“Who will tell me about this patient?” Professor Hunter proceeded.
The house physician gave a confident concise summary:
“Mr Reginald Spratt is - was - a fifty-year-old married butcher, who smoked five cigarettes a day but drank nil. He had been fit and well until two days ago, the day of admission, when he collapsed suddenly while defaecating on the toilet, with crushing anterior chest pain which radiated into the throat. He died yesterday afternoon.”
Sir Henry wore a crisp white coat over his pin-stripe suit; he was tall and elegant; with a mane of thick white hair, white bushy eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes. I had seen him only twice, on ward-rounds, but he had been a good teacher, and had treated the students with elaborate old-fashioned courtesy. The great man spoke quietly and unhurriedly, but with authority - into a sudden cathedral hush:
“Probably a large pulmonary embolus: central cyanosis, giant A waves in the neck, apical triple rhythm, increased pulmonary second sound. ECG shows acute right heart strain … But - clearly - coronary thrombosis and dissecting aortic aneurysm have yet to be excluded.”
Professor Hunter removed the front of the rib-cage to expose the thoracic cavity: “The lungs are pink - not the grey slaty colour of the heavy smoker … The heart looks macroscopically normal - no obvious infarcts. No evidence of an aortic aneurysm.”
He cut transversely through each coronary artery: “No obvious atheroma, and no coronary thrombus.”
He wielded his scalpel delicately; and the heart went into a jar of formalin: “For histology …”
Next, he slit open each pulmonary artery, and inserted a probe; in the right main pulmonary artery, he found a large reddish-grey thrombus blocking it almost completely.
“See the clot? But death occurred before this could infarct the lung …”
Sir Henry leant forward, observing all with interest, but careful to keep his white coat clear of the blood and gore.
“I’d be most obliged if you would just check the femoral veins for me, Howard, before we depart … Many thanks.”
The pathologist slit open both femoral veins, from groin to mid-thigh. He inserted his probe and - from the left one - hooked out another large clot.
“Alright: the diagnosis is massive pulmonary embolus following thrombosis of the left femoral vein … We’ll check the iliac vessels when I open the abdomen, Henry, and I’ll let you have a full report - after I’ve examined all the organs and performed all the histology … Might look at the brain at a later date.”
There were murmurs of thanks, as the medical firm filed out; the doors swung to behind them. Then:
“Come a bit closer, all of you, so that everyone can see. Here are the salient features …”
Professor Hunter demonstrated the heart (in its jar) and the major vessels; he made a few cuts through the lungs … Then, while I watched, fascinated, he deftly slit open the abdomen from sternum to pubis with one sweep of the scalpel, exposing the abdominal organs …
Just like the Whitechapel Slasher, I mused.
Chapter Nineteen - December, 1957
Saturday, 8th December: The Theatre Royal Drury Lane is one of the oldest theatres in London’s West End, a stone’s throw from the Royal Opera House, where the opening scene of the show was set. The interior of the theatre was spacious and opulent; from our plush seats in the centre of the stalls we had a fine view of the stage.
My Fair Lady was a musical phenomenon, based on George Bernard Shaw’s play Pygmalion, the story of a man who falls in love with his own creation. The production had come over from Broadway eighteen months ago; I had booked tickets “on spec” at the time - well before my reunion with Jill - and these had been the first seats available!
For a bet with his friend Colonel Pickering, Professor Henry Higgins had agreed to take off the street - at random - the first cockney girl they encountered; he would teach her correct speech and deportment, and pass her off as an English Lady. Eliza Doolittle, the cockney sparrow, was played with verve by Sally Ann Howes; Stanley Holloway was her father: his rollicking manner and his songs, I’m getting married in the morning, and With a little bit of luck, had regularly brought the House down. Rex Harrison took the part of Professor Higgins, the eminent teacher of diction; he had no singing voice, but was remarkably effective - speaking his songs!
The eagerly awaited duet between Miss Doolittle and Professor Higgins took the form of an elocution lesson:
“The Rain in Spain stays mainly in the Plain.”
“I think she’s got it … By Jove, she’s got it!”
We had produced the spoof: “The Rhine and Spine fall in a curving Line”, for the London Hospital’s Christmas Show two years before; however, this was the first time I had heard the original version, and I was captivated!
Jill and I stepped out into the crisp night air; frost covered the windows and roofs of the parked cars; overhead, stars twinkled brightly. Hand in hand, we strode through the dim side streets of Covent Garden, mingling with the crowds emerging from the theatres, and from the Royal Opera House itself; we caught snatches of conversation, but spoke only sparingly ourselves; somehow, the darkness and the dense mass of people around us induced a sense of intimacy. We headed for Covent Garden Underground Station.
The feeling of intimacy was stronger by the time we ascended the stairs to Jill’s flat.
“Will you come in for a night-cap?”
I paused, before replying - and, as usual, she appeared to read my thoughts:
“Don’t worry. I’ll put you up for the night, if you miss your train … Anyway, it’s only a quarter to eleven.”
While she fumbled with her key my arm encircled her waist; an electric shock passed through me as our bodies made contact; the scent of gardenias intoxicated me.
“Yes, please.”
We almost fell through the doorway together, as the key finally turned, and the door burst open. The hallway of the flat was in darkness, but a crack of light appeared from under one door.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s only me, Joanna. I’ve brought my friend, Edwin, home for a night-cap. Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks. I’ve got my curlers in … not fit to be seen in company. Just curling up with a book, Ha! Ha! I’ll be off to sleep, soon. Need an early start, tomorrow.”
We had hung up our coats, and now stood in the sitting room in front of a hissing gas fire; the only light came from a small table lamp and the flames of the fire; we sank down together on the sofa, and melted into each other’s arms.
“Darling Edwin …”
“Angel …”
We had to whisper so that Joanna wouldn’t hear. Jill’s arms were around my neck, and she was kissing me deeply, passionately; her breasts pressed insistently against my chest; I was becoming aroused again: unsteadily but gently, I unbuttoned her blouse; my hand slid inside her bra; I felt her smooth yielding breast, and - under my fingers - her nipple hardened; she moaned softly; her warm hand moved inexorably up my thigh …
We were interrupted by the noise of a key grating in the lock. We sprang apart, straightening our clothes; rapidly, Jill secured her buttons. We blinked as the main sitting room light came on; however, Jill quickly recovered her composure:
“Edwin, this is my other flat-mate - Paddy Kennedy. You may remember … We met at the dance at University College.”
“Hello, Jilly.”
He was a mountain of a man, bigger than I recalled, with sandy hair, pale blue eyes, and a rather cruel mouth. I hadn’t noticed the broken nose at our last meeting, but this gave him a piratical air. He smelled strongly of alcohol, hummed gently to himself, but - on this occasion - appeared only slightly drunk. Barely perceptibly, he nodded to me:
“How-de-do.”
He directed a searchlight smile at Jill.
“I’ve just been picked for the Tommy’s First Rugger Fifteen! Of course, I used to play for Winchester College, before I came up … But this is something else, altogether.”
Somehow, I was still surprised at the total absence of an Irish brogue.
“Congratulations; well done,” Jill and I exclaimed together; Paddy ignored me, continuing to focus his whole attention on Jill: to her he was in turns courteous, amusing, charming; towards me he remained supercilious - though not downright rude.
“I didn’t know, when we last met, that he shared your flat, Jill.”
“Oh, yes ... Didn’t I say?”
Again, I felt misgivings, foreboding …
“Making some hot chocolate and toast. Either of you join me?”
The clipped Wykehamist tones broke in on my thoughts.
“No thanks. Got to be going - it’s a quarter to twelve. I’ll just catch my train if I rush!”
In the tiny entrance hall, Jill helped me on with my overcoat.
“You’d better do up the middle button of your blouse, before you go back in,” I whispered, as I kissed her good-night.
Monday, 10th December: The lecture theatre was packed; a frisson of excitement ran through the audience, as we waited expectantly; there were students here from every year - several had attended this lecture before (some two or three times). I had arrived early, and had secured a seat; but later arrivals stood or sat in the aisles.
At one o’clock precisely, the stage door swung open, and a small dapper figure breezed in, in dove grey morning suit with matching tie and pearl tie-pin: this was Francis Struthers, the eminent Home Office Pathologist, who was giving his annual Forensic Pathology lecture on Rape.
“Rape is never a pleasant business …”
The lights dimmed; there appeared a luridly coloured slide of a naked girl, propped up against a wall, a cord around her neck, eyes bulging, face purple: Dead!
“I was asked to see this body, in nineteen-fifty-two - found in a laundry room, not ten minutes away from here … A ligature such as this will invariably mark the skin; however manual strangulation does not always leave discernible bruising around the throat. To confirm the diagnosis, we have to examine the hyoid; you will remember that this is the small bone sited just above the thyroid cartilage of the larynx. Frequently, we will find a fracture of one of the cornua of the hyoid, as you can see on the next slide …”
His manner was matter-of-fact, almost casual, as if describing humdrum daily matters; his cheerful demeanour contrasted sharply with the gruesome subject matter.
There followed pictures of another dead girl, covered in blood, throat cut, skirt up to her waist; then close-ups of lacerations to her vagina. We were shown images of a young woman, alive but clearly shocked, with bite marks on her breast; then microscope slides of Gram-negative diplococci - gonorrhoea - caught as a result of rape! He gave clinical details of all the cases, briefly, succinctly, without embroidery or moral comment. A few students took notes, but most of us just sat staring at the screen - mesmerised! I felt slightly sick, and was relieved when, after an hour, the lecture drew to a close.
“Can you tell us the latest about the Whitechapel Slasher, Sir?” enquired Joe Knowles from the row in front of me.
There was an expectant hush, while the Home Office Pathologist pondered the question.
“Certainly the victims were not actually raped; in this sort of elaborate ritual killing there would hardly be the time … I’m afraid the matter is still sub judice, so I can’t give you many details of the murders, but I did find a fracture of the left greater cornu of the hyoid bone …”
It had been a tour de force; and Dr Struthers finished to sustained applause - I found myself clapping as enthusiastically as everybody else. The lecturer bowed modestly - if slightly ironically - to the audience, and exited briskly.
Friday, 21st December: Adjoining the ladies’ common room were a small hall for coats, and a pantry, where Sandy and Heather had been busy all afternoon, making sandwiches; the rest of our group (apart from Michael Ffrench) had helped with the preparations - even Anne Baker-West had produced two Victoria sponge cakes (bought) and some home-made scones. The house surgeon had earlier handed over a twenty-pound note from Mr Treves-Greene “towards expenses”; and Chris Platt and David Feldman had appropriated most of that, to buy drinks!
The end-of-firm party was on the last day of the junior surgical firm. We had been in the common room - much smaller than the Athenaeum, and usually barred to men - since four o’clock, rearranging the furniture, laying out the food and drink, and polishing the glasses.
As if emerging from a chrysalis, Sandy had shed her overall: she was now resplendent in an emerald green sari, gold bangles at her wrists, ruby and emerald rings on her fingers; the rest of us were more casually dressed - and I had changed into sports jacket and flannels.
The junior consultant - Mr Kirkwood - was in New Zealand, and we had seen him only twice before he left; however, we hoped for a reasonable turn-out from the rest of the surgical team.
The house surgeon appeared at half past five, accompanied by a smirking Michael Ffrench: they had come straight from the wards, and still wore their white coats.
“John has shown me some interesting new patients, and I’ve been listening to their hearts with my Specialist stethoscope - amazing the m-m-murmurs I’ve picked up!”
He patted it lovingly, before removing it from around his neck, placing it in the pocket of his white coat, and then disappearing to hang the coat up in the small hallway.
All was ready; we spoke hesitantly among ourselves, and to John Field, the houseman, waiting for the Big Guns to arrive; we delayed starting on the food and drink, though these beckoned invitingly: sandwiches, cakes, biscuits, scones; jugs of orange juice, bottles of beer, cider, Amontillado sherry, whisky, gin (and a large bottle of tonic water). Ffrench had no such qualms; within moments of arrival, he was helping himself to whisky (“Wu-What? No soda?”), and a cucumber sandwich.
At a quarter-past six, James Barnstable, the senior surgical registrar, and Freddie Hawkins, the middle grade registrar, arrived together, neat (indeed almost unrecognisable), in three-piece double breasted suits. Barnstable was elegant, tall, slim, handsome; with dark hair greying at the temples, he looked distinguished, confident - and he exuded charm.
“This is the only end-of-firm party we’ve had all year. Well done, you chaps! The Boss may come, if he’s still in London, and hasn’t gone down to the country.”
He had just heard that he had obtained a consultant post at St George’s Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, and was fizzing with pleasure, pride and good humour:
“The hospital and medical school of John Hunter - the greatest surgeon this country has ever produced!”
He made a bee-line for the girls.
By contrast, Hawkins was a big man, who looked too large for his suit, an extrovert rugger type, with thinning hair and a wide smile; his voice was booming, and he spoke incessantly; he was friendly, but lacked Barnstable’s charm; he had just passed his Final Fellowship, but had been in his present post for only six months: thus, he would not be eligible to apply for the senior registrar position vacated by Barnstable.
“But surgery is grand - just grand!”
The conversational doldrums had passed; we were now arranged in three groups around the senior registrar (Ffrench trying to hog the conversation), the registrar, and the house surgeon; the food and drink were being consumed quite rapidly: there was a nagging worry that none would be left for Mr Treves-Greene, if he made an appearance. We were also running out of clean glasses; so Pete Jackson and I each took a tray of dirty glasses to wash in the kitchenette; as we passed through the hallway, we observed - hanging from hooks next to Sandy’s overall - the solitary white coats of Michael Ffrench and John Field; Ffrench’s super-duper stethoscope protruded enticingly from the pocket of the right-hand coat. We paused in unison, the same thought having struck us both: “Let’s sabotage the stethoscope!”
We set aside our trays. On a window ledge we found an old newspaper; I tore the paper into small strips, and handed these to Pete, who stuffed them down the
rubber tubing of the stethoscope; when the tubing would accommodate nothing more, it was reconnected to the ear-pieces. I blew and then spoke a few words into the bell of the stethoscope - but only the faintest murmur could be heard through the ear-pieces; next I unbuttoned my shirt and pressed the diaphragm to my chest: the heart sounds were barely perceptible, and even deep breath sounds were very muffled.
That’ll do. Perhaps this will teach him a lesson! The stethoscope was replaced in the white coat pocket.
The glasses were washed and dried, and we rejoined the party …
At ten to seven, the door opened and Mr Treves-Greene appeared: he was tall, with thick raven-black hair, and a slight stoop; he wore a white bow-tie, white waistcoat and tails; a flowing opera cloak covered his shoulders, and he carried a silver-topped cane, top hat and white kid gloves, which he deposited on a convenient ledge. He exuded energy and good humour:
“Can’t stay long … just on my way to Covent Garden … meeting my party there at seven-thirty. Thanks, I’ll have a small whisky … and perhaps one of these scones - they look delicious …” (Anne preened herself.)
Having just helped myself to a large whisky, I found I was out on a limb, facing the great man on my own. It became incumbent upon me to serve him, and to engage him in conversation:
“Er … what are you seeing, Sir?”
“Rigoletto - Verdi … One of my favourites …Seen it many times before …Great cast this time … Should be magnificent!”
I was familiar with the famous quartet from Rigoletto, but had never heard the whole opera.
“Er … the hunchback …” I ventured timidly.
“Ah, I see you know the work - splendid!”
I flushed with pleasure at the surgeon’s flattering words (aided somewhat by the alcohol I had consumed). A few minutes passed, and still no-one had come to relieve me …
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 15