by Laura Wilson
‘One thing led to another…?’
‘Yes, but it’s not what it sounds like. The note, I mean. About arranging something. I know how it must seem, but…’
‘How must it seem?’
‘As if I was in trouble. I thought I might be, but it turned out I wasn’t.’
‘You thought you were pregnant?’
Fay nodded, miserably. ‘Yes.’
‘So when you wrote “arrange something”, what did you mean, exactly?’
‘Just…talk about what I – we – were going to do.’
‘Which was?’
‘We didn’t…We talked about it, and Duncan told me to wait a few days to be sure, so I did, and…’ Fay flushed. ‘It was fine.’
‘Did you discuss an illegal operation?’
Fay hesitated.
‘Dr Reynolds is dead,’ said Stratton. ‘He can’t be prosecuted. Neither can you, if you didn’t do anything.’
‘I didn’t! I didn’t need to. Honestly, Inspector.’
‘But you talked about it.’
Fay nodded. ‘He said, if I was pregnant he could arrange for me to go away somewhere…a nursing home…and they would, you know…’
‘Had he done this before, do you think?’
‘You mean, other girls?’
‘I meant procuring abortions. But yes, that too.’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know that he hadn’t – girls, or…the other thing – but I never heard any rumours.’
‘Do you know the name of the nursing home?’
‘I don’t even know if it was a nursing home. He just said he could make arrangements.’
‘When did you write the note?’
Fay thought for a moment. ‘I don’t remember the exact date, but I know it was quite soon after Easter, because I’d had two days’ leave and I’d gone to see my parents. They live in Cheltenham.’
Stratton did a quick mental calculation: April, May, June, July…three and a half months. Had Jenny begun to show by then? He couldn’t remember. Fay was shapely, but she was slim as a reed, so…
Fay, who seemed to guess what he was thinking, said sharply, ‘I’m not going to have a baby, Inspector.’
Stratton was covering his embarrassment by scribbling something totally unnecessary in his notebook when she added, in a pleading tone, ‘Inspector, I know you have to ask about all this, but surely you can’t think I had anything to do with Duncan’s death?’
This, Stratton remembered, was pretty much what Mrs Reynolds had said. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he answered, truthfully. ‘But,’ he held up his pencil for emphasis, ‘I shall get to the bottom of it one way or another. Now,’ he added, briskly, ‘if there’s nothing else you’d like to tell me…’
When Fay had gone, Stratton reflected that he still had no real idea if she was telling the truth. Some of the truth, certainly, but all of it? Had she been pregnant? Was Reynolds not only incompetent, but an abortionist as well?
After a moment spent staring into space, considering this possibility but reaching no conclusion, Stratton pocketed his notebook and left for the station.
Twenty-Six
Dr Dacre, now of the Middlesex Casualty Department, stood inside his self-appointed bolt-hole and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The room had been one of the hospital’s linen stores, several floors up and unused for this purpose since its window frame was torn out by a bomb blast and the sheets, coarse and patched but irreplaceable, had been turned to sandpaper by splinters of glass. Now, it was a repository for crutches and prosthetic limbs. Hanging slackly from a hook on the back of the door was a life-sized articulated human model, used by the student nurses for practising splints and bandaging, and Dacre sat – in halfdarkness, thanks to a loose board he’d managed to shove to one side – surrounded by the wooden hands and feet that protruded from the edges of the shelves.
Three days into his new job, Dacre had appropriated the key from the head matron’s office. Here, secreted in the corner of a cupboard full of callipers, he kept a medical dictionary, which he consulted by torchlight whenever a patient with a tricky set of symptoms presented himself and couldn’t be palmed off on his elderly colleague, Dr Ransome. Absenting himself to hare up four flights of stairs wasn’t always easy, but the hospital was so busy that, so long as he looked purposeful, no-one, thus far, had asked where he was going. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to look out for Fay. He’d seen her twice, but on both occasions she was with a group of other nurses, and he needed to get her on her own. A chance meeting, or an engineered chance meeting, was what was needed, and, as the days passed, the more frustrated he felt. He didn’t want to make his intentions known by asking one of the other doctors about her – that would invite interest, and ribaldry as well, and he wasn’t having that: Fay was not to be shared with anyone, even in jest.
