by Carola Dunn
“You do it, would you? Otherwise you might wait weeks before I remember to take it in.” She tested a grain of rice. “This is ready. I need to drain it and I don’t want to scald anyone. Do go through to the other room and help yourselves to sherry. You might pour one for me, too. Or there’s beer if you prefer, Nick.”
The whole of the rest of the ground floor was one room. Where the wall between the cottages had once stood, a beamed arch divided sitting and dining areas, the latter denoted by a gate-legged table in the window overlooking the dahlias.
Once when visiting the Prthnavis, Eleanor had gone upstairs to the loo and, through an open bedroom door, had caught sight of a picture of Krishna and his lover, the milkmaid Radha. In the downstairs room, however, the furnishings were thoroughly English, chintzes in lavender blue and lavender green, and polished oak. Above the fireplace hung a painting of Kynance Cove.
While Nick poured sherry for the ladies and a beer for himself, Eleanor told him what Lois had said about his paintings.
He grinned. “I expect I could do something that would fit in here.” He took Lois her drink. On his return he went over to the record player and started looking through the records. “Mozart Clarinet Quintet, Benny Goodman. Britten’s Four Sea Interludes. It might help to listen to different sea music…” His gaze became abstracted. Humming a tune unfamiliar to Eleanor, he took an LP out of its sleeve and put it on the turntable.
The sound of the front door opening and closing distracted him before Eleanor had time to suggest he should ask their hostess’s permission before playing the record. The doctor was home.
Eleanor was instantly certain that she’d be wasting his time. If he knew of someone missing, he’d have rung the police. If he was needed to communicate with the rescued man, DI Scumble could hardly fail to think of him.
They heard him talking to Lois in the kitchen. Then he came to greet them.
“Namaste, Eleanor. Namaste, Mr. Gresham.”
“Namaste, Rajendra.”
Self-consciously, Nick said, “Namaste, Doctor.”
“I am happy to welcome you to my house. You will excuse me if I go and change before dinner.”
“Would you mind if I put on a record?”
“Please, help yourself.” With a little bow, he went out.
“He’s not going to put on a dinner jacket, is he?” Nick asked in a voice full of misgivings.
“Good lord no. Even if he usually did, he wouldn’t because you and I aren’t in evening dress. He wouldn’t want to make us uncomfortable. I’m sure he’s just changing into something more comfortable than the suit he wears for work.”
“He does dress rather formally. Not the tweedy country doctor sort.”
“With patients already wary because of the colour of his skin, he can’t afford to give them anything else to cavil at.”
“Surely there isn’t much of that sort of attitude here in Cornwall. Enoch Powell does his rabble-rousing in the big cities.”
“That’s where his audience is,” Eleanor pointed out, “where most Indian immigrants settle. People here don’t in general feel threatened by the influx.”
“And then there are always mindless idiots like Chaz. He really embarrassed Julia. She’s a nice girl.”
How times changed, Eleanor reflected, and not always for the worse. In her young days, a “nice” girl might well have let the victim die rather than strip and climb into a sleeping bag with him, naked as he was. That part of the story was better kept from Jocelyn. It would pose her a moral dilemma bound to upset her no end.
“She said Chaz isn’t her boyfriend,” Nick said ruminatively. “I wonder whether she has a steady.”
Eleanor didn’t like this trend in his thoughts. She still nourished hopes of a closer rapport between Nick and Megan. But she had nothing against Julia, not to mention that it was none of her business.
“She’s a bit young to settle down, isn’t she? She has her degree to think about.”
Nick laughed. “These days, having a steady boyfriend is a temporary state of affairs, not necessarily a precursor to settling down. O tempora! O mores!” With that he turned on the record player and set the needle on the disc. As peaceful, contemplative music filled the room, his eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look.
Eleanor didn’t understand how music became transformed into pictures in his mind. To be honest, she didn’t understand the pictures once he put them on canvas. But she was delighted that, since her art dealer friend had taken him up, he had been doing very well with his musical abstracts—his “real” art as opposed to his “tourist” art.
Lois came in to set the gate-legged table. Jerked from his dream, Nick got up to help and then went with her to the kitchen to carry dishes through. Rajendra came down in grey slacks and a hand-knitted maroon pullover. They all sat down to eat.
Eleanor discovered she was very hungry. Since lunch, she’d had nothing but the sherry, not even a cup of tea from Bob Leacock’s thermos.
As Lois had requested, Nick and Eleanor didn’t broach the reason for their visit while they were eating. Nick and Rajendra talked about music and art, with Lois contributing a word now and then. Eleanor, her mind a little fuzzy from the effect of alcohol on an empty stomach, concentrated on the food. The meal tasted as good as it smelled.
Her travelling life had allowed Eleanor little opportunity for cooking—or art and music, for that matter—so she always greatly appreciated other people’s culinary skills. Nevertheless, she was glad when everyone finished eating and they moved to the other side of the room.
At least, she and Rajendra did. Nick, ever obliging, helped Lois clear the table.
Rajendra stooped to turn on the Calor gas log. “The evenings are getting chilly. What is it you wanted to talk to me about, Eleanor?”
“It’s complicated. And, come to think of it, I don’t actually know the whole story.” She had missed the rescue, and the odds and ends she’d heard from the others did not make a coherent whole. On the other hand, did the doctor really need all the details? Lois would want to hear the story, though. Feeling muddled, Eleanor hesitated, unable to decide. “I’m too tired to think straight. Perhaps Nick had better tell you.”
“He’s in on this … whatever it is? I thought he was just acting as your chauffeur. This is all very mysterious.”
Lois returned with an electric percolator, followed by Nick with a tray of cups and saucers, sugar bowl, and milk jug. At the doctor’s request, Nick embarked on the tale.
Eleanor was eager to hear the bits she had missed. Despite her best intentions, however, she drowsed off, as she discovered when the ring of the telephone roused her.
“Oh dear…”
“I’ve just got to DI Scumble’s unexpected arrival,” Nick informed her. “You’ve deflated my high opinion of myself as a raconteur.”
Rajendra answered the phone. After giving the number, he listened for a moment, then said, “Speak of the devil! We’ve been taking your name in vain, Inspector … My wife, myself, Mrs. Trewynn, and Mr. Gresham…” An explosive noise came from the receiver. “You’d better ask them yourself … Ten minutes? Right you are.”
“He’s coming here?” Lois asked. Eleanor saw she was upset by the plight of the victim and the hazards Megan had run to save him. “I’d better put on another pot of coffee.”
Nick sighed. “No doubt he’ll be posing the questions I was leading up to, so I won’t bother. We really came in case he didn’t.”
Lois turned at the door. “But you will finish the story? You’re an excellent raconteur. You can’t stop now. I shan’t be a minute.”
“All right. There’s not much more, but I’ll stop when Scumble arrives, finished or not. He’s not too keen on me.”
“A competent officer,” said the doctor, “but his manner is not ingratiating.”
“You’re telling me!” said Eleanor.
Lois came back and Nick resumed the story, telling how the inspector had sent Megan off half dressed in
the ambulance. “It was a sort of compliment, in his backhanded way. He said—after she’d gone—that she was the only available officer he could rely on to make sense, if humanly possible, of anything the chap might say. That’s assuming he’d speak in English, possibly garbled to some extent.”
“And if he doesn’t speak English?” Rajendra said dryly. “I take it that’s where I come in.”
When the doorbell rang, Rajendra went to open the door. He could be heard exchanging polite greetings, in English, with DI Scumble, then he ushered him into the room.
Scumble’s greeting to Lois was punctilious. “Good evening, Mrs. Prthnavi.” Then he turned to Eleanor and Nick. “All right, so what are the pair of you doing here?”
“The Prthnavis are good friends of mine,” Eleanor protested. “Am I not allowed to visit them? And bring a friend?”
“In the circumstances, something tells me there’s more to it than that. Gresham?”
“And good evening to you too, Inspector. We were afraid you might not find time to consult Dr. Prthnavi about the man DS Pencarrow rescued.” Nick glanced provocatively at his wristwatch.
