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

by Felix Bruckner

  With an effort I roused myself, swung my legs off the bed, put on my dressing gown and slippers, and wandered slowly upstairs to the bathroom on the mezzanine landing.

  The aroma of fresh coffee, bacon and toast did much to revive my spirits, while I sat in the breakfast room, awaiting my breakfast. My sister Jane appeared to have recovered completely from the loss of our Kerry Blue bitch, and now chatted happily about school.

  “I really love history, Eddie. If you like, I'll show you my project on the Tudors. I've got it upstairs in my room ...”

  Just then, Mum entered with a smile carrying a breakfast tray, and my attention was diverted.

  “Shall I show you later?” Jane persisted.

  After lunch, I set out in my car for the London Hospital. I had arranged to meet Rodney Webster, the current locum thoracic house surgeon, who had promised to give me “the guided tour” before I started. The heavens opened before I had driven five minutes and my windscreen wipers were struggling to cope. I followed my usual route towards the A1 and Hitchin, but turned right – east – after crossing London Bridge, passing down Fenchurch Street, and through the City, with its tall imposing banks, insurance buildings and office blocks. By the time I reached Aldgate High Street and the Whitechapel Road, the rain had eased to a faint drizzle. I now found myself in the East End of London, where the buildings were grimmer, seedier, the pedestrians less elegantly dressed. However, here I felt at home: I was approaching the London Hospital where I had spent five years of my life. I turned right just before the main hospital block, down Turner Street, and then into the gates of the out-patients department. Without difficulty I found a space in the resident doctors' car park, and I alighted. I made my way on foot back to the front of the hospital, with its grand – though grimy – Georgian façade and its carved inscription: “Supported Entirely by Voluntary Contributions”.

  In the entrance hall, I paused at the reception area gave my name and asked for Dr Webster, who was expecting me. He arrived within a few minutes, smiled wanly and shook my hand. I was surprised at the change in him. He had been a year ahead of me; somewhat portly, always attired in a loud waistcoat, I had considered him rather pompous. Now he looked haggard, hollow-eyed; he had lost weight and his clothes appeared to hang from him.

  “I gather you followed Spanswick-Colonne as house physician at Hitchin,” Webster greeted me. “Strange fellow ...Droll sense of humour. We called him 'Spastic Colon', Ha,ha ... Met him the other day, Scott ... Doing well in general practice ... When he heard you were coming here, he told me he had absconded early from his post at Hitchin at your hand-over, leaving you on call. Thought it was hilarious ...”

  I hadn't found it that funny at the time, I recalled.

  “What d'you think of our new bleeps?” he had become quite animated. He pointed to the rectangular flat black Bakelite object clipped to the breast pocket of his white coat, next to his fountain pens and pocket torch.

  “We're trying them out – they're just prototypes ... Reach me anywhere in the hospital ... Bloody marvellous.”

  He had been a junior registrar, working in out-patients, and was co-opted to locum as thoracic house surgeon when the incumbent had succumbed to glandular fever two months ago.

  “There's too much work for just one house surgeon ... But your luck's in – er, can I call you Edwin? As I was saying, they've just appointed a second house surgeon to succeed me – that's you; so there'll be two, should be a doddle now. Your opposite number will be Anne Baker-West ... Oh, and you'd best call me 'Rod' ... We're quite informal in this mess.”

  “Thanks ...” I found myself warming to him.

  He took me through a door marked “No Entry” at the west end of the ground floor corridor – and we were in the residents' mess.

  “Best to leave your overcoat here, on one of these pegs ... And I've got you a spare white coat ... I'll show you our clinic in out-patients first ...”

  The white coat was a bit large, and I put it on over my jacket. We descended to the basement corridor, and walked briskly down this for a while. The light was subdued and there were pipes along the ceiling. Although I knew the passage well (as it connected with the medical school), it reminded me of a scene from The Phantom of the Opera. Eventually, we ascended a flight of stairs; Rod took a key from his pocket, but we found that the door was unlocked.

