Maxwell's Revenge

by M. J. Trow

  The others agreed, with varying degrees of thankfulness at the woman’s sudden silence. Jacquie had noted their names and gone on to interview the patients.

  But answer came there none. Those who could be wakened were not to be wakened. The others were well and truly unconscious. Only Miss Mackenzie was back on an ordinary ward, and she was now under twenty-four-hour guard. Helen Maitland was in an orthopaedic ward, leg in plaster and still more or less as happy as a clam on pain killers. The stunned, bruised and otherwise knocked-about members of staff had gone home hours before to relive their moment of glory by not being mentioned at all on the local news bulletin.

  So Jacquie sat there, quietly leafing.

  There came a croaking noise from the bed and Jacquie looked up and threw down her magazine. She leant forward and then hurriedly drew back. Having a tube down her throat and nothing to eat for the best part of twenty-four hours had done nothing to improve Mrs Bevell’s almost terminal halitosis. ‘What happened?’ asked the woman, as best she could through all the hardware. ‘Where did that doctor go?’

  ‘Doctor?’ Jacquie said and reached for her notepad. As far as she knew, only nurses had been present when the woman had relapsed.

  Mrs Bevell licked her lips and tried to be more precise. ‘Doctor. Consultant, I think. Gave tablet.’

  ‘Consultant? Had you seen him already?’

  ‘No.’ The reply was as sharp as the woman could make it. Broken ribs and poisoning weren’t going to make her gentle on the stupid. And everyone but her was stupid, that much was clear, and she’d known it all her life.

  ‘How did you know he was a consultant, then?’ Jacquie asked, quite reasonably.

  Mrs Bevell’s eyes began to close, but before she drifted away to a dreamland where everyone did as she told them with no argument, she muttered just one word. ‘Old.’

  ‘Old? Mrs Bevell, did you say old? Mrs Bevell?’ Jacquie resisted the urge to shake her awake. The sister, leaving her glass-fronted fastness, was beginning to come her way.

  ‘Can we help you?’ the nurse said frostily in Jacquie’s ear.

  Ah, the royal we. How Jacquie had missed it since her days in ante-natal. She turned. ‘If you can wake her up, that would help.’ She forced herself to be polite.

  ‘Sorry.’ The nurse almost smiled. ‘I’m afraid she’s sedated. I’m surprised she woke up at all.’

  ‘She’s a very determined woman,’ Jacquie replied. ‘Perhaps you can help in another way, then. She spoke of a consultant who came to see her in the night.’

  The nurse snorted derisively. ‘A consultant? In the night? Are you nuts? They’re strictly daytime. A registrar, perhaps? A houseman? But they usually only come when we call them and we had no need to do that.’

  Jacquie gestured at the full beds. ‘These people seem quite ill,’ she said.

  ‘They are, but they are also quite stable. We didn’t need to do anything except check signs regularly and they are all doing OK. In fact, apart from Mr Ryan, they are all improving. Most of them will be on open wards by the weekend.’

  ‘So who could it have been, then?’ Jacquie asked.

  ‘I have no idea. Could she have imagined it? Is she an imaginative woman?’

  ‘No one knows her. She’s not from round here. She was only down for an interview. The school have been trying to contact her family, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone at home.’

  The nurse snorted again. ‘They’ve probably been down here, trying to kill her.’ She gave the unconscious woman a poisonous look. ‘I know I would.’

  Jacquie smiled. That seemed to fit with everyone else’s opinion. ‘I think he was real. He gave her a tablet.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then,’ said the nurse. ‘She wouldn’t have drugs by mouth. We’d add it to her drip.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jacquie, making a note. ‘Look, I need to make a call. Can you watch her for a moment? No one, absolutely no one, is to go near any of these people, is that all right?’

  The nurse shrugged. ‘I’ve got nowhere to go,’ she said. ‘I’ll watch them from in here if you think it’s necessary.’

  ‘I do,’ said Jacquie and went into the nurses’ station to the phone. She stood there, tapping her fingers on the desk as she waited for a reply. The nurse’s rather more up-to-date copy of Hello – spookily featuring Ulrika Johnson standing next to Mr Right – lay open on the desk. So, she didn’t spend every second watching her charges after all, thought Jacquie. If the night staff were the same, then anyone could have come in, as long as they were quiet and were ready with an excuse if challenged. A picture was emerging, though, of someone …

  ‘Hall.’ He had finally answered his phone.

  ‘It’s Jacquie here, guv. I’m at the hospital. I’ve managed to have a word with Mrs Bevell.’

  ‘Well done. And?’ Hall wasn’t wasting words today. He was a man down and the paperwork on that fact alone could keep him busy until doomsday.

  ‘And she isn’t saying much, but what she did say was interesting.’ Jacquie knew her man too well to pause for a reaction, so she ploughed on. ‘Apparently, an old man gave her a tablet.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Ermm, yes, guv. But that fits with the person that Sylvia and I saw yesterday, the one who took the cocktail glasses. He looked old, well, older, we thought.’

  Jacquie sensed rather than heard Hall take off his glasses, rub his eyes and sigh. ‘Well, it cuts it down a bit, I suppose. Come back to the station, Jacquie. We need to discuss this Bob Davies business.’

  Jacquie’s heart rose into her mouth. She knew she needed to address it, the constant carping, the unprofessional behaviour, but at the end of the day it was the man’s career they were messing with and she wasn’t sure she was comfortable with that. ‘OK, guv. I’ve just got to make sure everyone from Leighford High is under permanent watch, then I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘You really think they’re still at risk. Not just Mrs Bevell?’

  ‘Why just her?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been doing a bit of brainstorming here and the consensus is that the poisoner was after one person and didn’t mind poisoning a whole lot of people, just to get that one. It’s not unknown.’

  In an Agatha Christie, perhaps, thought Jacquie, but she said, ‘Well, it’s certainly a theory, guv. I’ll be back soon,’ and hung up. She made sure that the nurse knew how important it was that she put aside her magazine and actually watched the patients, not just for medical problems, but for the approach of any dodgy old men, even actual consultants. She checked on the other wards to make sure the same was happening throughout the hospital, wherever a Leighford High teacher might be languishing. This was more than slightly embarrassing for the lab technician who had hoped that the lancing of his gluteal boil might remain his secret, but better safe than sorry.

  Finally, she got to the car park, removed the parking ticket from under her windscreen and explained to the attendant where it might end up if he didn’t cancel it. She got into the car and checked her phone. Three messages. One from Maxwell, one from Henry and one withheld. She dialled 1571 and listened.

  ‘Hello, Immortal Beloved. Me here, speaking after the beep. This Headmaster lark is like falling off a log. I’ve done a bit of light ordering and a bit of light ordering around. Everyone here would really appreciate a bit of an update, if that’s possible. The hospital is being cagey as usual, although we did get some detail about a boil. Can that be right? At any event, heart, can you get back to me? Just ask for the Headteacher. They won’t know what Headmaster means. Acting,’ and he broke into a flurry of Sir John Gielgud and gales of laughter, before ringing off. She obediently pressed two to save for thirty days. She always saved his messages; a little superstition of her own. She pressed one.

  ‘Jacquie.’ Hall as always sounded peremptory. ‘Don’t come back. Go to Leighford High. There seems to be a bit of a problem there. Let me know how it goes.’ No laughter. No Gielgud. Same old. Same old.

&
nbsp; Her heart in her mouth for the second time in two days, she rammed the car into gear and broke every speed limit to get to Leighford High.

  Chapter Nine

  This time there was only one ambulance waiting outside on the drive, with a bored-looking paramedic sitting on the back step, flicking some desultory ash from the end of his cigarette. He looked up as she flung herself out of her car.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘We can’t keep meeting like this.’

  She stood looking down at him as she skidded to a halt. ‘I assume,’ she said, somewhat haughtily, ‘that there is no actual emergency this time.’

  He stood up, grinding out his dog-end with an ambulance-service issue boot. ‘Not as such.’ He blew out the final lungful of smoke and immediately popped a mint in to his mouth to replace it. ‘Some bloke ate something and it made him sick. Bit of overreaction in my opinion, but there we are. Better safe than sorry.’

  ‘So you weren’t needed, then?’ she asked, her heart slowing to normal speed.

  ‘Well, my mate’s just checking the geezer over. Just in case. For the record, you might say. But no, no real damage done. He was offered some snack thing by a kid and just went down as if he was poleaxed, by all accounts. The kids went mental and rushed off to get somebody. Well, they would, wouldn’t they, after yesterday? They called us. And you, by the looks. Anaphylactic shock, y’ask me.’

  The long technical word from his mouth was so unexpected that Jacquie just nodded and went up the steps into the foyer. The other paramedic was there, talking to Maxwell who was in full Headmaster mode, thumbs in braces, bow tie perky, interested expression firmly pinned in place; no idea of education at all.

  ‘So, no harm done,’ he was saying as she got into earshot. ‘It was a mini sausage roll, apparently, that a child offered him. We’re thinking he may be allergic, but I gather you’ve kept the pack just in case. When the plods get here, could you hand it over?’

  Maxwell looked aghast and then, seeing Jacquie from the corner of his eye, amused. He turned. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Plod, my dear.’ The paramedic looked momentarily confused, then blushed. ‘This gentleman was just talking about you. He has given into my care a pack of mini sausage rolls, innocently proffered to Paul Moss by a grateful pupil this morning, just before break. To say it disagreed with him would be an understatement.’ He turned to the paramedic, who was trying to creep away. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Sick as a dog,’ the man agreed. ‘And I suspect he will then go on to shit like a racehorse, as it makes its way through … as we say in our business.’

  ‘What an entrancing picture,’ smiled Maxwell. ‘Don’t let us keep you.’ Then, to Jacquie, ‘It was Paul. Some perfectly nice child in his Year Nine class this morning gave him one of those evil pasteurised, keep-at-room-temperature-for-a-whole-lifetime-and-still-not-catch-botulism sausage rolls they sell in train stations and the like. You know, “Best Before the Great Exhibition” sort of thing. We can’t use the dining room until the tape comes down, so we had a delivery of a whole lot of processed stuff for keeping starvation at bay until we can get the parents mobilised on the packed lunch front. Most of them were ahead of us, in fact, but this little dear, at the centre of things when couch potatoes gather, had bought a few packs to keep the wolf from the door. She had so enjoyed her lesson on the dissolution of the monasteries that she shared her bounty with Paul. With the results that our friend in green conjured up so beautifully.’

  ‘Where is Paul?’ she asked. ‘And where is the pack of sausage rolls?’

  ‘Paul is in my office, my real office, I mean, the one with the dead spider plant and the film posters. What is that supposed to be, by the way?’ He was talking rhetorically, really, pointing to a particularly awful print that Mr Diamond thought was Art. ‘The sausage rolls are in a drawer in my desk. I didn’t want someone accidentally snacking on them.’

  She patted his arm. ‘You make such a good policeman,’ she said.

  ‘Well, after that fiasco with the cocktail glasses yesterday, I thought I had better. And I can’t use my other office. Mr Bevell is in there.’

  She stared at him. ‘Mr Bevell has turned up?’

  ‘Yes. Rather unpleasant individual, turned up this morning. Looks like a weasel in a wizened sort of way. Apparently, he intends to sue.’

  ‘Sue? Who?’

  ‘You sound like a huntsman. Or an owl. Us. The County. For as much as he can get. Dereliction of care, or so he says. He has the number of one of those buy-one-get-one-free solicitors.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean, no win, no fee.’

  ‘You mean he did that before he visited his wife?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, heart face. No, he did that before he came here shouting the odds. He hasn’t been to see his wife yet.’

  ‘Aren’t people odd?’ she muttered, half to herself. ‘Look, Max, I’ve got to do a bit of serious multitasking here. Can you give me a hand?’

  ‘I’ll try. But I’m more comfortable with just tasking, if that’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Can you ring Henry and tell him what is going on, in broad terms? I need to see Paul, collect the sausage rolls in an evidence bag and get them to the lab, then see Mr Bevell.’

  ‘I’ll deal with Mr Bevell, sweetie,’ he said. ‘He’s not as bad as all that. I can cope with the nasty man.’

  ‘No, Max, you don’t understand. I’m going to have to take him with me to the station.’

  ‘And add wrongful arrest to his list? They’ll be living in tax exile if this goes on.’

  ‘I’ll explain later. Meanwhile, can you just give Henry a buzz? I’ll pop up and see Paul.’

  ‘I bow to your judgement, oh great and powerful Oz,’ Maxwell said, scrunching down to improve his Munchkin impersonation.

  ‘I should think so too,’ she said, making for the stairs. The Headmaster’s wife must, of course, be above suspicion.

  Paul Moss was lying on Max’s LEA-issue corner unit and therefore probably looked rather worse than he was, although doubled up seemed to be his position of choice. He was a pale green, not an unattractive shade in its own right, but not really designed to go on a face. He turned his head slightly when Jacquie crept in.

  ‘Hello, Jacquie.’ He was so quiet, it was almost as if he mimed the greeting.

  ‘Hello, Paul.’ Jacquie sat on the end of the seat, moving his feet slightly to do so. She preferred to keep away from the business end where vomit was concerned. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Better. I’ve been sick and … you know. But Sylvia gave me something and I think the worst is over.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she said, patting his knee. And I hope you’re right, she thought, bearing in mind where I’m sitting. She was glad, too, that Sylvia Matthews seemed to be back to her old self, but she didn’t say so. Paul was a little too preoccupied at the moment. ‘Can you tell me what happened? I’m sorry to bother you right now, but I need to know the child’s name and whether this kind of prank is in character.’

  ‘Prank?’ In his enfeebled way, Paul Moss was totally outraged. ‘Prank? A bit more than a prank, Jacquie, surely?’

  ‘Well,’ she looked down at him. She couldn’t describe the colour he was now. It was a kind of enraged purple with green highlights. There was no easy way to say this. ‘Well, you’re not actually dead, are you, Paul? Or even close, as far as I can see. I think that this may just be one of those things. An unfortunate coincidence.’ She got up hurriedly as his colour deepened. ‘But I will take the offending rolls to the lab, and if you could just let Max know the kid’s name, that would be lovely.’

  Paul Moss was beginning to scramble to his feet, a desperate look on his face. She moved so as not to be between him and the door as he made a dive in its direction.

  ‘I won’t keep you,’ she called after him, then, more quietly, ‘I suspect this may be more than man-diarrhoea, but you ain’t been poisoned to kill you, my dear.’ She riffled t
hrough the drawers in Maxwell’s erstwhile desk and found the sausage rolls in a large Manila envelope labelled ‘Sausage rolls. Please do not touch’ in an Acting-Headmasterly hand. She put the whole thing into an evidence bag and signed and dated the fold. Then she took herself back downstairs, before the racehorse returned to the couch to suffer some more.

  Down in his temporary office, Maxwell was coping with Mr Bevell, although he was privately thinking that perhaps coping was rather an overstatement. He was as wizened as his wife was expansive, half her girth and nowhere near her height, but in all other respects they were the same. The threats of their lawsuits, which Maxwell had inevitably named ‘sewage’, were multiplying to the point that the Acting Headmaster was hard-pressed to think of anything to say. So far, his commiserations had been threatened with a suit for emotional distress. His offer of a cup of coffee had been greeted with threats of suing for damage to life and lip because it was hot. The drips from the bottom of the cup had permanently damaged the man’s trousers. And these were Countryman’s, not any old rubbish.

  When Jacquie tapped on the door, he jotted down a note of the time.

  Maxwell was finally forced into speech. ‘Mr Bevell, the lady who has just entered is my wife-to-be. Why did you just write down the time?’

  ‘Just in case I should suffer post-traumatic stress some time in the future. A shock like a knock on the door in my condition could be serious.’

  ‘So the note is a kind of pre-traumatic stress insurance, is it?’ said Maxwell, a rather testy tone creeping in to his voice.