The Black Seraphim

by Michael Gilbert

  “I may be entering, but I’m certainly not breaking. Not if I use my own keys.”

  “I’m not sure about that. I’d better have a word with Mac—mentioning no names.”

  “Anyway, suppose someone did see me going in or coming out, I’ve got a perfect right to be there. Keen young executive working overtime.”

  “I’m not trying to discourage you,” said Bill. “Just quieting my own conscience. I’m as anxious as you are to take a look at what’s in that safe. I’m not all that interested in tax fiddles. Everyone goes in for them. It’s information about the supermarket deal. The things I’m after are bank accounts, paying-in books and cheque stubs. They’re the giveaway where money’s concerned. They say there are two things you can’t hide: the spilling of blood and the passage of money.”

  “Well, I don’t anticipate spilling any blood.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Bill as he finished his beer. “But, for God’s sake, don’t get caught. You realise that if you did, you’d have to carry the can. I simply can’t afford to get involved. Bracher’s after my scalp already. He’d like nothing better than to make trouble for me and for the Journal.”

  “If I get into a mess,” said Philip with dignity, “it’ll be my fault. And my funeral.”

  Sixteen

  James was feeling hard done by.

  If, as he told himself repeatedly, he had done anything wrong, anything blameworthy, anything illegal, immoral or unethical, then he would at least have had the satisfaction of knowing that he deserved his fate. In fact, as he assured himself, he had behaved with complete correctness.

  There was, he supposed, no actual need for him to have suggested to Dr Barkworth that certain sections and samples be taken, but no pathologist worth his salt would have omitted so obvious a precaution. He could, he supposed, have refused point blank to discuss the question of symptoms with Dr McHarg. But that would have amounted to a deliberate concealing of facts, a sin against the most sacred tenet in the scientists’ creed.

  And what was the result of this absolutely proper, not to say praiseworthy and public-spirited conduct?

  The result was that the girl he wanted to marry now disliked and despised him. True, she had not actually said so. In fact, he had had no opportunity in the last two days to speak to her. He had glimpsed her distantly, going in and out of the Close, and had seen her once in the town, hurrying past on the opposite pavement. He had considered calling at the Deanery, but pride had stopped him. After all, he wasn’t the one who was in the wrong, was he?

  Damn, damn and damn.

  Peter, noting his depression, had suggested the obvious remedy, but James had no wish to go out and get drunk. All he wanted to do was to kick the furniture; and if it had been his furniture, he would probably have done this, but he could hardly take it out on the Chapter Clerk’s chairs and tables.

  At this point, when he was beginning to turn over in his mind some of the painless methods of committing suicide which were available to him as a doctor, the telephone rang in the hall.

  It was the Dean. He said, “Dr Scotland? I hoped I might find you in. If you happened to be free, I wondered if you’d walk round. There was something I wanted to discuss with you. There’s no urgency about it, but—”

  “I’ll be right with you,” said James.

  The Dean was in his study, surrounded by books and papers. He waved James to a chair, but remained standing himself. “Good of you to come. I’ve been wanting to have a word with you. Anything I say to you is, of course, in confidence. I am treating you as though you were my own doctor and I could speak quite freely.”

  “Yes,” said James uneasily. It seemed to him that too many people in the Close were treating him as their own doctor.

  “A number of our people have complained to me in the last few days of harassment by the police. It started as soon as we learned that the cremation of the Archdeacon had been postponed. Was I right to deduce a connection between these two occurrences?”

  James said, “Yes,” again.

  “You agree with me? Good. The next point I had to consider was the reason for the precise questions which were being put to—let me see—so far Openshaw, Julia Consett, Leonard Masters and Mrs Henn-Christie. There may have been others who have not reported the matter to me. The police appear to be interested in our luncheon party which preceded the Cathedral service for the Friends. And more specifically interested, judging by the people questioned, in the coffee which was served at the end of the meal. Can you think of any reason for that?”

  “The only reason I can think of is that they suppose that the coffee the Archdeacon drank was in some way responsible for his death.”

  “Exactly my own conclusion. I am glad you confirm it. The next question is, what substance could there have been in the coffee which would cause death within an hour?”

  James said, “You must understand that I am not in the confidence of the police and have no inside information. But the point you make had already puzzled me. There are poisons, like cyanide and prussic acid, which act almost instantaneously. There are others, such as arsenic and antimony, which may cause distressing symptoms within an hour or so, but in which death does not normally take place for a considerable period, often for a matter of several days.”

  “But if the original diagnosis of Dr Barkworth had been correct, then the timing would be normal.”

  “Then you knew what Dr Barkworth’s report said?”

  “I think you may assume,” said the Dean, “that everyone knows about it. These things have a habit of spreading.”

  “I see. Well, you are quite right. There have been a number of cases of virus influenza in which death has taken place in less than two hours.”

  “Then, judged from the symptoms alone, Dr Barkworth’s diagnosis is perfectly feasible.”

  James had the feeling, which he had sometimes experienced in court, that an astute counsel for the defence was leading him into making damaging admissions. He said, “Judged solely by the symptoms, yes. But one must assume that the police have got hold of some further evidence.”

  “Which they have not seen fit to disclose.”

  “Not yet.”

  “And until they do, we, as members of the public, have only guesswork to go on.”

  “I suppose that’s right.”

  “You confirm my view. It reinforces my decision. I shall forbid anyone in the Close to give any further information to the police.”

  James stared at him.

  “That is to say, I shall forbid anyone over whom I have direct jurisdiction. The others I shall advise. In most cases—” the Dean smiled grimly “—I think they will take my advice.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “You think it inadvisabl”Well,” said James, trying to express his feelings tactfully, “won’t it really amount to this, that you are setting yourself up as an alternative authority to the State?”

  “Interesting that you should put it in that way. Because in every country in which I have been involved in missionary work, my first task was always to assert the authority of the Church. Not always against the State. There were other contestants. In some cases, the existing religious hierarchy. In other cases, the Communist Party.”

  “Yes,” said James thoughtfully, “I can imagine that the ruling clique would normally be hostile to missionaries.”

  “Hostile, yes. But not often violent. Missionaries are more often expelled than actually maltreated. It is some time—” the Dean allowed himself a further smile “—since one of them has been eaten. The last case, I understand, was the Reverend Tomkins, who was consumed by South Sea islanders in 1901.”

  James was aware that he was being skilfully sidetracked. He said, “In some primitive communities the struggle between Church and State may still be open, but in the Western World the result, surely, has long been decided in favour of the State.”

  “By no means.” The Dean drew himself up to his full and impressive height. “What
people are always looking for is strong leadership. They won’t find it among the politicians today. There’s a power vacuum. A renascent, self-confident Church could fill it.”

  James wondered whether the Dean could possibly be serious. If he was, James foresaw no end of trouble. Before he could say anything, the Dean continued. “Ah, yes. I knew there was one other point I wanted to mention. I believe you have become attached to my daughter.”

  This time James really was speechless.

  “Perhaps I am wrong. If I am, I must apologise for having made a tactless observation.”

  “You’re not wrong,” said James thickly. “In the short time I have known her, I have become much attached to her.”

  “These things develop quickly,” said the Dean. He might have been talking of measles or whooping cough. “I imagine that my daughter reciprocates your feelings?”

  “I used to think she did. Not now, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh. Has there been some rupture?”

  “She seems to think that I’m overconscientious.”

  “In what way?”

  James hesitated for a moment and then decided to take the plunge. He said, “When I attended the post-mortem on the Archdeacon, the South Wessex pathologist, Brian Barkworth, having diagnosed virus influenza, seemed inclined to leave it at that.”

  “He had reasons, no doubt.”

  “Certainly. There was massive edema. That is, fluid in the lungs, which is a symptom of influenza. I suggested that certain sections ought to be taken – just as a routine precaution, you understand – and sent to the laboratory.”

  “Yes. I see. So that is why we are being subjected to persecution by the police.”

  This was not said in a way which suggested that he blamed James. Rather it was a dispassionate examination of cause and effect.

  “I’m afraid that’s right.”

  “My dear boy, you mustn’t take these things personally. No one can be blamed for searching out the truth.”

  “Canon Lister didn’t think so.”

  “Ah, but Tom was a limited rationalist. I can’t claim to think more deeply than he did, but I can claim to have seen more of life. If it has taught me anything, it has taught me this: Never stop halfway. The Bible instructs us. Having once put your hand to the plow, turn not back. Don’t listen to half-hearted counsels. Ignore opposition. Press on to the end.”

  The Dean paused for a moment and added, “Mind you, I’m talking about your scientific researches. Not about your project of marrying my daughter, or have I assumed too much? You were planning to marry her, I assume?”

  “I want to marry her as soon as I possibly can.”

  “Then I should counsel extreme caution. We’re a dangerous family.”

  That afternoon James went for a long walk. He needed time to think. When he got back to the Chapter Clerk’s house, he put a call through to the Medical Registrar at Guy’s. “Dr Gadney?” said the Registrar. “The doctor in charge at Aldermaston. Very sound man, Bill Gadney. Trained at Guy’s, of course.”

  “I thought I remembered the name. Did you know him, by any chance?”

  “Certainly I knew him. We played in the second row of the scrum together.”

  “That’s splendid. Because I want an introduction to him.”

  “An introduction?”

  “I mean, could you ring him and tell him that I’ll be getting in touch with him and—oh, well, you know what I mean.”

  He heard the Registrar chuckle. “Tell him that you’re a serious pathologist?”

  “Tell him that if it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t have got the results of the Pawle post-mortem.”

  “He’s probably guessed that already.”

  “Well, put in a good word. I want him to do me a favour.”

  “I thought you were meant to be on holiday.”

  “Things haven’t quite panned out that way.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re up to, but I could have a word with Bill. I’ve got his home number somewhere. I’ll give him a ring after he gets home this evening. He’ll be more relaxed then.”

  “Bless you,” said James.

  The next morning he telephoned Aldermaston. The Registrar had done his stuff. Dr Gadney was genial and co-operative. He said, “I’d be very happy for you to come up here and have a further look at those sections. A second opinion is always useful. But I’ve had a better idea. I believe you know Dan Leigh at New Cross.”

  “I worked under him for a year.”

  “Did you know that they’d just installed a beautiful new chromatographic analyser? An American model. God knows how they got the money to pay for it. Sheer favouritism.”

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  “It can be tuned up to analyse very small quantities. If there’s anything we’ve failed to spot, it will pick it up easily enough. What I could do is this. Just let me look at my diary for a moment. Yes. Today’s Tuesday. I’ve got to be up in London anyway on Thursday. I’m giving a talk to the medico-legal people that evening. If I brought up the samples with me, we could run them through the machine at New Cross on Thursday afternoon.”

  James had been thinking, too. He said, “There’s only one snag. The inquest opens on Thursday and I’ve been warned that I shall be called.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve already had a word with your Coroner, Andrew Rolfe. He’s going to start with the formal evidence on Thursday and take all the doctors together on Friday. Sensible idea, really. If he’s got four or five doctors to deal with, he can take them in sequence and we can all contradict each other to our hearts’ content. Incidentally, I’m planning to have lunch with Bunny on Thursday. Why don’t you join us?”

  James gathered that Bunny must be the Registrar, although he had never heard him called that before. He said he would be delighted to join them.

  “Splendid. We’ll run those samples through the super box of tricks at New Cross and see what comes out.”

  “We have a choice,” said the Chief Constable. “And it’s not an easy one. We could tell the Coroner that the inquiries we have been making have now reached a point where a charge is likely to be made. He’d take evidence of identification and adjourn the inquest. That would be the normal course.”

  “But would it help us?” said Superintendent Bracher.

  “You don’t think it would?”

  “I think it would make things even more difficult.”

  “Why?”

  “We seem to be up against a conspiracy of silence.”

  “Do you mean that people are refusing to answer questions?”

  “What they say is: ‘What are you asking all these questions for? What’s it all about? Everyone knows the Archdeacon died of flu. What are you stirring things up for?’”

  “Yes. I see. And you think if we show our hand, it will help your inquiries.”

  “People will at least know the score.”

  “So we put some of our cards on the table. That will mean calling people who were at the lunch party.”

  “Adey and Sandeman were both there.”

  “Not Sandeman. Everyone knows he dislikes the Dean. The jury would discount anything he said. All right, we call Adey. Then you’ll have to give evidence yourself, of course.”

  “To explain how we located Miss Lovelock.”

  “Miss Lovelock. Yes. That was a creditable piece of work.”

  Laporte consulted the list that he and Bracher were compiling with all the anxiety of a football manager selecting a team for a needle match. “Grant Adey will be an excellent witness. A very convincing man. The trouble is, he wasn’t really near the coffee table.”

  “What about Rosa?”

  “Rosa,” said Bracher and sighed. “I’ve given a lot of thought to Rosa. On balance, I think it would be better to keep her in reserve.”

  “Rosa won’t like that. She doesn’t want to be a reserve. She’s keen. She wants to be centre forward.”

  “That’s the trouble,” said Laporte. “She
’s too bloody keen.”

  “You would have thought,” said Driffield, “that they might have had more consideration than to start the inquest on a Thursday. It’s likely to run for at least two days. That’ll mean that we can only report the first day in our Friday issue and we’ll have to wait for a whole week before we can report the second day. And my guess would be that it’s the second day, when the doctors get going, that’s going to be the interesting one.”

  The lady reporter to whom he was talking agreed that it was inconsiderate. With the prospect of the most exciting inquest for years, they might, she thought, have considered the convenience of the local press.

  At the time this conversation took place, Edwin Fisher was saying to Bill Williams, “You’d better get there in good time. They’re using the council chamber, which is a reasonable-sized room, but the national press are just beginning to get in on the act. My guess is that it’ll be standing room only for latecomers.”

  “I’ll be there at crack of dawn,” said Bill. “I wouldn’t miss a word of it.”

  “It really is rather curious,” said Dr Leigh. He was a tall thin man with a giraffe-like neck and a sinister smile.

  “Unexpected,” agreed Dr Gadney, who still contrived to look like the formidable rugby player he had once been.

  “I wonder what it means,” said young Dr Scotland.

  The three doctors were examining a strip of graph paper down the centre of which ran a black line. It was like the crest of a mountain range, roughly level, but with occasional peaks.

  “That’s the N-propanol standard,” said Dr Gadney to James, indicating the largest of these peaks. “It’s inserted, as I expect you remember, as a measurement norm when making the routine checks for alcohol. Which in this case were entirely negative. But I must confess that until we had the assistance of your excellent machine—” he smiled at Dr Leigh “—I had not attached importance to that one.”

  He indicated a deviation in the line, little more than a wrinkle on the surface.

  “This machine is particularly good with volatile substances,” agreed Dr Leigh complacently.