  “Useful, this skeleton key ... Unlocks the doctors' quarters, the door in the wall leading to the hospital courtyard, outpatients – and all sorts of other places.”

  Out-patients was gloomy and deserted; he switched on several lights, and we moved across the spacious hall to one of the clinic suites.

  “This is the thoracic surgical clinic, Edwin ...”

  He unlocked the the door and switched on more lights. There were three tables for consulting, each with a swivel chair for the doctor and two hard chairs opposite for patients and relatives. Behind every table there were two enclosed examination cubicles with a couch and instrument trolley in each. At the other end of the clinic was a reception area for notes and appointments, three rows of benches and a small nursing station. Rod pointed out the locked glass-fronted wall cabinets with special equipment for the clinic.

  “See, there's a Maxwell box ... We use this for topping up the air for an artificial pneumothorax. We still have a lot of patients requiring this procedure ... pulmonary tuberculosis, treated by collapsing the lung ... The idea was to rest the lung ... dates from the era before we had antibiotics for TB. There's an AP clinic here once a week – you or Anne will be taking it ... Don't worry, it's quite easy, once you have done a few.”

  We retraced our steps to the main hospital building, and took a lift to the fourth floor. Here we passed through the swing doors into the empty theatre corridor, occupied only by a couple of theatre trolleys on which were left stretchers for transferring the patients. The first room we encountered was the surgeons' room; here we donned rubber boots, before Rod allowed me to proceed further. The cardio-thoracic theatre – Theatre Two – was locked, and my companion's magic key wouldn't unlock it. Thus I had to content myself with a view through the small circular window: a spacious tiled chamber, two theatre tables, each with its own bulky adjustable spot-light hanging from the ceiling rather like a submarine periscope; and cabinets for instruments lining the walls. If I twisted my neck, I could see the entrance to the anaesthetic room, and the viewing gallery for medical students, above.

  “It's one of the largest theatres in the block; we need the extra space when we use the heart-lung machine for bypass surgery – open heart surgery. We have a senior anaesthetist who trained for a year in Kirklin's unit at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. He's the only one qualified to use it, and regards it very much as his baby.”

  My heart beat more swiftly, as I contemplated my future in this setting, and my mind raced in unison. There was a long pause, during which we stood mute.

  Eventually, somewhat frustrated at being denied physical entrance, we retraced our steps, changed back into our outdoor shoes and descended the stairs to the second floor. The male and female cardio-thoracic wards – Vernon and Blakely – faced each other across a small lobby. Vernon looked out to the front of the hospital onto the Whitechapel Road and Whitechapel Tube Station, while Blakely had a more peaceful vista into the hospital quadrangle with its statue of Queen Alexandra (where Jill had almost died, and I had come face to face with the Whitechapel Slasher).

  “This is Sister Vernon ... Dr Scott. He will be succeeding me ...”

  The ward sister appraised me carefully from her desk, before greeting me and allowing herself a small smile. After the sisters at Hitchin, she appeared very formal and forbidding in the rather old-fashioned blue uniform and elaborate frilly cap, though she was still quite young.

  “I hope you will enjoy your time here, Dr Scott ...” she murmured.

  Then she returned her gaze to the notes she had been reading; Rod and I crept quietly from her office. The set-up of the ward w
as familiar from my student days: a small hall led to sister's office, two single side rooms, a tiny kitchen, the toilets, bathrooms and the urine testing room; the main section contained twenty-eight beds, fourteen on each side, with a desk in the centre, and tables for the patients' meals at the far end. I noted the cards above the head of each bed printed with the consultant's name. Of the seventeen beds currently occupied, only six were Geoffrey Taverstock's, the rest belonging to Spencer Wellington's patients. Along one wall, there were six large windows extending almost to the ceiling; however, because they were north-facing, the light they allowed in was hard and dull. The floor-boards, iron bedsteads and curtain-rails around the beds shone with polish. Several of the unoccupied beds were freshly made up, awaiting new arrivals for the coming week's operating lists. A staff-nurse started to rise from her desk, but Rod gently shook his head, and she subsided again and continued with her work. We stood in the centre of the ward, while he gave me a brief summary of the diagnoses and surgical management of the patients. He smiled and waved at a few of them.

