Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2)

by Felix Bruckner

  I'm in a dark house. Only one solitary light is burning, throwing up weird shadows. There is a creaking sound behind me, and I realise I am not alone. He stands before me, huge, stripped to the waist, his muscles gleaming with sweat, a fierce malevolent expression on his face. Belatedly I recognise Russ Potter. He advances on me, brandishing a scalpel dripping with blood.

  “You shouldn't have interfered in my affairs, Edwin Scott, you should have kept away from Paula.”

  I feel the scalpel blade pierce my chest. He strikes twice, three times ...

  My heart was hammering in my rib-cage, and I felt a searing pain in my chest and epigastrium, as I awoke. The early morning light was filtering into my room through the gap in the curtains. I lay on my back, bathed in perspiration, disorientated. It was some time before I realised that I was in my bed in Aunty Bronwen's farm cottage in Llangammarch Wells, and dawn was breaking.

  7

  Sunday, 17th October: Bronwen had casually mentioned the name “Daisy”, when she spoke about her nephew, but I hadn't taken much notice. Danny arrived for Sunday lunch, accompanied by a very young, stunningly beautiful girl; they carried a tiny carry-cot between them.

  “This is Daisy, Edwin. We were wed just before Christmas ... and this is Megan, who is three months old. She's just been fed ... so now she's sleeping peacefully ... Should last until after dinner ... But how are you, boyyo? Doctoring seems to suit you ...”

  I shook hands rather formally with Daisy. She was slim and petite, with reddish-golden hair and a perfect complexion; she wore hardly any make-up, and this made her seem even more child-like. She was eighteen, so they must have married when she was only seventeen. Danny, by contrast, had aged since I had last seen him. His hair was thinning, and he was developing the hint of a paunch, having always been painfully thin before. However, there was no doubting that he was happy. At frequent intervals, his eyes roved fondly between his wife and the tiny scrap in the cot. While we waited for Bronwen to finish the cooking, Daisy overcame her initial shyness, and blossomed into conversation. She came from neighbouring Llanwrtyd Wells, where her father was a blacksmith. She loved it here, loved the farm, loved her little Megan, who was no trouble at all and had taken to the breast like a bird to the air ... loved Danny most of all (a becoming blush suffused her face and neck, and her brilliant blue eyes sparkled). They lived in the farm cottage, which had been extended, so that there was a room where Megan would live when she was older. Daisy's father had put in a new bathroom, shower and inside toilet, of which they were both inordinately proud. Danny wanted his wife to carry on with her education when the baby was old enough ... Perhaps she could learn book-keeping or become a schoolteacher ...

  “Isn't little Megan lovely?” Aunty Bronwen smiled soppily at the tiny form, half-hidden in her wrappings inside the carry-cot which had been perched on the settee. The dogs had been forbidden to approach, and sat warily at the other end of the room, wagging their tails gently from time to time, their gaze hovering between Danny and his aunt.

  Lunch was delicious and abundant: piping hot roast lamb fresh from the farm with mint sauce, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, lightly-boiled carrots, dark gravy ... Afterwards Aunty Bronwen's apple pie, still steaming, with thick custard – just as I remembered it. Regretfully, I turned down the offer of a bottle of beer ... I was driving back to Hitchin immediately after our meal ...

  Amid the joy of my short break and mellow reflections of happy times past, the misery of Jill's death and the chilling uncertainty of the serial killings had been temporarily displaced from my consciousness. Now, while I rose from the table and prepared to depart, another thought struck me forcibly: would I ever again return to Llangammarch Wells; would I ever again set eyes on Bronwen Pugh, Danny Thomas, Daisy and little Megan?

  8

  Monday, 18th October: I had been called to see the medical superintendent of St Peter's Hospital again. As his secretary, Diane, showed me in, he raised his arm in greeting:

  “Ah, Dr Scott, come on in ... This is Sergeant Gately. Perhaps you already know him ... He has a few questions to ask you ... Well, I'll leave you both to it.” And he slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  All the lights were on in the spacious office, leaving me faintly dazzled.

  “Please take a seat, Dr Scott ...”

