'Regiment?'
It had taken Charles and Laurence some time over the previous week to place Robert in a suitable regiment. 'Instant pitfal, this,' Charles had said. 'You can count on someone's cousin having been in the same outfit, however obscure it might be, and that same cousin being clapped up in Holmwood. You know how it is with cousins?'
Laurence had no cousins but through Charles had observed their mysterious degree of social penetration.
And for God's sake keep him out of the Artists' Rifles; being mad is practicaly a prerequisite for joining.'
In the end Charles had suggested an empire regiment. 'That's where a lot of oddbals ended up.' They had debated the merits of the Canadian and South African Expeditionary Forces.
'Anyway, Chilvers was far too old for service, even as a medic,' Laurence had said, 'and his son was never a soldier, and Holmwood's a tiny place, and it's not as if the existing patients have a committee of acceptance. It's not White's, Charles.'
He was finding that dissembling was moving from a necessity to something approaching a game with someone to share it with. Charles had given him a long, appraising look.
'Queen Victoria's Own Madras Sappers and Miners,' Laurence now said confidently to Chilvers.
'Do you have a connection with India?'
'Yes,' said Laurence. At least my sister— our sister—lives out there with her family.' It was strange to be teling the truth, briefly.
'And you have other siblings?'
'No.'
'Parents?'
'Both dead.'
Chilvers wrote carefuly, his expression attentive. Laurence tried to ignore a pang of guilt.
'Your brother is unmarried?'
'Yes.'
'This must be quite a burden for you,' Chilvers observed matter-of-factly. 'The sole responsibility for an invalid is never easy.'
'I have an aunt,' Laurence said. He needed the aunt to provide a place where Robert was currently domiciled.
'Any ilnesses before the war?' he asked.
'We both survived diphtheria as children,' Laurence said, letting the imaginary brother share his infections. 'Otherwise just childhood diseases.' He was becoming more relaxed, soothed by the anodyne questions.
'Any sign of previous mental instability? In your brother's case or with any other family member?'
Laurence was briefly surprised; it was not as if shel-shock was hereditary.
'No.'
They went on to discuss Robert's general background and then his present condition and treatment, al mapped out for Laurence by Eleanor Bolitho. Laurence had learned it by heart and hoped it didn't sound too pat.
'I should warn you,' said the doctor, 'not to expect miracles and not to be disappointed if there are setbacks. What we sometimes see is that when a patient is taken out of his usual environment to this place where there are few expectations of him, least of al to be the man he once was, and with our regime, good food, plenty of rest and encouragement to move beyond his war experiences, he visibly improves, sometimes quite fast. Splendid for his loved ones, of course. But sometimes the cost of dismantling the habits he may have assembled to help him bear the unbearable—abandoning him unarmed, as it were, to confront his memories—may leave him vulnerable. We've had men who arrive here refusing to sleep, or who never speak. We have men who compulsively folow exact and occasionaly quite outlandish routines: who won't remove soiled clothes or bathe. One, I recal, kept his ears plugged with wool and Vaseline jely. Al of these protections are barriers; al serve to keep them as solitaries. We try to equip a man with better ways to confront the terrors he suffers but there is nevertheless a dangerous period of raw, unprotected insight.
'There was a mother once whom I particularly recal; her son came in as a living body inhabited by a dead man. He lay in the dark, mute, apparently unhearing, curled up, facing the wal. He responded to neither heat nor cold, pinprick, bright light nor sudden noise. To be honest, I thought it was a hopeless case. He was very frail: his temperature was always abnormaly low, his pulse slow; we wrapped him in blankets and hot-water bottles, and we chafed his hands. We fed him by tube.
'We did everything for this patient. My son urged me to have him removed to a larger, probably more permanent institution, but his mother begged me to keep him. She didn't want him moved again. She sat there, stroking him, talking to him. About his dog, about fishing. She brought the seasons into the room: leaves fel, snow drifted, corn ripened in the fields, the pond at home dried up, the barley was gathered in, the wind brought down an old barn. She continualy changed the photographs by his bed. She put books there for him, which she selected carefuly and replaced every so often. Sometimes they were children's picture books, some were boys'
adventure stories. One was about Captain Scott's expedition, I recolect.
'And slowly, over months and months, he improved. Astonishingly, he improved. His senses came back. His wits came back. He began to eat, to talk, to read and to smile when he saw his mother. To remember. Eventualy she suggested he should be alowed home for a weekend and we agreed. He cut his throat in his mother's bed on his first evening back. He wrote one line to say he simply couldn't live with his memories. His mother told me she sometimes wished he'd been kiled outright in Flanders or that she'd accepted him as he was before we treated him.'
Chilvers was obviously stil moved by the case. He looked drawn and tired. Laurence felt uncomfortable, hearing this tragic account in response to his own lies.
Chilvers took off his spectacles and started to polish them. 'In a little while, I shal get my son to escort you round the premises and explain a little of how we treat such cases as you go along. I find that is usualy the most effective way of covering al the possibilities.' He rang a smal bel. 'But in the meantime, no doubt you have questions of your own?'
Laurence struggled to articulate the apparently innocent but potentialy fruitful enquiries he'd planned with first Eleanor and then Charles's help, and the questions that he felt Chilvers would expect him to ask if he realy had a brother in need of care. For reasons he could not put his finger on, their discussion had unsettled him. He also knew that he had come prepared for a charlatan, even a sadist, and Chilvers, although perhaps a little certain in his ideas, was neither. Confronted with Chilvers'
insights, and given that the man had naturaly enough heard plenty of stories of war from his patients, Laurence was acutely aware that it was he who was in fact the impostor.
'By the way,' the doctor said, 'I wondered how you heard of us. I assume it was a personal recommendation?'
Laurence flailed. 'Yes.' Could he name the Emmetts? Would the family of a runaway suicide have suggested he put his brother in the same institution? Suddenly a conversation he'd had yesterday came to him.
'It might have been Lord Verey, I think. I met him at a dinner. For charity,' he improvised. 'And I mentioned Robert only towards the end.'
The room was silent. Laurence thought that he probably cut an implausible figure as a dining companion for the great and good.
Then the doctor said slowly, 'As I believe I mentioned earlier, we are always discreet, but I think Lieutenant Verey's case—a very sad situation—could be considered one of our successes. His physical injuries were so severe that I thought at first his state of mind was entirely contingent on those limitations. It was also obvious that he would need virtualy ful-time nursing care and I had some doubts as to whether he would be suitable for Holmwood at al. We pursue quite... vigorous treatment here and to have cases that are not susceptible to any kind of improvement is bad for the morale of the others, quite apart from taking up a bed that might be better used by another. But his lordship was very insistent—perhaps at that stage he felt a confidence only a father could—and he was happy to support the hiring of extra nursing staff. Young Verey improved more than I could ever have hoped.'
Before Laurence could respond, and while he was stil trying to disguise his relief that his improvisation had succeeded, there was a knock
on the door and a man, probably in his middle thirties, came in. Though the newcomer was slimmer and lighter-haired than Dr Chilvers, the similarity was such that Laurence realised it must be his son. There was a certain formality in their response to each other but presumably that was because Laurence was there.
'George,' the doctor said. 'This is Captain Bartram.'
Laurence shook hands with George Chilvers. Even-featured and of average build, he was as handsome as had been reported and in a way Laurence suspected would be attractive to women. His reddish-gold hair was slicked to a sheen and his trim figure was enhanced by expensive tailoring.
'Perhaps you could show Captain Bartram around?' the older man suggested. 'After that, we might meet to discuss any further questions he might have.'
They moved into the hal. A slight man in his twenties was crossing it from one room to another. His trousers were so loose, Laurence noticed instantly, that they had been gathered in deep folds and were held up by an old tie used as a belt. The man stopped when he saw them and started to go back into the room he had just left. Doctor Chilvers moved towards him and placed a reassuring hand on his arm, nodding towards his son and Laurence. Laurence observed Chilvers' firm but comforting demeanour: while he talked, he kept his hand gently where it had lain and looked the man in the eye. Eventualy the younger man smiled slightly and glanced at Laurence.
'How do you do?' he said softly and then hurried into the next doorway.
Chapter Fifteen
Laurence was surprised how exhausted he felt when he got back to the Bul. If he had been able to admit his real interest to Chilvers, he felt the doctor could undoubtedly have helped him. Except that if he had mentioned John, Chilvers would probably have disappeared behind a screen of professional reticence. Seeing the place had been helpful and fairly reassuring, but Chilvers' own perceptions had both disturbed and moved him.
A couple of hours later, he and Charles were exchanging information: his incomplete impressions for Charles's more substantial progress.
'Wel, apart from the fact that our disgruntled one-armed friend and his chum could drink both of us under the table, it's been a useful exchange, ale for il-wil. I was glad when the landlord caled time, though,' Charles said. 'But to start with: there's something his sister either didn't know or didn't tel you. Emmett was front man on a firing squad. Dr Chilvers told the coroner that his patient had been very troubled by the execution.'
'Neither Mary nor her mother attended the inquest,' Laurence said. He was certain Mary had no idea. 'But, God, poor man.' He'd known one young officer who was ashamed that he'd faked ilness to get out of presiding over a firing squad but, as the subaltern said, he would have felt ashamed either way.
'And another odd thing,' Charles remembered. 'This was probably just a straightforward bit of trouble-making but the sacked employee commented in passing that given that one of Emmett's main symptoms was paralysis of the right arm, it was strange that he'd managed to shoot himself with it.'
Laurence sat forward. 'Are you sure?' Although the symptom tied in with what he already knew.
'Sure he said it, sure Emmett had it or sure that he was naturaly right-handed? Al three. I can remember him on the cricket pitch. Good bowler. Chilvers'
evidence stated that Emmett's right arm was useless. Police surgeon was equaly certain that he couldn't have done it with his left. Perhaps because it would have been the wrong angle? Anyway, my man had been involved in the treatment, which at the subtler end was a matter of trying to trick John into forgetting his arm didn't work: handing him a book, or whatever came to mind. They tried tying his other hand behind his back for days at a time, and, at the more dramatic end, giving him electric shocks to stimulate the muscles.'
Laurence grimaced.
Charles said ghoulishly, 'Regular Dr Frankenstein. Are you sure you didn't see wires?' But he didn't wait for an answer. 'Strangely, he'd shot himself through the heart, not the head.'
'Less messy. Definitely no letter?'
'Nothing much at al, I think. I did ask. A few bits and pieces and our joly old school scarf near by. Faithful til death and al that. Neatly folded. Coroner saw the deliberation as evidence of intent. Removed it to be sure of his shot. Much what you'd expect except for no note. Damn hard on the family, not having a letter. I suppose they got the scarf. Not much consolation.'
'It wasn't Marlborough colours actualy—Mary showed it to me—and hardly his sort of thing anyway, I'd have said. But where was he between-times?'
Charles shrugged. 'There were any number of barns and outhouses he could have holed up in until the hue and cry had died down, they say. They reckoned if John could have got hold of some food, he could have survived a week or two before he emerged and sauntered off to get a train. Perhaps not from Fairford, where they'd probably circulated his picture, but from a neighbouring vilage perhaps.'
'Do you know exactly where they found him?'
'The Foly. On the hil. We passed it yesterday. I pointed it out—at Faringdon. Wel, obviously we al knew it from school.'
The location came as a shock. Foly Wood had been such a strange place, always in shadow. But it made it much more likely that John had gone there of his own volition. Why was it more painful to think of him seeking out somewhere familiar to end it al, Laurence wondered? He thought of the young Holmwood patient who had died in his mother's bed. Was that a last frenzied act of rage or a final refuge in the safest place he knew?
'Frankly, when I realised both the degree of disaffection even in the man currently employed there, and the fact that we are never likely to be coming back, since I for one would certainly choose an alternative therapeutic establishment if I were to suddenly believe that I was Napoleon Bonaparte,' Charles said, 'I came clean, or cleanish. That's when I learned some interesting facts about Emmett's time there. Most interesting of al, he had visitors. An army friend and two members of the family.'
'"Army friend" could be anybody,' Laurence said, although he recaled that Mary had given the impression he had few left. And Mary visited, but I thought that his mother stayed away.'
Charles lowered his voice, although the room was empty. 'Yes, Mary did visit. In fact, two sisters did. More than once.' He paused. 'One was dark-haired and cross, though a bit of a looker, as the man who stil works there tels it: presumably your Miss Emmett; and the other was red-haired and crosser.'
'Eleanor Bolitho?' said Laurence, astonished, simultaneously realising that there could be any number of redheads in John's life.
'That's my guess,' said Charles. 'Do you think it's true that redheads always have tempers?'
'Charles,' Laurence butted in, 'when did these so-caled sisters come, did you ask him that?'
'It was Eleanor,' said Charles, 'because one time she brought her boy with her. Moreover, in addition to my deductive guesswork, and though both girls gave their name as Emmett, our man overheard John saying his fond farewels and he caled her Ely. He remembered thinking it was a rather sweet, feminine name quite at odds with her personality.'
Laurence laughed. 'What had she done?'
'Wel, the only thing she approved of was the food, I gather. Demanded that arrangements should be made for John to be accompanied on daily walks, if they weren't prepared to let him out on his own. She took him out once but they wouldn't alow it the other time she visited. Dr Chilvers was away and they needed his permission, they said. She was impressively furious and al else folowed. She inspected the library and declared it inadequate. Was incensed that al the patients wel enough were made to go on church parade. Harangued Chilvers Junior about John's room; he had been moved to one of the barred ones. She said he was hardly likely to jump out, although my man pointed out, with a certain degree of satisfaction, that jumping out, in a manner of speaking, was exactly what he did when he got the chance. But she was angriest of al to hear that John had been put in close confinement simply for leaving the building without permission. Close to tears in her fury, apparently.'
'They wer
e right too about not letting him out alone,' said Laurence. 'Though, in fact it was churchgoing that was to give him the chance to escape. So perhaps the Holmwood people knew him better than she did.' He kept to himself Eleanor's assurance that she had not met John after the war. 'And actualy, I found Dr Chilvers quite impressive. 'It was the son I took a dislike to.'
'Even my complainant says the old man's a decent chap, dedicated to his patients, if a bit on the zealous side. But he's not wel, goes up to London for treatment. Probably a hopeless case, he reckons. Says the doctor's lost stones in the last year. It's when he goes away that young Chilvers gets to impose his stamp on the place: changes treatment, sacks people at wil. The old man rarely stands up to him. And of course the staff know it wil al be his when his father shuffles off his mortal, so they mostly toe the line. Not many jobs in these parts.'
Laurence thought that if he'd been less focused on his own deceptions, he would have guessed Chilvers was il from his palor and thinness.
Charles was gaining momentum. 'And he was shot with a Luger.'
Laurence looked up, sharply. 'Wel, that should have made it easier,' he said. 'To track down, I mean. Not many of those in circulation. No recuperating German officers in Holmwood. Plenty of our lot got hold of them but it was a side arm for the flashy type.'
'I had a Luger,' said Charles, after a momentary pause. 'Stil have, in fact.'
'How?' said Laurence and immediately wished he hadn't.
'I captured it.' His eyes caught Laurence's momentarily. 'Off a dragoon Hauptman to be precise. I was a good shot, it was the best side arm around and I was keen to live.'
'But did John have a Luger—or any gun at al?'
'Al the witnesses thought not. But they would, wouldn't they?'
There was a long silence.
'You're stil thinking he wasn't the Luger type,' said Charles.
Laurence didn't answer. He was thinking that George Chilvers was precisely the sort of man who would have a Luger, had he not been the sort of man who avoided military service completely, but he felt irritated with himself for both pointless thoughts.
The Return of Captain John Emmett Page 12