  Then we moved quietly to the next ward, where the process was repeated ...

  “I won't take you to the private wing. Dare say you know where it is.” I nodded.

  On the way to the doctors' mess to retrieve my duffel coat we stopped off at the first floor.

  “Thought we'd just drop by haematology, Edwin ...”

  There was a line of empty chairs against one wall of the dark deserted corridor. Opposite was a reception counter with a receptacle for pathology specimens; a frosted glass door led into the haematology laboratory itself, and another door next to this opened into a small room where patients were bled for grouping and cross-matching, and volunteers came to give blood.

  “We often need donors when we have a case for open heart surgery, we can use up to twenty pints for a single patient. The hospital may not have enough blood in stock – especially if it's a rare group. I've sometimes had to help out myself, bleeding the donors ... I talk to them while the blood is flowing into the bottles: they always like to know it's in a good cause ... Bugsy Taverstock has been doing pump cases for some time, getting promising results ... Though Mr Wellington's the senior surgeon, he has only recently taken up open heart surgery ...”

  We drifted down to the mess, where I returned my white coat and collected my duffel coat.

  “Whilst you're here, I'll show you our TV lounge and our billiard room, where we tend to congregate when we're free; then I'll send you on your merry way ...”

  I looked around dutifully. I recognised several of the doctors sitting in armchairs, drinking tea, chatting quietly or reading papers; they had been in my year at medical school, but now they largely ignored me.

  “Thank you so much, Rod ...”

  “A pleasure ... Well, I'll see you when you start – for the official hand-over ... But I'm certainly looking forward to being non-resident again, when this job is over. Back in out-patients, back with the wife and kids ...”

  We shook hands. When I turned to go, I almost bumped into Bob Parsons, who was just entering the mess.

  “What are you doing here, Edwin? I thought you weren't due to start until next month.”

  “Rod Webster has just been showing me around, teaching me the ropes ... We've just finished ...”

  Bob nodded benignly to my guide, and then turned back to me with a wide welcoming smile.

  “Have you time for a quick pint? The pubs have just opened.”

  A friendly face at last! I thought, and agreed immediately. Bob changed into an overcoat, hanging on one of the pegs, and we made our way to the front hall of the hospital; we paused at the porter's lodge to inform him of Bob's whereabouts for the next hour or two.

  “Not really necessary; my bleep will reach me in the neighbouring pubs,” he told me proudly.

  We turned left at Turner Street, passed the London Hospital Medical College, and found ourselves in the empty saloon bar of our old students' haunt, the Good Samaritan.

  “What are you having, Edwin?”

  “Pint of best bitter, please ...”

  The Sammy was an old Jacobean inn with blackened oak beams, small windows and an uneven flagged floor. There were three high stools at the bar and the rest of the tiny space was crowded with tables and chairs. I took a window seat and Bob soon joined me with two full pint tankards.

  “Cheers ...” We sipped our beer and appraised each other.

  “Well this is nice, just like old times ...”

  Bob Parsons had been my closest friend at medical school. He was just finishing his first house job – ophthalmic house surgeon. He had enjoyed it and had not found it too onerous; his forthcoming post was house physician in dermatology – not overly exciting, but still a second job at The London, a second teaching hospital post. He quizzed me about my work at St Peter's, and seemed envious of my experience of real medical emergencies.

  “It's all a bit hierarchical here in the residents' mess – general medicine and surgery at the top, and then the specialties from neurology and neurosurgery down to my own ophthalmology and dermatology ... Cardio-thoracic surgery would rate quite high, except that you've been away from The London for your first six month stint. On the other hand, Anne Baker-West, who is due to take up Mr Wellington's HS post, is just finishing as Dr Henry Hamilton's houseman in general medicine here – so she's at the top of the tree ... But the other residents are all right really ... You'll find out once you settle in.”

