Stephanie

by Winston Graham

  ‘I’m going to see Arun Jiva,’ he said. ‘He’s avoided me twice. If he’s not prepared to answer the door I shall wait. If I draw blank there I shall try Hillsborough before I come home.’

  Mary patted his arm. ‘Have a care.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Since Stephanie died Mary had taken to sharing his bed more often – not for any physical contact these days but for the companionship. She knew how badly James had taken the tragedy, but he was not a man to say much about it, and she believed, rightly, that she was a valuable outlet. Often they talked long into the night: he would take the tablets to contain the pain in his ankles, but never since Stephanie’s death would he touch sleeping pills. So sometimes they talked until three or even four, but when he woke in the morning she was always gone. It was as if the role of the housekeeper took over at dawn.

  He had put his wheelchair in the back of the estate car, but there did not appear much likelihood of his being able to use it.

  Oxford was as crowded as usual. Every time he came into the city he winced at the horrors of the new architecture. If they’d built it all in Cowley it wouldn’t have mattered. What had happened here was utter desecration.

  After a brief lunch he made for Jericho and Caxton Street and parked outside. For once there was room. Slide out of the driver’s seat, fish for the sticks, awkwardly up the two steps. Since Stephanie’s death he had used his legs much more. It didn’t suit them at all but he half welcomed the pain as a counterirritant.

  The bell yielded no result. He tried the knocker. He was aware that the curtain in the downstairs room had stirred. No answer. He took his stick and rapped loudly on the window.

  Wait. Silence. Then the door creaked.

  A three-inch gap. A stranger. But an Indian.

  ‘Is Dr Jiva here, please?’

  The man shook his head vehemently. ‘No. Not here. Gone away.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Don’t know. Not now.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ said James.

  ‘Can’t wait.’ The door was closing. James’s heavy boot was well adapted for putting in the way.

  ‘I want to come in.’

  The thin young man hesitated.

  ‘Are you from Mr Errol Colton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I must ask you to be leaving me alone!’

  ‘I want to know when Arun Jiva will be back.’ James put his shoulder to the door. The resistance was not great and he found himself in a tiny hall. The Indian had retreated halfway up the stairs. He was in a thin vest and a pair of striped pyjama trousers and was grey-faced and shivering.

  They stared at each other for nearly half a minute, then the Indian said: ‘Are you the doctor?’

  ‘No. Do you want one?’

  After another pause the Indian turned and stumbled up the stairs, disappeared into a room, and a door slammed.

  James limped with his sticks into the room on the right, a small sitting room. It was conventionally and sparsely furnished with little evidence of Asian influence and a few books with German titles among a round dozen on anatomy and pathology. There was a half-empty cup of tea, a tin teapot, some biscuits spilled on the floor. A few drawers were open and empty – some newspapers thrown untidily into a corner. In a wastepaper basket exam papers torn across, a notebook with diagrams. A coat and hat thrown on a chair, a pair of shoes as if kicked off.

  James looked at the coat. It was from Lewisohn of Carnaby Street: the material new and cheap but stained and crumpled. No shop name in the hat. He stopped and listened. This was a tiny house but he could hear no movement upstairs. He had never thought anyone else lived here but Arun Jiva. This sickly-looking fellow could just be visiting – or he might be a student. The room upstairs into which he had disappeared must be the one from which James had observed Jiva watching him when last he called.

  He lowered himself into a chair, put down his sticks and lit a cigarette. How long would Arun Jiva be, and what could he demand to know when they confronted each other? Were you a party to the murder of my daughter? An impossible question. Why was he here at all?

  What do you want? Arun Jiva would say. Who let you in? Your lodger upstairs who, by the way, looks pretty sick and appears to be waiting for a doctor. And how does he know Errol Colton’s name?