“I hoped,” said Scumble through gritted teeth, “to avoid disturbing a busy GP. However, enquiries elsewhere have got us nowhere so far. Doctor, I take it you’ve heard all, or most, of the story by now.”
“Yes indeed. Mrs. Trewynn’s niece appears to have played a heroic part.”
“All in the day’s work for a police officer.” Noting Eleanor’s outrage, he relented slightly. “She did well. I walked down to the inlet, and it’s a hairy spot. Not where you’d choose to bathe.”
“But he’s going to be all right,” Lois said in a tremulous voice. “The boy she saved.”
“That remains to be seen, Mrs. Prthnavi. I rang the hospital just before I spoke to you. All they told me was that his condition is unchanged, which is worrisome.”
Rajendra frowned. “Do you want me to examine him? It’s not for me to interfere at the hospital with someone who is not my patient. If the housemen are out of their depth, they must call in a consultant.”
“But you are the local police surgeon, Doctor. There’s something fishy about him being found in the water there—pun unintentional. Whether it was accident or a suicide attempt, which may yet prove successful, the police are obliged to investigate. I’d like you to take a look at him. If you prefer, I’ll ask Superintendent Bentinck to authorise—”
“That won’t be necessary, Inspector. Can it wait till morning?”
“I’d rather you saw him tonight, sir. I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a long day.” As Rajendra started to stand, Scumble went on, “Just a couple of things I’d like to clear up first, if you don’t mind. I’m assuming, since you haven’t mentioned it, that you haven’t heard from anyone trying to locate a young man of … Indian appearance?”
“No. There aren’t many of us in this part of the world.”
“That’s why I’m asking you. And Mrs. Prthnavi would have told you, of course, if someone had tried to contact you?”
“No one did.” Lois was close to tears. “That poor boy!”
“Then one last question, sir. If … when … the young man comes round, supposing he doesn’t know English, do you speak any Indian languages? I gather there are several.”
“Hundreds, Inspector,” Rajendra said dryly. “I speak Gujarati fluently—my parents’ language. My Hindi and Urdu are passable. Otherwise, a few words here and there.”
Scumble sighed. “Then as well as your forensic medical expertise, Doctor, we may have to call in your services as an interpreter.”
EIGHT
Megan wasn’t worried about whether the patient spoke English or not. She was more concerned about whether she was going to fall asleep and slither ignominiously off her chair at his bedside. After working late last night and starting early this morning, followed by fresh air and strenuous exercise, she could barely keep her eyes open.
The ride in the Coast Guard helicopter had been mercifully brief. The noise alone was horrendous, and though they’d done their best to keep the patient warm, Megan had been bitterly cold.
On arrival at the Launceston hospital, she had been lent a pair of surgical-green drawstring trousers rather than a flimsy gown. Once she’d thawed in the well-heated ward, Julia’s pullover was rather too warm. She’d taken it off, but the scarlet polo-neck underneath seemed inappropriate, so she’d asked for a top to match the trousers. Not that anyone but the nurses could see her, as they were curtained off from the rest of the men’s ward.
The cubicle was in a corner. It included part of an outside window, the blind now drawn as night had fallen, and a slice of the interior window of the nurses’ room, so that the nurses could keep an eye on both the A&E patient and the ward as a whole. The cottage hospital didn’t run to a casualty ward.
From the patients beyond the curtains came the sound of muted chatter. Someone laughed; someone coughed. A rumble and squeak suggested the arrival of a trolley. A youthful female voice offered a choice of Ovaltine or Bovril. Their mingled odours seeped in, battling the prevailing smell of disinfectant.
Either drink would send Megan straight to sleep. She needed strong coffee.
She tried to concentrate on the man in the bed at her side. A mask covered his nose and mouth, connected by a tube to a machine on the other side of the bed that produced a soft, regular hiss. The sister had explained that it was to assist his breathing, which was still wheezy. If he roused and tried to take it off, Megan had to ring the bell for a nurse.
If he roused. The young houseman had found a contusion on the back of the patient’s head, which the ambulance men had missed. In spite of this, he was not actually unconscious, or comatose, just suffering from extreme lethargy caused by exhaustion and hypothermia. Megan couldn’t tell the difference.
Besides the breathing mask, he had an IV needle in his arm, leading to a bottle on a high stand. She hadn’t asked what was in the liquid, sure she would be none the wiser for knowing. She had asked what were the man’s chances of survival. The houseman refused to commit himself. A consultant would see the patient tomorrow; no doubt he’d provide a prognosis.
Megan sincerely hoped she would be relieved before then.
Between the curtains appeared a round face with flyaway blond hair escaping from a nurse probationer’s cap. “Hello,” she whispered. “Would you like something to drink, miss … officer…” She blinked at the green cotton trousers and smock. “They said you’re police?”
“I am. Detective Sergeant, but Miss will do. I don’t suppose you have coffee? I have to stay awake.”
“I’ll make you some. We don’t give it to the patients at bedtime. Just Nescaff, okay?”
“Fine. Black, please, no sugar.”
The face disappeared and the curtains closed. The trolley rumbled and squeaked away. Megan returned to her contemplation of the dark face on the snowy pillow.
The part she could see was smooth, no age lines, not even sun creases at the corners of his eyes. Early twenties, she guessed. Young and strong, or he’d not have survived his ordeal. Surely not even the stupidest, most ignorant of daring young men would choose to bathe in that narrow, rockbound arm of the sea, even on the calmest of days. There had been no sign of friends he might have been showing off to, no clothes cast off on the slate shelves bordering the water.
So where had he come from? What errant current had carried him to the perilous chasm carved by the waves and the Trevillet stream?
Megan tried to picture a map of the north coast. The overall shape of Cornwall was easy, sticking out into the ocean between the Bristol and English Channels, like a pointed, high-arched foot. But it was a much-battered foot, its margins indented, etched, hollowed out by the ceaseless assault of the stormy North Atlantic. It zigged and zagged unpredictably, like a choppy, whitecapped sea in a stiff breeze.
She knew her way about the district covered by CaRaDoC’s Launceston HQ, knew how to get from here to t
here, though she didn’t pretend to match her aunt’s intimate knowledge of the back lanes. If the coast zigzagged, the lanes twisted and turned like a coil of serpents, sea serpents, entangling her limbs, dragging her down, down—
“Miss!”
Startled, Megan opened her eyes and jerked upright. “I wasn’t asleep.” How trite! “Nearly,” she acknowledged.
“Your coffee. I made it good and strong.”
“Thanks. I really need it.”
“I can tell. I brought a couple of Rich Tea bics, too. I’ll come back now and then, if you like, and make sure you’re awake.”
“Super. My boss isn’t likely to pop in, but if he did and found me nodding off…”
The young nurse-in-training giggled. “Don’t I know it. Sister would kill me. Oh, and the night porter said a young man delivered a skirt for you.”
“A young man! Not my aunt?”
“A young man, he said.” She giggled again. “You must have a secret admirer! Do you want to change now?”
“No, thanks, when I leave. I’m better in these while I’m here.”
“Okay.” She whisked off, closing the curtains neatly behind her.
Nick, Megan thought, but how had he got hold of one of her skirts? The one she had been wearing, the one he’d used for the rope, was past resuscitation. Aunt Nell must have lent him the Incorruptible and the key to Megan’s flat. She didn’t like the thought of him rooting through her wardrobe, though it was something her job required her to do to other people’s personal belongings. It was kind of him, she supposed, even if probably done at Aunt Nell’s instigation.
The coffee was hot and bitter. It hit her stomach with a jolt. Gobbling down the biscuits, not usually one of her favourites, she realised she had had nothing to eat since lunch, and she was ravenous. Horlicks for “night starvation,” said the advert. She should have asked for some, or a cup of Bovril.
Did the small hospital have a canteen? It must have a kitchen, to feed the patients.
She dragged her mind away from food to check her own personal patient. He seemed unchanged. She couldn’t tell whether the faint wheeze was from his lungs or the machinery. Surely someone somewhere was worrying about him, wondering where he’d got to. Someone would report him missing. His identity would soon be discovered without her sitting here all night, starving and trying desperately not to fall asleep.