  He expounded on the past problems of the thoracic surgical house job, as he saw them. Both Spencer Wellington and Geoffrey Taverstock had busy lists, difficult cases, a glut of private patients. The consultant surgeons had been playing tug of war with the unfortunate junior doctor; each expected the incumbent to devote the entire time to himself, and the poor houseman had been torn in half: there had been a lot of pressure, little time for sleep. In recent years, ever since the arrival of Mr Taverstock, all the thoracic house surgeons had fallen sick, were unable to complete their six-month stint. Of those locums who had been eligible, none had applied for the permanent post.

  “You're fortunate, though, Edwin. They've finally done what they should have done ages ago – they've split the job in two! Should be just right now ...”

  We reminisced about our time together in medical school:

  “Remember you slept on the floor of my room, after the Summer Ball at the Hurlingham Club – before you moved into the hostel yourself?”

  “And what about the Brighton Walk ... we both broke down together at the top of Reigate Hill – knees seized up, or was it hips? Saved by the Casualty Sister in that small cottage hospital who put us up on couches overnight ... fed us cocoa and sandwiches ... Finally we got home by train next morning, no question of completing the Walk ...”

  How they had all stared at us when we hobbled around on crutches at the next orthopaedic ward round, on the following Monday, as though we were patients ourselves ...

  I reminded Bob of our time together at the Queen Alexandra Midwifery Hospital in Bedford, where we had spent a month delivering babies and sewing up episiotomies. Because the pupil midwives had first pick of the deliveries during the daytime, we had had to take all the night calls, a very wearying regime. We shared a large comfortable twin-bedded room; Bob had brought his powerful Grundig tape recorder, and our evenings – when not busy – had been spent in bed, the lights low, listening to his recordings of Wagner's Ring Cycle, and the short stories of Edgar Allan Poe ...

  He didn't appear to have heard of the Hitchin murders; I was relieved not to have to repeat that saga yet again, and decided not to broach the subject myself.

  “How's Jill?”

  Bob had known her well, had last seen her six months before in the West-End pub where we were celebrating passing finals. He was visibly shocked to learn about her death.

  “You poor boy!”

  His sympathy was heart-felt. He paused for a considerable while, lost in thought.

  Eventually
he cleared his throat, and we resumed our conversation: he was still going out with his own girl-friend, Maggie, despite being unable to stray beyond the immediate environs of the London for the last six months. I recalled her flaming red hair and her jolly laugh.

  “We're thinking of getting engaged, if we're still together at the end of the next six months ...”

  “Congratulations, Bob ... Well done ...”

  I smiled, but struggled to hold back the tears. Again we were alone in our own worlds. Finally we seemed to shake ourselves, and returned to the present time. Simultaneously, we finished our drinks, rose and left the Sammy.

  “See you soon, Edwin ...”

  “Look forward to it, Bob ...”

  He disappeared in the direction of the Whitechapel Road, while I wandered back to my car, only a hundred yards away, mulling over our conversation. The drizzle had stopped and a ray of weak sunlight pierced the dark clouds.

  7

  Sunday, 14th November: Dad was up at ten o'clock, which was early for him because of his night work. He pottered about downstairs, glancing through the newspaper, exchanging small-talk with me – politics, the economy, his work, my work. Then he retired into our small kitchen, closing the door firmly behind him. He was cooking Sunday lunch himself! I was honoured ...

  The electric fire hummed in the front room – our living room, used only on special occasions. We sat down at the table formally laid for lunch, and Mum brought in the entrée – avocado with prawns; we set to, in silence ...

  Next came duck a l'orange, with mashed potatoes, cauliflower and tiny peas. My father had opened a bottle of red Burgundy – Gevrey-Chambertin, 1956 – a present at work from the floor manager. He smiled when he saw the expressions of surprise, joy and appreciation pass over my face. After a few mouthfuls of food and a few sips of wine, our conversation gradually unfolded. I told them of my visit to the Pritchards, how emotionally they had behaved towards me: