He was a small compact man, with hesitant speech and an affable yet slightly shifty manner, constantly looking over the tops of our heads; he was scruffily dressed in jumper and faded corduroy trousers of indeterminate colour: there was very little in his appearance or manner that distinguished him from the succession of patients who passed through the seminar room that afternoon. The last, a middle-aged man, was - like the psychiatrist - stocky, cheerful and friendly, but with a frank open manner, and looking us straight in the eye.
“I’m just a happy nut!” he confessed.
He had been diagnosed as “manic depressive psychosis”. Dr Smellie took a long rambling history, including past employment, family relationships, social history, alcohol intake, and past medical history; the patient seemed to enjoy this, answering at length, but always pertinently, a broad smile never leaving his face. At the end, he was reluctant to be dismissed; however, he was finally persuaded to leave by the attending nurse, with a promise that we would return for a further instalment of his story, next day.
“He doesn’t look as though he needs to be here.” Joe Knowles articulated the thoughts of the whole Firm, when the patient had finally departed.
“Don’t be fooled … Mr Handley was ready to be discharged last week … On his last day, he was due to work on the allotment, as usual … However, another patient, a big fierce chap, had been allocated his patch prematurely, and refused to move … Mr Handley just smiled amiably - and decapitated him with his spade!”
“Surely he didn’t kill him?”
“Yes, indeed he did … And from this tale we learn never to frustrate the patient …”
After tea, the students were split into pairs. Sebastian and I were escorted down a long corridor by a burly uniformed male nurse; at intervals, we passed through locked doors (unlocked, and then locked behind us each time with a large bunch of keys); finally, we came to a small sparsely furnished room, with two lights set into the ceiling and protected by metal grills. A large handsome West Indian woman sat motionless in a corner, by the window; she was introduced to us as “Maudie White”; and we were invited to chat to her, take a history, and attempt a diagnosis. The nurse pointed to a bell-push, by the door:
“Press the panic button, when you want to leave!” And he was gone, locking the door behind him.
We introduced ourselves, and the lady smiled at us from beneath hooded eyelids. She was dressed all in navy blue - V-necked jumper, slacks and gym shoes.
“I’m in here because I gets lonely and depressed when I’m on my ownsome.” She had a pleasant low lilting voice. (Ah: “Depression,” I diagnosed instantly.)
“Would you like to see my mole?” she continued.
“Yes, alright.”
She started tugging at her jumper …
“No! It’s not really necessary.” Sebastian was apprehensive.
“Aren’t you interested?” Her smile was replaced by a slight frown.
The dictum, Never frustrate the patient, recurred to us:
“Yes we are - please carry on.”
Her jumper came off, and she had nothing on underneath: below the right breast was a tiny pigmented mole, about ¼ inch in diameter. Momentarily, we were transfixed - lost for words!
“What you gawpin’ at? You men’s all the same … You’s just like my husband. You all after de same thing.”
Her face puckered up, and I thought she was going to cry; instead it contorted into a hideous mask of rage; she screamed at us, her words unintelligible; she scrabbled in a drawer; suddenly she had a large pair of scissors in her hand - and she was lunging at Sebastian! While the big Jamaican lady chased my friend around the furniture (still stripped to the waist), I pressed the panic button by the door, and could hear a faint ringing in the distance.
“Please come quickly,” I prayed under my breath.
Abruptly, the door burst open: two male nurses entered, and flung themselves on Maud; she was forced to the ground, and her arms were pinioned in a straight-jacket.
“Where did she get the scissors?” asked the first nurse. “That’s how she attacked her husband - almost killed him … You have to be careful what you say to paranoid schizophrenics. They can be dangerous …”
Thursday, 6th November: The letter lay open on my writing desk in the students’ hostel. I picked it up, and read it for the third time:
18 Judd Street,
Lambeth,
London, S.E.1.
20th November, 1958
Dear Edwin,
I’ve been agonising over this for some time, and have finally come to a decision. As you know, I share a flat with Paddy Kennedy, and this has thrown us together quite a bit.
Although you won’t necessarily have seen them, he does possess some fine qualities: he is witty, exciting, fun to be with, has a large circle of friends - and he makes me laugh. I couldn’t wait for you for ever, and I guess I have fallen in love with Paddy. He has asked me to marry him, and, after a lot of thought, I have accepted him. (The writing suddenly went out of focus, and I had to pause.) We are now engaged, and intend to wed next June.
Edwin, I hope this is not too great a shock for you, and that we can remain friends.
With fondest best wishes.
Yours,
Jill.
The wintry sun had sunk behind the roof-tops: outside it was getting dark, but I hardly noticed. I sat in the fading light, sadness seeping through me.
“Couldn’t wait for ever …” she had said. Suddenly a thought rose, unbidden and irrelevant, in my mind: What shall I do about the Pritchards’ Minton cup and saucer?
Finally: Shall I drown my sorrows in work or in drink?
Immobile as Queen Alexandra’s statue, I sat on; I had missed supper, and - gradually - the pangs of hunger asserted themselves. Eventually, I pushed back my chair, and, leaving the letter on the desk, made my way downstairs: I would seek out some cocoa and sandwiches.
As I was wolfing down my snack, Joe Knowles entered the lounge.
“Fancy a game of snooker, Edwin?”
“Alright, why not …”
Chapter Twenty Seven - February, 1959
Nineteen-fifty-nine was the year that a revolution brought the Communist leader, Fidel Castro to power in Cuba; the Soviet spaceship, Lunik II, crash-landed on the moon; Antarctica was declared a multi-national reserve. In the UK, the Conservative Party won the General Election, and a new breed of car - the Mini - appeared on the roads. The young American singer, Buddy Holly, died in an air crash, mourned by millions.
All appears peaceful in Whitechapel. A new generation of night nurses braves the cold streets. My hooded figure is no longer a memory, perhaps not even a bad dream.
However, I have not been idle. I have almost completed my plans, and the preparations for my return. Oh yes, soon, very soon, I shall be ready. Then the world, Whitechapel, the London Hospital, and especially you, Edwin Scott, will feel the heat of my wrath, the fury of my revenge!
Chapter Twenty Eight - March, 1959
Monday, 2nd March: A frisson of excitement and anticipation had gone through the group, when we learned that we had bagged the plum senior medical firm. For the next three months, we would be attached to the Professorial Medical Unit.
We had had an introductory talk from Professor Clement Harley - the great man himself - before he had disappeared on a protracted lecture tour of Australia and New Zealand. His main claim to fame was his description of the rare syndrome, Harley’s Triste (Depression, hiccup and blindness, of rapid onset, in certain types of renal failure). Outside the London Hospital Medical Unit, the label was usually considered a miss-print for Harley Street; the Professor was now trying valiantly to promote his original concept in the Antipodes.
In his absence, the main teaching ward rounds would be taken by Dr Timothy Flaxman, whom I had not met since the Introductory Course nearly two years before; Flaxman had recently been promoted to Reader in Medicine, which had had the effect of improving his self-esteem, and red
ucing his stammer; the flaming red hair was a little sparser, but his enthusiasm for his subject was as great as ever:
“There is a wealth of c-c-clinical material on the wards; so this is a huge opportunity for you all to g-gain experience, and improve your c-c-clinical skills …”
“D-d-do you have many cardiological cases, Dr Fuf-Flaxman?” Michael Ffrench’s voice interrupted jarringly. I could sense (rather than see) Malcolm Conway, behind me, collapsing in silent unaccustomed hysterics. Dr Flaxman glared at Ffrench for a few moments, before he continued.
“Our house physician, Mr Witherspoon, will allocate your p-patients, and you will keep an eye on their p-p-progress …”
The Medical Unit was the largest of the medical firms: there were four consultants - the professor, the reader and two senior lecturers; there were also two senior registrars, and an apparently unlimited supply of middle grade registrars (all referred to on the unit as lecturers in medicine). These spent most of their time in the laboratory, and were seen on the wards only once or twice a week; however, they rotated, so that there were always two registrars on full-time ward duties.
At the beginning of the firm, our group was allocated to a personable young lecturer, Dr Bill Audley, to be our tutor in medicine - and this arrangement would continue until we qualified!
“We will meet every Friday evening from five to six o’clock for tutorials on clinical topics … But if one of you has a personal problem, you can see me at any time - just contact me through the Medical Unit office!”
To take a history and fully examine a patient still took me well over an hour. I had been allocated three cases to clerk and follow up: a lady with thyrotoxicosis, a man with recurrent fevers, as yet undiagnosed, and a seventy-nine year old lady with chronic lymphatic leukaemia. She wore a leather eye-patch for corneal scarring from old shingles, and needed frequent blood transfusions for anaemia; she was terrified of the future, and would clutch at my arm each time I passed her bed: “Please don’t let me die, Doctor.”
When one of my patients left the ward - through discharge or death - I would admit the next one coming into that bed.
At each weekly teaching ward-round, four or five patients were presented by the students.
“Mr Mark Watts is a twenty-eight year old policeman who was admitted two days ago with recurrent fevers and night sweats …” I began.
Dr Flaxman was an excellent clinical teacher, and his stammer disappeared (or became unnoticeable) for long periods, only returning when he got really excited:
“Aha … You have s-s-spotted the small s-sus-splinter haemorrhages under Mr Watts’ finger nails, Mr Scott. Well done … F-First rate, my dear fellow.”
He showed us how to accentuate the mitral systolic murmur (getting Mr Watts to exercise his heart by touching his toes a few times, and then to lay on his left side); he demonstrated the enlarged spleen (which I had missed despite its considerable size, because it was soft yet very tender to the touch). We discussed the temperature chart at the foot of the bed. Finally the whole firm withdrew to the side room to test the urine for blood, and examine it under a microscope; Flaxman pointed out the large quantity of red blood cells in the urinary sediment.
“The patient gives a past history of rheumatic fever,” he summarised. “He has recently had a dental extraction; and he is now progressively unwell with fever and weight loss (suggesting an infection); we note sub-ungual splinter haemorrhages and blood in the urine (suggesting multiple small emboli): this is the classic clinical picture of sub-acute b-bacterial endocarditis. A few years ago he would certainly have died. B-B-But now, thanks to Penicillin, we will save him!”
Saturday, 7th March: I walked through the ill-lit street with a sense of uncertainty; I passed large houses on my right, some showing lights in their windows; on the other side of the road was the almost palpable blackness of Regent’s Park. The evening was warm, but I could feel a faint drizzle on my cheek.
I had been surprised, when - out of the blue - I had received an invitation to Vicky Laidlaw’s twenty-first birthday party. I hadn’t seen her since my disastrous week-end at Chalfont Manor, over two years ago - and hadn’t thought of her for a long time. I felt a little guilty about going, as this was my first social outing since Jill’s bombshell; yet I hoped it might do me good: ease the pain! I clutched the small package, and wondered for the umpteenth time, whether I had been wise to accept the invitation.
The Laidlaw home was floodlit; as I approached, I became aware that it was a substantial Regency mansion. I consulted my watch: nine-thirty. I passed through the wrought-iron gate; in the forecourt stood an array of expensive vehicles, amongst which I recognized Vicky’s MG sports car; there were also a couple of high-powered motor bikes - a Norton and a Harley-Davidson.
I took a deep breath, climbed the three steps to the porch, and rang the bell. The door was opened almost immediately by a uniformed maid; I found myself in a large hall, dominated by a double stairway in white marble, which curved upwards to a dimly lit landing.
The party appeared to be in full swing; after leaving my overcoat, I followed the sound of voices to a spacious drawing room, lit by chandeliers and standard lamps, and crammed with people; a log fire roared in a deep fireplace, making the room uncomfortably warm. For a few minutes, I stood uncertainly at the open doorway, searching for a familiar face; Vicky detached herself from a group at the other end of the room, came over to me with a happy welcoming smile, and kissed me playfully on the lips.
She had changed subtly: less bubbly, she had become more poised, more mature; her hair was shorter and more fashionably styled; her heels higher, make-up more striking; she wore a smart burgundy cocktail dress, the obligatory pearl choker at her throat; prominently displayed on her left ring finger, was a large diamond ring surrounded by a cluster of rubies.
“Hello, Edwin, you’re looking great. So glad you could make it … You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve passed my SRN exams, and have started as staff-nurse on Uffingham … Nights for the next three months …”
I just had time to hand over the package - a silk scarf from Selfridges, costing more than I could afford - before she was gone, drifting around the room in perfect hostess mode, stopping for a few words with each group. Most of the guests were casually attired, and I felt conspicuous in my lounge suit.
From a passing waiter, I picked up a flute of champagne, and a plate with tiny black balls of caviar on diminutive squares of toast; then I entered the fray. The champagne was cool and refreshing with a pleasing fizz on the tongue, but the caviar tasted salty and slightly fishy - over-rated, I thought.
A three-piece band - piano, guitar and saxophone - struck up in a corner of the room, playing something soft and sultry.
“Night and day, you are the one …” crooned the guitarist.
I found myself face to face with Vicky’s parents: her father plump, thinning on top, casually dressed in a Cashmere jumper and slacks, with a silk scarf at his throat (I remembered that he was a director of one of the smaller, but more exclusive banks in the City); her mother was an older version of Vicky, handsome, elegant and copper-blonde: instantly likeable.
“You must be Edwin. Vicky has told us so much about you …”
“Thank you for inviting me … Lovely party …”
After a few minutes of small talk, Mrs Laidlaw led me to a dashing distinguished gentleman, overdressed in a white dinner-jacket and maroon cummerbund; he was deeply tanned, with raven-black hair just greying at the temples.
“This is Edwin Scott, a great chum of Vicky’s … Our doctor, Dr Shawcrosse; he lives conveniently around the corner, in Harley Street …”
“Gather you’re a medic …” A firm cool hand briefly gripped mine. “However, I avoid talking shop at parties. Only stores up trouble … Advise you follow suite … Now what think you of the England team selection?”
Nonplussed by the conversational switch, I gazed at him in bewilderment.
“Rugby team, of course!”
Still I couldn’t think of a sensible reply - my mind had gone completely blank, yet Dr Shawcrosse didn’t seem to notice: he carried on smoothly giving his views, asking rhetorical questions, and answering them himself; after several minutes of clipped monologue, we were interrupted by a middle aged, but very sexy lady, who had just entered the room:
“You can’t keep him to yourself all evening, Doctor …” and she dragged me away.
“How’s that fabulous motor-bike of yours, Jim? That is your Harley, outside, isn’t it? I do so love Vicky’s ring …”
With mild shock, I realized that she had mistaken me for Vicky’s fiancé; I glanced across the room, and for the first time noticed James - fair haired, five-foot five - now in intimate conversation with Vicky; I had last seen him in a pub at Great Chalfont, at the end of nineteen-fifty-six, when he was Cousin Henrietta Laidlaw’s boy-friend; I remembered Vicky’s last letter, and, finally, the penny dropped! I became aware of a further two young men, slight, blond and blue-eyed, at different points of the room.
I bet one of them owns the Norton outside!
Vicky clearly had a penchant for boys who resembled me (but didn’t get rotten drunk, and preferably also rode high performance motor-bikes).
The evening progressed pleasurably: the band played popular tunes, interspersed with strict tempo dance music - but nobody danced; I conversed with Lady Antonia Laidlaw, Henry and Margaret Hambleton Laidlaw, and Montague Laidlaw. Lord Laidlaw was not in evidence, and there was no sign of Cousin Peter (“…Governor of the Bahamas”), or Cousin Sylvester.
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 21