Heir Presumptive

by Henry Wade

  Jill was still in bed, reading the Daily Mirror with her morning tea and toast. She received Eustace’s news with a delight that enchanted him. After the first rapture had subsided, the two of them settled down to discuss the golden future. Jill had set her heart on a cottage on the river at Maidenhead and Eustace, who had by now discarded the alarming aspect of Inspector Wennessy’s news, willingly entered into the spirit of the game and promised to hire a car and take her down there for an exploration that very afternoon. The talk then turned to clothes and Eustace realized that he would have to make arrangements for increasing his bank balance at an early date. He was a little bit doubtful as to what evidence of the security of his position the bank manager would want. It would hardly be wise for him to display too accurate a knowledge of the affairs of the elder branch. He would have a talk with Henry Carr about it; Henry was interested and friendly; he knew Eustace’s position and would be able to advise him.

  The happy couple motored down to Maidenhead and lunched at Skindles. Their search for a riverside cottage was not actually successful, as nothing of the right size was at the moment available, but the agents thought that it would not be too difficult to find one. Nothing had so far been said between Eustace and Jill about marriage but there could be very little doubt but that things were tending that way; the future Lord Barradys would have to mind his social p’s and q’s; unless he was prepared to give up Jill altogether he would almost certainly have to marry her. And why not? He genuinely loved her and wanted no one else. Besides, though he did not consciously admit this, even to himself, she knew too much about him and his recent doings to be antagonized.

  Eustace drove Jill back to Pearl Street and then returned to his own flat to prepare for his second house-warming. This was to be a bachelor affair and one designed strictly for business. George Priestley and Freddie Gallater, both of the Jermyn Club, were coming, and each was bringing a young friend who liked a game of poker and was not too devastatingly clever at it. Young men of this type had kept Eustace in comfort for two or three years in his St. James’ flat; it was only when they began to tail off, as a result of ill-natured rumours, coupled with the universal shortage of money, that Eustace’s troubles had begun. Now he was on the rise again and a new clientèle could be expected to gather round him.

  At first Eustace had thought of dining at a restaurant—the Café Royal, perhaps—but he had decided not to court any kind of publicity. Hamilton had the character of being a good cook and he was to be given a chance to show what he could do; nothing elaborate, turtle soup from Fortnum’s, a mixed grill, a cheese soufflé. Eustace had not yet laid down a cellar, but his wine-merchant—not Cousin William—was arranging to provide him with decanted claret and port of respectable lineage. These, with not too old and mild a brandy, should do the trick.

  George Priestley, whose amusement it was to disregard the ordinary canons of tact, irritated Eustace at the start by introducing his guest, one Selwyn Battie, to ‘the future Lord Barradys.’ It was exactly the sort of thing that Eustace wanted to avoid at the present stage of affairs. George, however, thought it was funny, and after he had drunk his second glass of 1893 brandy and had won a thumping ace-pot, he gave his humour free rein.

  “You know, Eustace,” he said, dealing a fresh band, “your luck is positively uncanny; (are you coming in, Freddie?) how many embryo barons have faded out of your way? Four, isn’t it?”

  “You’re dealing, George; I want three. And you’re not funny.”

  “Here’s a fellow, Battie,” continued Priestley imperturbably, “who’s positively wading through the blood of cousins to the throne. (Dealer takes two to a busted straight). Positively indecent, I call it. I wonder the Yard haven’t pulled you in already. (And five’s ten; up to you, Freddie.) Come to think of it, I did notice a large man in a bowler hat lurking in a doorway when I arrived.”

  Eustace’s heart missed a beat. Probably this fool Priestley was romancing but his remark was an unpleasant reminder; it brought one back to grim possibilities.

  With an effort Eustace threw off these disquieting thoughts and concentrated his attention on the game. It was going well. He himself was losing steadily as he had intended, though not heavily. George Priestley, after a run of luck and consequent garrulity, was now overplaying and would soon be in trouble unless he stopped talking; he was a good card player but he fancied himself as a talking card player and in that he overestimated his own skill. Selwyn Battie was comfortably up and was clearly enjoying himself. Freddie Gallater was about square and was probably pulling a bit, while the young stockbroker he had brought, Thornton Rush, though obviously an inexperienced player, had not lost enough to worry him; in fact, one or two well-lost coups by Eustace would send him away happy.

  It was an auspicious opening of the new régime. Eustace felt sure that these two young men would come again and bring others with them. Eventually, of course, he would not need their money, but until old Barradys died they would be extremely useful.

  The party broke up soon after midnight. As they were putting on their coats the young stockbroker asked Eustace if he were a relation of George Hendel, the wine-merchant.

  “I thought you must be,” he said; “there’s a family likeness. I meet him in the City fairly often and we play golf together sometimes. He’s been rather pleased with himself lately.”

  Eustace smiled. He knew what George had been pleased about; poor George, who would never now inherit the Barradys fortune. It gave an added zest to Eustace’s own good fortune to think of the bitter disappointment that Desmond’s death would bring to those smug cousins of his.

  He accompanied his guests downstairs and walked to the corner of the block with them. There was no sign of any ‘large man in a bowler hat’ anywhere. Obviously George Priestley had been pulling his leg. Anyway, why should there be?

  Eustace returned to his flat and prepared to sleep the sleep of the just, the innocent, and the blessed of fortune.

  Chapter Twenty

  Inquest is Opened

  THE following morning Eustace attended the inquest, to which he had been summoned. He found himself sitting next to Henry Carr, beyond whom were his wife, Julia, Blanche Hendel, and William and George, the wine-merchants. They all greeted him with subdued but friendly smiles, while Mr. William Christendome gave him a formal bow. The Coroner, Mr. Ellinstone, who sat with a jury, announced that he had viewed the body and that the jury might do so if they wished. They did not. Mr. Ellinstone then explained that he only intended to take formal evidence of identification that day, as it would be some little time before the report of the Home Office Analyst, to whom, by his direction, the organs of the deceased had been sent, would be ready. At this point a good many people in the court wondered why, in that case, they had been summoned to attend, and one among them, an elderly gentleman with a white moustache, wearing well-cut London clothes, put his feelings into words.

  “I am Sir Horace Spavage”, he said, rising to his feet. “I am the physician in charge of this case and I desire to give my evidence to-day. I am expecting at any time now to be summoned to Scotland in consultation in connection with the . . . er . . . with the case of a Royal Personage. It would be most inconvenient and it might even be impossible for me to attend an adjourned inquest. My evidence is important but it is quite formal, and I can see no reason why it should not be given to-day.”

  Sir Horace sat down, well pleased with the effect of his words upon the room in general and the Press in particular. Pencils were flying over paper. Mr. Ellinstone glanced across at a uniformed police-superintendent who was sitting not far from him; a slight shrug of the shoulders seemed to indicate lack of objection rather than acquiescence.

  “Very well, Sir Horace”, said the Coroner quietly. “I will call you as soon as I have taken evidence of identification. I quite appreciate that your time is not your own. Call Julia Carr.”

  Henry gave his wife’s hand a squeeze and she moved forward to the witnesses’ chair, took h
er oath, and sat down.

  “You are Mrs. Henry Carr and the nearest relative of the deceased, Mr. Desmond Hendel?” the Coroner asked courteously.

  “Yes; that is, except his great-grandfather, Lord Barradys.”

  “Quite so. Lord Barradys,” Mr. Ellinstone explained to the jury, “is a gentleman of great age and was unable to make the journey from his home in Northumberland. With that exception you are the nearest relative, Mrs. Carr?”

  “Yes; I am his first cousin, once removed. I am the only surviving grandchild of Lord Barradys.”

  “You have been shown the body on which this enquiry is being held. Can you identify it?”

  “Yes. It is my cousin, Desmond Hendel.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Carr.”

  Julia was succeeded by Mr. William Christendome, who, as family solicitor, corroborated her evidence.

  “Now, Sir Horace.”

  Sir Horace Spavage took the oath and having explained, without unbecoming modesty, who and what he was, proceeded with his particular evidence.

  “I have been in general charge of Mr. Desmond Hendel’s case since he first developed symptoms of the disease that has just resulted in his death.”

  “That has yet to be proved, of course”, murmured the Coroner.

  Sir Horace frowned.

  “Of course, of course; technically. The time to which I refer is July 1933. The boy had been complaining for some time of pain in the thigh; there had also been loss of weight and of tone generally. I at once suspected a sarcoma of the femur and on my advice, after X-ray photographs had been taken, Captain Hendel took the boy to see Sir John Phillidor, senior consulting-surgeon at St. Christopher’s, a colleague of mine and a man of the highest distinction.”

  “Scratch my back”, whispered Henry Carr.

  “We never advertise”, murmured Eustace, then bit his tongue. Fortunately, Henry appeared not to notice the pronoun.

  “Sir John confirmed my opinion and agreed with me that the disease had passed the stage when treatment by radium or deep X-rays might be expected to check the growth. It was decided that the only hope of saving the boy’s life was by amputation at the hip. This was done, by Sir John, of course, in . . . er . . .”

  Sir Horace consulted a card.

  “. . . in September of the same year. The operation was entirely successful. For a year all went well. There was of course some prostration from shock and the heart gave a little trouble, but the patient began to pick up after a time and I had hope, the highest hope, that the disease had been scotched. Unfortunately, in October of last year there were signs of a recurrence, this time in the spine. As soon as this was confirmed we knew that there was no hope. Everything, of course, that could be done was done, but . . .”

  Sir Horace shrugged his fine shoulders.

  “I gave him a year, at the outside eighteen months, in my mind. The boy had great courage, remarkable vitality. I had begun to think that the longer estimate would prove correct, but, as so often happens, the end has come quite suddenly.”

  Mr. Ellinstone waited to see whether the great physician had anything to add, then began to ask his own questions.

  “You say, Sir Horace, that everything that could be done was done. Does that refer to active remedial treatment or to medicines designed merely to relieve pain?”

  “There was remedial treatment, if by that you mean what I take you to mean. Deep X-rays were applied. One had no real expectation of a cure, but of course it does not do to appear to give up hope, either in the interest of the patient or . . . er . . . the relatives.”

  “Or . . . er . . . the profession”, murmured Henry Carr.

  “And there were medicines as well, perhaps”, suggested the Coroner.

  “Certainly. There was a mixture, containing veronal, a hypnotic drug, taken in regular four-hourly doses throughout the day, and the last thing at night a sleeping draught containing opium.”

  “And the effect of these hypnotic drugs would be . . . what?”

  “To relieve pain and to induce sleep.”

  Mr. Ellinstone thought for a while. Then:

  “You said just now, Sir Horace, that as soon as the disease recurred in the spine you knew there was no hope, you gave your patient eighteen months at the outside. That means presumably that you expected death to occur some time within that period. Will you tell the jury what, in the normal course under such circumstances, would actually cause death?”

  Sir Horace Spavage tapped his pince-nez against his well-trimmed finger-nails and frowned in thought.

  “I take it that the jury will not want a highly technical dissertation”, he said at last. “Putting it quite simply, death would follow from exhaustion of the vital centres.”

  “What would cause the exhaustion?”

  “Primarily, of course, the disease itself. There would be a steady drain of vitality by reason of the malignant growth.”

  “And the drugs? Would they contribute to the exhaustion?”

  “In a sense, yes. The effect of the drugs would be to a certain extent contradictory; by inducing sleep they would stimulate the vital centres, but they also possess in themselves a depressive effect.”

  “On the whole, would you say that the effect of hypnotic drugs is destructive?”

  “I should make no such general statement.”

  The Coroner allowed a slight smile to cross his lips. He knew that he was treading on delicate medical ground, but he had his own very strong opinions, based on long experience, on this subject.

  “Let us confine ourselves to the particular case, then”, he said. “In your opinion, would the hypnotic drugs which you prescribed contribute, on balance, to the exhaustion of the vital centres which you say you would expect to be the cause of death?”

  Sir Horace flushed angrily.

  “That is a very misleading question, sir”, he said. “You ignore the fact that without such drugs the patient would suffer terribly; it would be inhuman to deny him the relief which these drugs give.”

  “I am not ignoring that fact at all, Sir Horace”, said Mr. Ellinstone quietly. “I entirely appreciate the reason for administering hypnotic drugs in a case of this kind, but I have a reason for wishing to know whether, in your opinion, such drugs are directly contributory to the exhaustion which would normally cause death. May I take it that that is so?”

  “Yes; it is”, said Sir Horace shortly. “Hypnotic drugs, taken in the potency required in a case of this kind, would have a toxic effect and contribute to the exhaustion to which I have referred.”

  “Thank you, Sir Horace. Now may I ask you . . . you have of course seen the deceased since his death?”

  “I was present at his death. I was sent for by the nurse in charge of the case.”

  “That would be Mrs. Toumlin?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you formed an opinion as to the cause of death?”

  “Certainly. There is no doubt about it. Death was due to exhaustion of the vital centres arising from a sarcoma of the spine. I should have been prepared to give a certificate to that effect but you, sir, directed that a post-mortem examination should be made and it does not therefore fall to me to give a certificate.”

  “Quite so. But I take it that you consider the cause of death to be what all along you have anticipated.”

  “Certainly.”

  “You have no reason at all to doubt that?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Thank you, Sir Horace. That is all I have to ask you, unless . . .” he turned to the jury. “Has any member of the jury any question to ask the witness, through me?”

  A large red-faced man, who had evidently been on the point of bursting for some time, now relieved himself in speech.

  “These ’ypnotic drugs”, he said, glaring at the Physician-in-Ordinary, “to my mind they’re the cause of ’alf the trouble an’ suicides we’re always reading about. When doctors like you . . .”

  “I said ‘through me’, sir”, said the Coroner f
irmly, “and that is not a question.”

  “Well, I mean to say, Mr. Coroner, ’e says ’imself they was the cause of death. What I want to know is, why do these slap-up, three-guineas-a-time doctors use the nasty stuff?”

  “Sir Horace made it quite clear, I think, that in this case the drugs were necessary to relieve suffering. We are only dealing with this case. Thank you, Sir Horace, we need not keep you any longer.”

  The ruffled physician walked out of court, while the Coroner whispered to the uniformed police-superintendent. After a short pause, he collected his papers.

  “I shall adjourn the enquiry until this day fortnight, when the report of the Home Office Analyst will be available”, he said. Then, turning to the jury, he added gravely, “I must remind you, members of the jury, that you must not discuss the case with any outside person, nor make any communication to the Press. Thank you.”

  “What on earth were we called for, if that’s all that’s going to happen?” asked Eustace, as he and Henry Carr settled themselves in a taxi. Julia had gone off with Blanche to do some shopping.

  “It’s a little way they have”, replied the solicitor. “Coroners are a law unto themselves. They’re going to be tightened up though; Departmental Committee sitting now.”

  Eustace thought for a while. There had been nothing disquieting about the inquest so far, but he felt vaguely uncomfortable.

  “Why does he adjourn for as long as a fortnight? It doesn’t take that time for the Analyst to do his job . . . surely?”

  The ‘surely?’ was a hasty afterthought.

  Henry Carr looked curiously at his companion.

  “That’s quite a normal adjournment” he said, “when the police think they want to make any enquiries.”

  Eustace stiffened. So that was it. The police were still sniffing up the wrong tree. No need to worry, of course; Spavage had had no doubts about the cause of death. Still, it was . . . disquieting.