Barrymore, and she has not died naturally. I am going to report the matter to Sir Herbert and I should be obliged if you would see to this child and make sure she does not unintentionally cause hysteria by speaking of it to others. It will be known soon enough, but for the meantime it would be better if we were prepared for it."

Mrs. Flaherty looked startled. "Not naturally? What do you mean?"

But Callandra was not going to discuss it further. She smiled bleakly and left without answering, Mrs. Flaherty staring after in confusion and anger.

Sir Herbert Stanhope was in the operating theater and apparently due to remain there for some considerable time. The matter would not wait, so she simply opened the door and went in. It was not a large room; a side table with instruments laid out took much of the space and there were already several people inside. Two student doctors assisted and learned, a third more senior watched the bottles of nitrous oxide and monitored the patient's breathing. A nurse stood by to pass instruments as required. The patient lay insensible upon the table, white-faced, her upper body naked and a bloody wound in the chest half closed. Sir Herbert Stanhope stood at her side, needle in his hand, blood staining his shirtsleeves and forearms.

Everyone stared at Callandra.

"What are you doing here, madam?" Sir Herbert demanded. "You have no business to interrupt an operation! Will you please leave immediately!"

She had expected a reception of this nature and she was not perturbed.

"There is a matter which cannot wait until you are concluded, Sir Herbert," she replied.

"Get some other doctor!" he snapped, turning away from her and resuming his stitching.

"Please keep your attention upon what I am doing, gentlemen," he went on, addressing the student doctors. He obviously assumed that Callandra would accept his dismissal and leave without further ado.

"There has been a murder in the hospital, Sir Herbert," Callandra said loudly and distinctly. "Do you wish me to inform the police, or would you prefer to do that yourself?"

He froze, his hands in the air with needle poised. Still he did not look at her. The nurse sucked in her breath sharply. One of the student doctors made a choking sound and grasped the edge of the table.