Amanderella and the Casket Mystery Chapter 7.

Chapter Seven.

 

St. Gal’s Free Hospital.

 

St Gal’s was a grim, soot-blackened block of Victorian masonry that seemed to absorb the light. Being a Free hospital, dependent entirely on the shaky hand of charity, there was no money for such luxuries as scrubbing the walls.

The red brick was choked with coal-dust, and the once-white Portland stone had soured to a greasy, uniform grey. It sat behind high iron railings like a fortress of poverty. The air didn’t just smell of carbolic; it felt sharp and thin, as if the building itself were trying to bleach the surrounding street to hide its own neglect.

The only sound was the heavy, metallic clatter of coal being tipped into the basement and the occasional, lonely hiss of a steam vent.

Following Mogg’s directions, Amanderella turned away from the main gates and headed down a narrow, paved service road that ran between the laundry wing and the mortuary.

Side Entrance B was a heavy, scarred door set into a recessed archway. It was built of thick oak and reinforced with rusted iron bolts, looking more like the entrance to a warehouse than a ward. A small, grime‑streaked enamel sign was screwed to the brickwork:

DELIVERIES & UNUSUAL CASES

A wooden ramp, built to accommodate the wheels of heavy trolleys, led up to a stone step worn smooth by years of use. There was no bell‑pull, only a small iron‑grated window at eye level and a heavy brass knocker that looked as though it had seen a great deal of hard service.

This was the “back way” into St Gal’s, the entrance for things that were broken, unidentifiable, or, in the case of Mr Terkins, excessively sticky.

Amanderella mounted the steps with the calm determination of a woman who was no longer merely enquiring; she was investigating. Beside the door hung a small brass plate, its lettering dulled by time and disinfectant fumes:

MATRON G. NIPP — ADMINISTRATION OF SPECIAL ADMISSIONS

The title was as sharp as the name. Amanderella filed it away.

Inside, the entrance hall reeked of carbolic acid so strongly that it made one’s eyes water. Beneath it, faint but unmistakable, lingered a whisper of Seville Sunset Rum.

Amanderella’s eyes narrowed.

A figure advanced toward her with the stiff, purposeful tread of a woman who had never once permitted nonsense within a ten‑yard radius. The Matron, the iron backbone of St Gal’s, surveyed Amanderella with a cool, appraising stare that suggested she could detect dust, dishonesty, and moral weakness at a glance. Compared to her, Mrs Gaffletter was a gentle breeze and Nellie Winkle a passing inconvenience. This was a woman who could silence a riot with a raised eyebrow and sterilise a corridor by walking through it.

“May I assist you,” she said, in a tone that suggested assistance was unlikely and permission was a privilege.

Amanderella inclined her head. “I am here to speak with your porter. The one on duty yesterday at twelve‑twenty‑one.”

The Matron’s expression did not change, but the air chilled by a degree.

“Our porters are occupied.”

“So am I,” Amanderella replied pleasantly. “Yet here we are.”

“And your business?”

“A matter of record‑keeping,” Amanderella said. “A signature. A ledger. A gentleman conveyed here by Constable Mogg.”

The Matron’s nostrils flared, the bureaucratic equivalent of a warning shot.

“We have no record of such a conveyance.”

Amanderella smiled. “Yes. I am aware. That is why I am here.”

She let the silence stretch, then added, lightly, almost conversationally:

“Constable Mogg has yet to complete his report for the Coroner’s Court.”

The Matron froze.

Hospitals may ignore families.

They may misplace paperwork.

They may deny the existence of entire patients.

But they do not trifle with the Coroner’s Court.

Amanderella continued, her tone still mild:

“And as you know, Matron, the Coroner takes a dim view of missing signatures. Particularly when a constable has recorded one in his notebook.”

The Matron’s jaw tightened.

Amanderella leaned in just enough to be polite, not enough to be intimidated.

“So,” she said softly, “I should like to see the ledger. The one Constable Mogg signed.”

A trolley squeaked somewhere down the corridor,  a squeak like the one Mogg had noted.

Amanderella smiled.

“Shall we begin.”

The Matron did not move at once. She stood very still, as if calculating the precise number of regulations Amanderella had just violated. Then, with a curt nod, she turned on her heel.

“This way.”

Amanderella followed her down a long, tiled corridor that seemed designed to echo disapproval. The walls were lined with enamel signs, Electrical Treatment, Hydrotherapy, Surgical Stores, each one immaculate, each one smelling faintly of disinfectant and fear.

At the very end, a newer, smaller sign hung crookedly: The Röntgen Ray Room.

The Matron’s keys jingled at her belt with the rhythm of a metronome marking out a march. Amanderella’s steps were quieter, but no less certain.

They passed a pair of double doors marked MORTUARY — NO ADMITTANCE.

The Matron did not look at them.

Amanderella did.

A faint smear of something sticky, amber‑coloured, suspiciously familiar, glistened on the floor near the threshold.

Seville Sunset Rum.

Amanderella’s expression remained politely neutral.

The Matron increased her pace.

At the end of the corridor was a small alcove containing a high desk, a battered stool, and a wall of pigeonholes stuffed with forms. A large ledger lay open on the desk, its pages covered in neat, uncompromising handwriting.

The Matron stopped so abruptly that Amanderella nearly walked into her.

“I shall summon the porter,” she said, in a tone that suggested she would rather summon a firing squad.

She rapped sharply on a side door.

“Porter! Attend.”

There was a muffled thump, a clatter, and the sound of someone tripping over something heavy and metal.

A voice called, “Coming, Matron!”

Amanderella folded her hands and waited, her expression one of mild, patient interest, the sort that made bureaucrats nervous.

The Matron stood rigidly beside her, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the door as though willing the porter to behave himself.

The door opened.

A man in a dark serge jacket and a cap askew on his head appeared, slightly out of breath and very much aware that he was in the presence of authority.

“Harrip,” the Matron said sharply. “Attend.”

The Matron turned to Amanderella, her keys giving a final, impatient jingle. “Harrip was on the gate when the Terkins delivery was allegedly made. Harrip, you may answer this lady’s questions.”

Amanderella smiled at the  porter. Then turned to the Matron, “I must speak with the porter privately. The Coroner will require his recollection to be uncoloured by the presence of a superior. I’m sure you understand.”

The Matron did not, but she understood the word Coroner.

Her lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line.

“Very well,” she said, each syllable dipped in disinfectant. “I shall return shortly.”

Her retreating footsteps were as rigid as her spine.

When the sound finally faded, the porter let out a breath he had clearly been holding since Tuesday.

“Thank ’eavens,” he muttered, straightening his cap. “Didn’t fancy sayin’ anything with her starin’ at me like I were a stain on the floor.”

Amanderella regarded him calmly. “Then let us speak plainly.”

The porter swallowed. “Aye, miss. Right. Plainly.”

“Were you on duty at 12.26 am yesterday?” Amanderella asked.

The man nodded. “I was indeed, ma-am.”

Amanderella went on. “And did Constable Mogg deliver a casualty at that time on that day?”

He shifted from foot to foot, then blurted:

“If this is about that sticky gentleman, Mr Terkins, then yes, miss, he were brought in. yesterday. Just like the constable said.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Go on.”

“Well… we peeled ’im off the trolley, like I told the Matron. Doctor on duty looked ’im over. Said he were dead as anything. Sent ’im straight down to the mortuary.”

Amanderella’s eyes narrowed. “Which doctor?”

The porter opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked desperately at the ledger on the desk.

“I think it was Doctor Ercan Mendez, possibly. “ He scratched his head. “Not actually sure who it was. It’ll be in the book.”

He dragged the heavy ledger toward them, its leather cover cracked with age. His hands trembled as he flipped to the correct date.

Then he froze.

A neat rectangle of torn paper stared back at them.

The entire page was missing.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, that’s not good.”

Amanderella said nothing.