  Gately was in uniform, seated comfortably on the far side of the wide desk, eyes boring into me, as though searching my soul. Though I had seen Belinda's boy-friend several times before, this was the first time I had been able to scrutinise him closely: he was burly with a handsome, square-jawed face, a neatly-trimmed moustache, and a serious expression; his hair was dark and curly. On the desk were a cup of tea and a partially eaten biscuit. I waited.

  “I'm investigating the loss of dangerous drugs – morphine and pethidine – from the hospital pharmacy, and I'll need to ask you some questions ...”

  He consulted his notebook on the desk before him.

  “Firstly, Dr Scott, how long have you been working at St Peter's Hospital?”

  “I've been house physician here for five months now – since 1st June, er Sergeant ... But surely there must be a simple explanation – perhaps the chief pharmacist has made an error in his drugs audit.”

  The policeman totally ignored my comment, and continued with his questioning:

  “Are you aware of anyone in the hospital acting strangely, recently?” I shook my head.

  “How often have you been in the dispensary on your own, after hours?”

  I remembered my dream; I thought carefully, and weighed my words when I replied.

  “Twice – the first time about three months ago, on a Sunday afternoon for some antibiotics; and then about six or seven weeks ago for mersalyl injections, for heart failure ... But I signed for them carefully each time in the drugs book.”

  While he wrote laboriously in his notebook, I explained how I obtained and returned the dispensary key after hours. There was another long pause before he proceeded, taking me by surprise, throwing me into confusion:

  “Now, think carefully; I understand about your grief over your recent sad loss ... Have you been taking any pills for this ... to ease your pain?”

  The silence lengthened. I felt increasingly uncomfortable. My mind refused to function. What was he suggesting? Again I shook my head.

  “So, that is all you can tell me, is it, Dr Scott? It's not very much ... Well, I may have to come back to you again in the future, if I need to clarify some points ...”

  He nodded, smiled briefly and dispassionately. I was dismissed.

  9

  Saturday, 23rd October: The last yellow and brown leaves of the chestnut tree outside the window fluttered to the ground in the light breeze, with a faint rasping sound. Although it was chilly outside in the low sun, inside the mess sitting room the electric fire hummed, and it felt warm and snug. We were having a party. Peggy had brought a crisp white tablecloth to cover the battered table; there was a home-made chocolate cake with a single festive red candle in the middle, and everyone had a red paper napkin to go with their plate. Sally-Anne had had an exciting afternoon, and now sat curled up half-asleep on her father's lap, chocolate all around her face, while he consumed his tea and cake, and tried to keep his end up in the general conversation. For once, his pipe remained out of sight. The room was crowded on this Saturday afternoon. We had all turned up to say goodbye to Teddy Blayne, who was leaving next week.

  The conversation had broken into two groups: Peggy and Abida Siddiqui were discussing cookery; I had never seen Abida so animated: her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled, though she still kept her voice down to a low murmur. Russ Potter, Imran Shah and Olly Kumar talked cricket, in particular the relative merits of Surrey and Middlesex – the superlative consistency of the medium fast bowler, Alec Bedser, against the batting and all-round quality of Dennis Compton. Teddy appeared to be out on a limb, so I carried my chair over, and sat next to him, staying out of reach of
Sally-Anne's chocolaty fingers, though by this time she was fast asleep; we kept our voices low, and Teddy avoided any sudden movements, so as not to disturb her.

  The door opened, and in walked a tall slim lady wearing thick horn-rimmed spectacles, a severe white blouse and a navy skirt; she had bobbed carroty hair, pale skin and freckles (suggesting Celtic genes), and was devoid of make-up. She surveyed us with a no-nonsense, slightly disapproving look, like a school-teacher in a class full of naughty children. Russ hastened to introduce her.

  “This is my wife, Charleen ... come down from Scotland yesterday for the week-end? She's neurology senior registrar at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary ...”