  III

  Fifteen minutes later, having recovered from the effort of getting here, James began to look round the house. He took his time, opening drawers and cupboards, a bureau, the fridge, the cooker, the shed outside at the back. All very normal. There was a non-European smell in the kitchen, and the existence of so many spice bottles on the shelves accounted for that. Moving clumsily about, he had made a considerable noise, but there was still no reaction from upstairs. Maybe the man had fainted. Shouldn’t one go to inquire if only for humanitarian reasons?

  Stairs were not the most impossible obstacle from James’s point of view – slopes were that – but a flight was not something he tackled lightly. He went up now, one best foot at a time, hand over hand on the rail, and sitting down twice on the way. They were steep, cheap stairs, relic of the jerry-builder who put up the house a hundred years ago. Three doors, the middle one obviously the bathroom and loo. He was sure it was the right-hand one.

  The Indian lay on the bed. His face was still drawn and grey but he looked better, more relaxed, his expression one of content. There was a smell of vomit in the room.

  They stared at each other. ‘When will Jiva be back?’ James demanded.

  ‘I have been telling you. He is gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Home to India. On the plane this afternoon. In nine hours he will be in Bombay.’

  As James came into the room he saw a photograph of Stephanie on the mantelpiece.

  ‘When will he return?’

  ‘Oh, he does not know. When it is convenient for everybody, he says.’

  ‘And who are you? What is your business here?’

  ‘My name is Nari Prasad. I am a relative. His cousin by marriage, you understand. You need not wait. Arun will not return.’

  ‘Until it is convenient for everybody, eh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was what you said, wasn’t it? That Arun Jiva would return when it was convenient for everybody.’

  ‘Did I say that? Maybe that is what he has told me. What is that you are taking up? I do not know who you are, sir.’

  ‘My name is James Locke. This is a photograph of my daughter, on holiday with your friend, Errol Colton.’

  Nari shook his head. ‘Errol Colton is not my friend. I do not think I have ever met him.’

  ‘Why did you expect him this afternoon, then?’

  ‘Because my cousin says he will be coming or will be sending a doctor to see me. I have been very ill. I am still very ill. I have a stoppage of the bowels.’ Nari’s face twitched at the memory of the pain which Arun’s tablets had driven away. He was feeling altogether better, less tense, quite willing to talk to this lame old man who had called, though anxious that the doctor should come. It was two hours since Arun had left.

  ‘How long have you been suffering from this complaint?’ James asked.

  ‘Oh, ever since I came from India, which is nearly two weeks ago, I am forgetting the time. It has been a very bad time for me, what with the pain, I can tell you, and your weather is so cold after Bombay!’

  ‘What have the other doctors said?’

  ‘Others? Oh, I have not seen one yet! There are reasons, which I must not explain.’

  ‘I suppose Dr Arun has been treating you himself. It is a pity –’

  ‘Oh no, sir, you misunderstand. He has not treated me except this afternoon before he left for India. I have only just come. Today I have just come.’

  James’s eyes wandered round the room. There were a few evidences of hasty departure: a wastepaper basket containing cotton wool, a bottle of aftershave, a tie, newspapers, what looked like an old vest. It might be useful to
examine it all a bit more closely if the opportunity arose.

  ‘Have you been staying with other friends in Oxford?’

  ‘No, no. To begin I stayed at a hotel in London, then I visited cousins in Birmingham. Now I cannot wait to return to India.’

  ‘When you have been cured.’

  ‘Exactly. When I have been cured.’

  ‘Why did Arun Jiva not tell you the name of the doctor who was coming?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Instead he gave you the name of someone you have never before heard of – Errol Colton. I can’t believe that!’

  ‘Well, it is true!’

  ‘What is Errol Cotton’s concern in this?’

  Nari edged his way up the pillow. ‘I do not think I wish to answer all your questions. Nor do I think you are entitled to ask them … Do you know Dr Arun?’

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘And what is the purpose of your visit?’

  ‘I wanted to put some questions to him.’

  There was the sound of a car outside. In the silence they both listened to the slam of a door. Then the bell rang.

  ‘Perhaps this is my doctor now!’

  James heaved himself up and hobbled to the window.

  ‘I believe you’re right,’ he said. ‘They have sent an ambulance.’

  ‘Then I will get dressed,’ said Nari.

  James opened the casement window. A man in a peaked cap and a white coat looked up.

  ‘We are upstairs,’ James called. ‘Can you come in?’

  ‘Right-ho, sir.’

  They waited. Nari was trying to struggle into his shirt, but as soon as he stood up nausea overcame him and he sat heavily back on the bed. James went to the door. A short, slightly bow-legged man was coming up the stairs. He had a bright Cockney face but dirty hands, and his white coat was too long for him.

  ‘Mr Nari Prasad?’ he said, taking out a card and reading from it.

  ‘Not I,’ said James, and indicated the bed, on which Nari was still lying back, feebly trying to get up.

  ‘Mr Nari Prasad?’ said the ambulance man. ‘Dr Jiva rang us, told us you was ill. We’ve come to take you to a nursing home where you’ll be properly looked after, see? No more trouble, then, no more worry. That’s the style …’

  ‘I am very sick,’ Nari whispered. ‘I think I am going over.’

  ‘Never you mind that. We’ll soon have you comfortable, like … Who’re you, sir? We was told just to collect the one gent, nothink about a second one. We don’t deal with the National Health, you know.’

  James said: ‘Are you from the Oxford Ambulance Division?’

  The man hesitated. ‘No, Abingdon. ’Ere, let me help you, Mr Nari Prasad. You’ll fall over wobbling about like that –’

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ James asked. Having gone back to the window, he was resisting a deep need to sit down and was staring at the ambulance.

  ‘Newfield Nursing ’Ome. Look, mate, you’d best let me ’ elp you with them trousers. Else we shall get nowhere in a long time.’

  ‘Newfield?’ said James. ‘ D’you mean Nuffield?’

  ‘No, sir. Newfield. Well known round here.’

  ‘Mr Errol Colton,’ muttered Nari. ‘I was told he would come for me.’

  ‘Don’t know nothing about that. We just got the word, see. At the Newfield you’ll have all the best attention. Everythink’s for the best there. None of your National Health.’

  Nari got to his feet again, swayed. The ambulance man helped him to zip up his trousers. ‘Where’re your shoes?’

  ‘Down – I think downstairs.’

  ‘This your weskit? Put your ’and on the rail. That’s it …’

  ‘The Newfield Nursing Home?’ said James. ‘In Abingdon?’

  ‘Just outside. Just on the outskirts. Lovely ’ome it is.’

  ‘I never remember hearing of such a home in Abingdon –’

  ‘Look, old man, is that your car outside? That shooting brake. Now suppose you could just move that, eh? Do something instead of asking questions. You don’t want the ambulance parked in the middle of the road when we’re taking a sick patient out, do you. Just you potter off downstairs and move it round the corner, eh? There’s a good scout. You move it, see, while me and Jim are looking after our patient. I’ll just whistle up for Jim.’

  He went past James to the window, brushing him aside. Nari was fumbling with his tie, trying to get it tied, but the cloth kept slipping through his fingers. He suddenly retched but brought nothing up. Then he sat down again, lay back, his eyes flickering and frightened. It seemed that Arun Jiva’s pills were having side effects.

  James said: ‘What is the telephone number of the Newfield Nursing Home?’

  ‘What?’ The ambulance man half turned. ‘What’s up with you? Can’t bother about that, mate.’

  James limped to the phone by the bed. ‘Do you or do you not know the number of the Newfield Nursing Home? If not, I can look it up.’

  The ambulance man banged on the wood of the window. ‘Why in ’ell don’t this open? Oh, it’s the other one, I see … Hey, Jim, give us a hand with the patient. I reckon we’ll ’ave to carry ’im.’

  ‘What is the name of your ambulance unit?’ James said in a loud voice. ‘ Perhaps I can check with them.’

  ‘Look, Jack,’ said the ambulance man, bending his face, no longer cheerful, close to James as he sat in the chair by the bed, flipping over the telephone book. ‘Look, we’ve ’ad enough of you, see? We’re ’ere to take this poor bugger to a nursing home, and you keep your big mug out of our way! Else we may trample on you. Eh? Get that? If I was you I’d just shut up and leave us do our duty. Savee?’

  Nari was moaning and turning his head from side to side. The front door banged. Jim had got the message. James began to dial.

  ‘What the flaming ’ell’re you doing now?’

  ‘Ringing nine-nine-nine.’

  Chapter Seven

  I

  James gave his own version of events to the sergeant who eventually arrived.

  He had, he said, called upon Dr Arun Jiva, who had been a friend of his daughter’s, but he had found no one at home except this young Indian who was clearly very ill. The Indian, it seemed, had only turned up that morning and Dr Jiva, himself about to leave the country, had rung a friend asking that Mr Nari Prasad should be looked after while he was away.

  While he and Prasad were talking an ambulance had arrived. This he thought unusual, to say the least, since it was unheard of these days for an ambulance to be called for a patient who was able to walk or to sit in an ordinary car. So he had taken a quick look through the window and seen that the ambulance not only did not belong to any of the local services but was not genuine. The engine and chassis was unmistakably a Citroën; the body more like a conventional shooting brake. It would, of course, have carried conviction to a foreigner, but it looked artificial to anyone used to living in England.

  So he had tackled the ambulance man, who was at first evasive and then tried to bluster his way through. Had the sergeant, for instance, ever heard of the Newfield Nursing Home? The sergeant shook his head, Nuffield, of course. Did they mean that?

  ‘Clearly not,’ said James. ‘ I asked for the telephone number of this Newfield Nursing Home and the man refused to give it. Instead he called his driver up to help him take away his patient. He became threatening to me. Of course I shouldn’t have stood a chance against two men, but when I dialled nine-nine-nine they panicked. They argued a minute at the bedroom door, and then when they heard me getting through they went back down the stairs together, slammed the door and the ambulance drove off.’

  The sergeant wrote something in his notepad.

  ‘D’you say Dr Arun Jiva has gone away for good, sir?’

  ‘This man Nari Prasad said he was returning to India. But there do seem to be a number of personal things still lying around.’

  ‘And this Nari whatever-it-is had only been in England a short wh
ile?’

  ‘He said he only arrived in Oxford this morning. I’ve told you he said he was suffering from a stoppage of the bowels.’

  The sergeant raised his eyebrows significantly. ‘Well, no doubt we shall know that soon enough, sir.’

  ‘Where have they taken him – the John Radcliffe?’

  ‘That’s correct. He’ll be well looked after there.’

  ‘He was very reluctant to go. I think if he’d been fully alive to what was happening he would have preferred to accept the ambulance after all.’

  ‘Being only a short while in England, it makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You mean he might be an illegal immigrant?’ James said.

  ‘That or worse. There’s no passport in his belongings. Very little of anything except a wallet. We’ve taken possession of the pills that were beside the bed; but he said these were left him by Dr Jiva. The question of whether Dr Jiva was entitled to have them in his possession is another matter we might go into later.’

  James picked up his sticks. ‘You’ll let me know how the man goes on?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. We’ll be in touch. I’m sure the Inspector will like to have a word with you. I presume …’

  James got up. ‘What?’

  ‘I presume you are the Mr James Locke whose daughter died in such tragic circumstances recently?’

  ‘I am – unfortunately.’

  ‘Unfortunate indeed. I wasn’t on that case. But it strikes deep – that sort of thing.’

  James nodded. ‘It strikes deep.’

  ‘Do you need any help to your car, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you. I can manage if I take it slowly.’

  II

  The photograph was of Errol Colton and Stephanie; standing in a theatrical attitude on what presumably was a balcony in Goa. They were both naked.

  On the back was written, ‘Just Good Friends’.