Everything else, however, was going nicely. Now, nearly two weeks in, barring one appalling incident when he’d been about to inject a child with a lethal dose of insulin and only just noticed in time, things were going as smoothly as could be expected, and he was beginning to enjoy himself.
After an introduction from Wemyss, the all-important ‘interview’ with Professor Haycraft had been almost farcically easy. Unwin’s description of the man in charge as a ‘nice old buffer’ had been spot on: absent-minded and with an air of learned helplessness, he was one of the easiest marks Dacre had ever dealt with. After some basic questions about his training and previous experience, Dacre had produced his forged references. This had been the most hazardous part of the interview – if Haycraft had decided to contact any of the professors from St Andrews who’d supposedly written them, he’d have been in trouble. However, the old boy had simply nodded and said, ‘These seem to be in order. Frankly—’ here he’d given Dacre a rueful smile, ‘I’m not disposed to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, I know McDermott,’ he tapped the topmost paper. ‘Good man.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘I expect you’d like to see where you’ll be working.’ Haycraft had risen. ‘I’ll give you the tour myself. Just let me go and speak to my secretary.’ He chuckled. ‘She keeps me on rather a tight rein, you see.’
When he’d left the room, Dacre took the opportunity of pinching some headed writing paper from a pile in a tray on the desk: bound to come in useful at some point, he thought. He was back sitting innocently in his chair when Haycraft returned.
‘Permission has been granted, but only for ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Off we go.’
Dacre guessed that the secretary probably wasn’t bossy at all, but merely a handy prop to ensure that his new boss didn’t have to do much of anything he didn’t want to do, and Dacre was more than happy to collude.
As they strolled towards the Casualty Department, Dacre had felt as if he were part of a stately progress. Haycraft walked along like the naval officers he’d seen in films patrolling the upper deck, with his chest out and his hands behind his back. At the sight of him, voices were hushed and everyone stood to attention, and Dacre basked in the reflected glory. ‘I must say,’ the professor told him as they went down the corridor, ‘your arrival is something of a godsend. It’s most irregular, but we’re absolutely desperate for another pair of hands.’
‘I rather gathered, sir. Dr Wemyss told me about poor Dr Reynolds. And Nurse Leadbetter, of course.’
‘Dreadful business, dreadful. Never known anything like it before. I really don’t know,’ Haycraft shook his head in wonder, ‘what the world is coming to. Now,’ he continued, as they turned the corner and went downstairs, ‘we are the key institution in Sector Five, and, as such, we’re the main casualty receiving point for the area. We keep two hundred beds for them. As soon as they’re fit to travel, they either go home, or we move them to other hospitals in the sector. We have a first-aid post for minor injuries. All the operating theatres are on the lower floors now, of course, and we have an emergency accumulator in case the power gets interrupted…�
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They reached the heavy double doors of the Casualty Department, and Dacre smoothly stepped forward to hold one open for the professor. ‘Thank you. Now, this is the sharp end, as you might say. As you can see, we have all the—Sister Radford!’ A large, pink-cheeked woman of around fifty had hurried past the rows of waiting patients and was hovering by his elbow. She bobbed slightly as Haycraft addressed her, as if barely able to restrain herself from curtseying. ‘This is Dr Dacre. He’ll be coming to our aid – very shortly, I hope.’ Turning to Dacre, he said, ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Dacre, heartily. ‘As soon as you like.’ At that moment, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t really a doctor, and honestly felt that nothing would be finer than to step into the breach and heal the sick. He gave Sister Radford a beaming smile and received one in return. To show her that he appreciated her charms as a woman as well as her authority, dedication and whatnot as a nurse, he gave her the quick up-and-down look: eyes, lips, eyes, breasts, eyes, holding each fractionally – but not vulgarly or lasciviously – longer than he normally would. Simple, but, as usual, it did the trick.
‘Splendid,’ said Haycraft. ‘We’ll get you, er…bedded down…’ he paused to give his listeners a chance to chuckle at this witticism, which they duly did, ‘…straight away. Is Dr Ransome about?’
‘I’m afraid he’s rather tied up at the moment, sir. He had to go and speak to the house surgeon.’
‘Never mind. Ransome,’ Haycraft told Dacre, ‘is in charge of this department. You’ll meet him later. Anyway, let’s have a look round, shall we? Sister, lead the way.’
Sister Radford bustled off towards the row of wooden screens that concealed the patients being treated, and the two men followed.
‘We’ve had to create a sort of overflow, as you might say, in this area,’ said Haycraft. ‘Now then,’ he added, as they approached the first patient, a youngish woman with lank red hair and protruding teeth, who was sitting dejectedly in one of the temporary cubicles, ‘what have we here?’
Dacre felt his scrotum shrink and his stomach lurch. Up to now, he realised, his confidence had been that of an actor who had learnt his lines. He’d thought he had prepared himself for the moment when he’d been called upon to display practical evidence of medical expertise, but now, his script gone, he must ad-lib.
‘This is Miss…’ Sister Radford glanced at one of several charts that were hanging on the wall. Most of them were covered in illegible inky squiggles, but one was blank apart from a name at the top. ‘…Miss Kendall.’
Dacre, aware that both Haycraft and the sister were watching him expectantly, advanced on Miss Kendall. Apart from the dispirited air, he could see nothing wrong. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ he asked.
‘It’s this, Doctor.’ Miss Kendall took off her coat and then, to his horror, began unbuttoning her blouse, revealing first the white upper slopes of what were clearly very nice breasts, second, an uplift brassiere, and third, a flaming red rash across the lower part of her chest. Dacre, horribly aware that he was starting to blush, stared helplessly as Miss Kendall removed the blouse entirely and halfturned to show him that the rash was all over her back as well. ‘’Ad it since this morning,’ she said. ‘Itching something terrible.’
Dacre tried desperately to keep his eyes on her face, which, he noticed, was thickly smeared with cosmetics. She couldn’t be a…Could she? Secondary stage syphilis, perhaps? His mind raced. There was a test, wasn’t there, the Wassermann reaction…And he ought to examine her…Oh, God. He must think. Slow down, and think. Perhaps it wasn’t venereal at all, but some highly contagious plague. The bumps certainly looked angry enough, although – he took a couple of paces forward to study the woman’s back – they didn’t appear to be actually suppurating, which, he supposed, was all to the good…Maybe it was something simple, like measles or chickenpox, that any doctor worth his salt would be expected to recognise instantly – but surely only children had those? Christ Almighty, he didn’t have a bloody clue…His heart was thumping so loudly that he was amazed the others couldn’t hear it gonging away in his chest.
‘Well?’ asked Haycraft, from behind him. ‘What do you make of it?’
Keep calm, Dacre told himself. Play for time…Time. The professor had said he only had ten minutes, hadn’t he? They must be pretty well up by now. ‘Well…’ Smiling, he turned to look at the professor, who had removed his pipe from his pocket and was busy stuffing it with tobacco. As Dacre began to speak, he discreetly rubbed his arm against his side so that the sleeve of his shirt and jacket rode up over his wrist, then deliberately gestured with his hand, revealing his watch. ‘I often think that being a good doctor means knowing when to leave well alone…’ Haycraft raised his eyebrows, ‘but,’ Dacre continued quickly, with another flourish of his watch arm, ‘in this case—’
‘Good heavens!’ Haycraft, seeing the glint of metal flash before him, had removed his thumb from the bowl of his pipe and was looking at his own timepiece. ‘I’m sorry, Dacre, but I must get back or,’ he chuckled, ‘I shall be in trouble. I’ll leave you in Sister Radford’s capable hands. I’m sure she can give you the grand tour far more thoroughly than I ever could. Come back up when you’re finished, and the administrative people can sort you out…’ He held out his hand to Dacre, who shook it. ‘Wonderful to have you on board.’
Sister Radford, delighted by the compliment, was practically skipping as she escorted Haycraft to the door of the ward. Dacre, left alone with Miss Kendall, breathed a sigh of relief – evidently audible, as she gave him a shrewd look and said, ‘Well, he likes you, don’t he?’
Taken aback at this lack of deference, Dacre said briskly, ‘Button up your blouse.’
‘Aren’t you doing to examine me, then?’
‘You haven’t got this anywhere else, have you?’
‘No, you seen it all.’
‘Well, then.’ Now that he wasn’t being observed, Dacre’s head cleared and he began to concentrate. Diagnosis, he thought. Take a history. ‘How long have you had the rash?’
‘Since this morning. I told you.’
‘And it’s itchy?’
‘Yes.’
‘We can give you something for that,’ he said, remembering the calamine lotion that his mother had used for nettle stings when he was a child.
‘Have you a temperature?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘Well, do you feel at all hot?’ asked Dacre, warming to his role.
‘Not really.’
‘Have you ever had this before?’
Miss Kendall shook her head.
‘Have you had any other symptoms?’
‘I was sick.’
‘When was that?’
‘In the night. Three times. Must have been something I ate.’
‘Which was?’
‘Tinned lobster and salad. Oh, and some bread and marge.’
Aha, thought Dacre, remembering what he’d read about food poisoning. This was going to be a piece of cake.
‘Mum was saving the lobster specially,’ said Miss Kendall.
‘How long for?’
‘Ooh, six months or so, I should think.’
‘Did it taste all right?’
‘Dunno. I thought it was a bit funny, but then I never had it before.’
‘Were you the only one who ate it?’
‘Yes. Mum left it for me, for a treat ’cos I’m on leave. I’m on the land, see? I was really looking forward to coming home,’ she said, sadly, ‘and now it’s all spoilt.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you better,’ said Dacre, heartily. ‘What did you do before?’
‘Hairdressing.’
That, Dacre thought, explained the face-paint. He wondered if she wore it on the farm. ‘Bit different from pigs and cows.’
‘You can say that again, Doctor. Horrible smelly things, they are.’
She’d called him ‘Doctor’. Dacre glowed. ‘You’re sure y
our mother didn’t have any lobster?’
‘Not as I know of. She might of had some today.’
‘Well, when you get home, tell her to throw it away immediately. Now, you’re not to eat anything for the next twenty-four hours, but make sure you have plenty of liquids – water or tea, nothing stronger.’
‘You’re not giving me nothing for it?’
Dacre paused. He didn’t have a clue what to prescribe. The memory of a talk by the Radio Doctor made him say, ‘No. You see, your stomach and bowel are irritated by what you’ve eaten, and you need to give them a rest so they can start working properly again.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ Miss Kendall sounded disappointed.
At this point, Sister Radford returned and stood, in respectful silence, just inside the screen. ‘I think we’ve found the culprit, Sister,’ said Dacre, cheerfully. ‘Tinned lobster. Now,’ he turned once more to Miss Kendall, ‘you won’t be eating any more of that, will you?’
‘No, Doctor.’
‘Splendid. Off you go.’
‘What about the itching, Doctor? You said you could give me something for it.’
‘Yes, of course. Calamine lotion. You can get that from a chemist.’
Sister Radford summoned a nurse to fetch some paper, and Dacre scrawled Calamine Lotion across a page in large capital letters before presenting it to Miss Kendall. ‘There you are. Now, you just remember what I said, and you’ll be as right as rain in a couple of days.’
When his first patient had gone, Dacre turned to Sister Radford. Now he’d got the measure of her, he decided that the way forward was to establish himself as a charming maverick, with an easygoing, considerate manner. He’d start by a few more up-and-down looks – all women liked flattery – and by reinforcing what he’d said about too much medical interference (unless vital, of course) being a bad thing. ‘As I was saying earlier,’ he gave her his brightest smile, ‘it’s my belief that it’s best to let Mother Nature take her own course whenever one can. After all, the old girl knows what she’s doing, doesn’t she? But, you know, so many of these things could be prevented if people would only look after themselves better. After all, we have enough to do in the present circumstances…Besides,’ here, he favoured her with a boyish twinkle, ‘there’s nothing better than good, old-fashioned nursing. But,’ he added, seriously, ‘I’m sure you don’t have time to listen to me pontificating. Can you be spared to show me the ropes?’