  “Hi ...” Her eyes roamed around the room; she smiled perfunctorily, waved at no-one in particular, and made a bee-line for Peggy and Abida. Soon she was immersed in their chat about cookery, baking, clothes and children. Her voice was penetrating and authoritative, but she had only the faintest trace of an Aussie accent, I noted. Her serious, severe look had relaxed.

  My attention returned to Teddy, who – I knew – had recently passed the Edinburgh Membership Exam in Paediatrics.

  “We're taking a fortnight's holiday in Devon before I start at University College Hospital. The climate should be a bit warmer than here. Sometimes it's quite Mediterranean in Torquay at this time of year ... After all my swotting, I think the whole family deserves a holiday ...”

  He had been offered a registrar post in the department of paediatrics; in spite of his casual acknowledgement of the fact, he was yet conspicuously proud of being taken back by his teaching hospital.

  “Did you come across our Humphrey Golding, Teddy, while you were a student?”

  “Why yes, of course ... Sir Humphrey's one of the top physicians at UCH. Everyone knows of him. I gather he's been doing some impressive research on haematological malignancies ... Speaking of which, do you remember, Edwin, that pretty little girl of his that you brought in not long ago?”

  “Laura ... er ... Parker?”

  “That's the one ... Well she had all the tests – marrow aspiration, the lot; confirmed she had acute lymphoblastic leukaemia, poor scrap – there's no treatment ... Parents took her straight out of the ward ... Last I heard they were starting a public appeal. Hoped to raise enough money to take the child to some clinic in Switzerland, where they claim to have a magic cure for leukaemia ...”

  Poor little girl, poor parents! I felt ineffably sad for them. Was it right, was it fair, that they should be offered this hope, only for it to be dashed ... as it inevitably would be when the miracle didn't work?

  All conversation was brought to a halt, as the door burst open: on the threshold stood Brian Root, his face grazed, his left arm in a sling. He surveyed the scene, and seemed satisfied with the impact of his entrance.

  “I've had to take a taxi ... On the way back, a little early from my week-end off, I came off the road and wrapped my car round a tree ... Not sure why, must have fallen asleep at the wheel ... My poor Austin Healey Sprite's a write-off, but I walked away virtually unscathed ...”

  10

  Sunday, 24th October: Sunlight filtered through the net curtains, and its reflections made changing patterns on the ceiling: I was enjoying the luxury of a bath with copious hot water. Business had been slack over the whole of this week-end. I had lain in late this morning, and now looked forward to a late breakfast and a leisurely day. Nothing stirred in the doctors' quarters. I had the place to myself.

  I closed my eyes, settled myself deeper in the bath tub, and let my mind drift. The disappearance of the opiates, the murders, all had started after Claud Guillam's arrival. Was this just coincidence?Apart from our one evening together in my room (discussing French music and literature) and our week-end hand-overs, I had seen very little of him, but then I was always on duty when he was off, and vice versa ... What about Brian Root? “My car wrapped itself around a tree, but I walked away virtually unscathed ...” I recalled his irritability, his unpredictability, his pin-point pupils: could he be a morphine addict? His girl-friends, Tess and Shirley, had both been attacked; now Shirley was dead. I remembered seeing Stanley Pollett in the hospital car park on the evening of Shirley's death. Was he implicated? And who was he waiting for?

  My reverie was interrupted by a soft gasp. I opened my eyes: standing over me was Abida Siddiqui; she was not wearing her customary spectacles and her eyes were almost popping out of their sockets; she was grasping, rather precariously, a collection of bottles, lotions and a couple of towels; she wore a long red dressing-gown in patterned silk; her feet were bare, and her long black hair hung loose, extending almost to her waist. We stared at each other, mesmerised.

  “So sorry to intrude,” she broke the growing silence; yet her eyes continued to wander over my body, while I searched desperately for the face-flannel – to regain a shred of propriety.

  “I thought I'd locked the door,” I ventured at last. “Didn't hear you enter ...”

  “I come at this time, Edwin, because there's always plenty of hot water ...”

  “I won't be long ... Abida ...”

  She finally got the message, grasped her dressing-gown more tightly around her slight body, held on to her bottles and towels, and backed out of the bathroom, closing the door gently behind her.

  There goes my Sherlock Holmes moment, I thought as I pulled myself upright, and reached for the towel. Better make sure of the door next time ...

  11

  Monday, 25th October: Having lingered over breakfast, I risked being late for the Monday morning registrar's ward round. I was stopped in my tracks as I crossed the car park: in the consultants' section stood an empty police Rover. My heart raced and I felt sick with apprehension. Had Sergeant Gately interviewed the probationer nurses and learned what really happened between Belinda and me at the pictures? Was he going to exact his revenge by arresting me on a trumped-up charge? Would this mark the end of my medical career?

  There was no sign of Brian Root on Ward Four, and no message; after a wait of nearly half an hour I started the round without him, accompanied only by a staff nurse. My mind still in turmoil, I had difficulty in concentrating on my duties, expecting at any minute to be summoned back to the medical superintendent's office, but neither the patients nor the nurse seemed to notice. When I arrived on Ward Ten at the half-way stage of the round, Stanley Pollett ushered me into his office in a state of high excitement.

  “Have you heard – they've arrested Dr Root ... Apparently he's an opiate addict, and he's been helping himself from our pharmacy ... Apparently quantities of morphine went missing from his last hospital, The Whittington, during the time he was on emergency duties there as medical SHO: that's over Christmas, 1958. The police have only now put two and two together ...”

  He stumbled over his words, in his haste to get them out. I was amazed. I had never before seen Pollett lose his iron self-control.

  I remembered Brian's car crash: “I wrapped my car around a tree ... I must have fallen asleep at the wheel ...” I recalled his irascibility, his inconsistency, his constricted pupils, as if he were looking into a bright light ...

  12

  Tuesday, 26th October: “Dr Middleton on the line for you, Dr Scott ...”

  “Ah, Edwin ... I'm afraid Dr Root is .. ah ... indisposed. Could you get down to the clinic and help out again? Quick as you can ...” and the phone went dead.

  I left the remnants of my lunch, slipped on my white coat and bolted for the out-patients' department. At the entrance, I almost bumped into Dan Ellington, a flame-coloured silk scarf looped over his white coat, deep in conversation with a West Indian lady who looked vaguely familiar: Good Lord, it's Poppy Patterson. I wonder what they're up to ... I hurried on.

  It was one-thirty-five, and the clinic started at half-past one. There were two receptionists in white overalls behind the reception counter, two staff-nurses in the main hall; about a dozen patients sat on the three rows of benches in the waiting area. Sister had obviously
been on the look-out for me: she intercepted me, and directed me to Consulting Room Two. She was thin, elderly (perhaps in her late fifties), with iron grey-hair under a starched white cap, and gold-rimmed spectacles. She appeared impatient, irritated, perhaps cross that the smooth running of her kingdom had been disrupted.

  “You're late, Dr Scott ...”

  I said nothing.

  “Here are your notes for today – four new patients and five follow-ups. As you may remember, you take the histories of the new patients, and then Dr Middleton examines them, makes the diagnosis, orders investigations and starts treatment. You have twenty minutes for each new patient and then twenty minutes for each follow-up ... Dr Middleton has started on his old patients and will see the first new one as soon as you have finished with the history ... Please don't take too long examining all the notes ... call the first patient as soon as you're ready.”

  The door closed and I sat down. Consulting Room Two was light and airy, with two large windows. There was a decent-sized desk with a comfortable swivel chair for me, facing the door, and a pair of upright padded chairs on the other side of the desk. Slatted blinds at the windows prevented a view in from the car park. On one side of the room, doors led into two small examination rooms, each containing a couch and a small trolley laid up with medical instruments – sphygmomanometer, stethoscope, patella hammer, ophthalmoscope, auroscope, tuning fork, neurological pin and cotton wool for testing light touch. Patient gowns hung from hooks on the wall.

  On the desk in the consulting room were two piles of notes: thin files for new patients, a general practitioner's letter attached to the front of each with a paper-clip; and thicker, more worn folders for the follow-ups who had either been seen and investigated in the clinic in the past, or had been in-patients. I glanced at the first new-patient letter: