| Mr Glossop | A payroll delivery clerk |
| Matron Ashdown | The Matron of Mount Seager Hospital |
| Sister Comfort | A Sister at Mount Seager Hospital |
| Father O’Sullivan | The local vicar |
| Sarah Warne | The hospital Transport Driver |
| Sydney Brown | The grandson of old Mr Brown |
| Rosamund Farquharson | A hospital clerk |
| Private Bob Pawcett | A convalescent soldier |
| Corporal Cuthbert Brayling | A convalescent soldier |
| Private Maurice Sanders | A convalescent soldier |
| Dr Luke Hughes | Doctor at Mount Seager Hospital |
| Roderick Alleyn | Chief Detective Inspector, CID |
| Old Mr Brown | A dying man |
| Will Kelly | The night porter |
| Sergeant Bix | A Sergeant in the New Zealand Army |
| Duncan Blaikie | A local farmer |
| Various patients—convalescent soldiers and civilians | |
| Several night nurses, nurse aides and VADs |
Mount Seager Hospital and the surrounding area
At about eight o’clock on a disarmingly still midsummer evening, Mr Glossop telephoned from the Transport Office at Mount Seager Hospital to his headquarters twenty miles away across the plains. He made angry jabs with his blunt forefinger at the dial—and to its faint responsive tinkling an invisible curtain rose upon a series of events that were to be confined within the dark hours of that short summer night, bounded between dusk and dawn. So closely did these events follow the arbitrary design of a play that the temptation to represent Mr Glossop as an overture cannot be withstood.
The hospital, now almost settling down for the night, had assumed an air of enclosed and hushed activity. Lights appeared behind open windows and from the yard that ran between the hospital offices and the wards one could see the figures of nurses on night duty moving quietly about their business. Mingled with the click of the telephone dial was the sound of distant tranquil voices and, from the far end of the yard, the very occasional strains of music from a radio in the new army buildings.
The window of the Records Office stood open. Through it one looked across the yard to Wards 2 and 3, now renamed Civilian 2 and Civilian 3 since the military had taken over Wards 4–6 and remade them as Military 1, 2, and 3. Those in Military 3 were still very ill, those in Military 1, their quarantine and spirits up, were well into the restlessly bored stage of their recuperation. Each ward had a covered porch, and a short verandah at the rear linking it to the next ward. Before each verandah stood a rich barrier of climbing roses. The brief New Zealand twilight was not quite at an end but already the spendthrift fragrance of the roses approached its nightly zenith. The setting, in spite of itself, was romantic. Mr Glossop, however, was not conscious of romance. He was cross and anxious and when he spoke into the telephone his voice held overtones of resentment.
‘Glossop speaking,’ he said. ‘I’m still at Mount Seager Hospital. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a hundred times, they ought to do something about that van.’ He paused. A Lilliputian voice reaching him from a small town twenty miles away quacked industriously in the receiver. ‘I know, I know,’ said Mr Glossop resentfully, ‘and it’s my digestion that’s had to take it. Here I am with the pay-box till Gawd knows when and I don’t like it. I said I don’t like it. It’s OK, go and tell him. Go and tell the whole bloody Board. I want to know what I’m meant to do now.’
A footfall, firm and crisp, sounded on the asphalt yard. In a moment the stream of light from the office door was intercepted. The old wooden steps gave the slightest creak and in the doorway stood a short compact woman dressed in white with a veil on her head and a scarlet cape about her shoulders. Mr Glossop made restless movements with his legs and changed the colour of his voice. He smiled in a deprecating manner at the newcomer and he addressed himself to the telephone. ‘That’s right,’ he said with false heartiness. ‘Still we mustn’t grumble. Er—Matron suggests I get a tow down with the morning bus … Transport Driver … No, it’s—it’s,’ Mr Glossop swallowed, ‘it’s a lady,’ he said. The Lilliputian voice spoke at some length. ‘Well, we hope so,’ said Mr Glossop with a nervous laugh.
‘You will be quite safe, Mr Glossop,’ the woman in the doorway said. ‘Miss Warne is an experienced driver.’
Mr Glossop nodded and smirked. ‘An experienced driver,’ he echoed, ‘Matron says, an experienced driver.’
The telephone uttered a metallic enquiry. ‘How about the pay-box?’ it asked sharply.
Mr Glossop lowered his voice. ‘I’ve paid out, here,’ he said cautiously. ‘Nowhere else. I should have been at the end of the rounds by now. Tonight, I’ll watch it,’ he added fretfully.
‘Tell him,’ the Matron said tranquilly, ‘that I shall lock it in my safe.’ She came into the office and sat at one of the two desks. She was a stocky woman with watchful eyes and a compassionate mouth.
Mr Glossop finished his conversation in a hurry, hung up the receiver and got to his feet. His tremendous circumference rose above the edge of the table and was rotated to face the Matron. He passed his hand over his face, glanced at it and pulled out a handkerchief. ‘Warm,’ he said.
‘Very,’ said the Matron. ‘Nurse!’
‘Yes, Matron?’ A very small figure in a blue uniform and white cap rose from behind the second desk where she had been studiously avoiding overhearing Mr Glossop’s telephone call.
‘Hasn’t Miss Farquharson got back yet?’
‘No, Matron.’
‘Then I’m afraid you must stay on duty until either she or Miss Warne returns. I wish to speak to Miss Farquharson when she comes in.’
‘Yes, Matron,’ said the small nurse in a very small voice.
‘I’m extremely annoyed with her. And now I want you to telephone Mr Brown’s grandson. Mr Sydney Brown. The number’s on the desk there. Mr Brown has asked for him again. He could come out on the next bus but it would be quicker