“As though I were their long-lost son ... a sort of replacement for their dead daughter ...”
I had to repeat the story of Jill's funeral. Mum even cross-examined me about the reception afterwards: Where was it held? What was the food like? Who else had been there? Why hadn't she and my father been invited?
Inevitably, Dad wanted to know about the deaths at St Peter's Hospital.
“I've been following the story in the national papers, Edwin ...”
I explained about the morphine and pethidine which had disappeared from the hospital pharmacy, and the eventual arrest of my registrar, Brian Root.
“But he had seemed such a nice man,” mother interjected.
My parents were not satisfied until I had given all the inside information on the murders not already supplied by the newspapers: the victims – my patient, the vagrant Horatio Tupper, Staff-Nurse Shirley Jenkins – and details of the attempted murder of Sister Milton, how I knew each one, which wards they worked on, whether I liked them ...
Dad pressed me on the identity of the killer, and I listed the resident doctors, any of whom might fit the bill: Claud Guillam kept himself to himself, and I had hardly seen him since his arrival;Teddy Blayne, benevolent, domesticated – perhaps too good to be true; the happy extrovert Russ Potter, in whom violence seemed to lurk just beneath the surface; Imran Shah, exotic, mysterious, dangerous; Olly Kumar, my friend, shy, gentle, surely not he; Daniel Ellington, sinister, strange, bizarre. The girls I swiftly ruled out as suspects: Paula Howard had arrived after the murders; Abida Siddiqui and Ginny Lund I considered too soft, again too gentle to commit acts of such violence. You will note, Dear Reader, that I excluded myself from the list, though if this had been an Agatha Christie novel, the narrator would have been the prime suspect (cf The Death of Roger Ackroyd).
“I get so worried about you, dear ...” my mother frowned to show how she worried.
“Nonsense, Anne; the boy has his own car ... he doesn't need to walk about in those dark alleys ...”
Little do they know, I thought to myself.
“Anyway all are safe, now that Root has been apprehended ... I suppose he was the killer, wasn't he, Edwin?”
Through the ground-floor window I could see that it was becoming misty outside. The gloom and apprehension that had assailed me on my arrival returned. I decided to leave at half-past eight. I didn't fancy getting caught in thick fog on the A1 later this evening. If the roads were reasonably clear, though, I might reach Hitchin by ten o'clock.
8
Thursday, 18th November: I'm in tears, as I throw gravel on Jill's coffin. It's my fault she's dead, I shouldn't have kissed her mother. I get into the car, but it won't start. Suddenly it shoots off. I can't control it – it's Dan Ellington's Maserati. He sits in the passenger's seat, grinning at me nastily: “Don't be such a baby, Edwin, it's easy, nothing to it.” We approach a bend. I press the accelerator pedal instead of the brake; the steering wheel won't turn; the car leaves the road and smashes into the trunk of a large oak tree. “Oh, my beautiful car,” wails Daniel, as I black out ... Two voluptuous young ladies approach. They are clad only in their panties and bras, which they now proceed to undo. My heart hammers in my chest. I stand, unable to move. I recognise Tess Milton and Belinda Peach. I fall backwards onto a soft couch, and they are on top of me. Their sharp teeth tear at my throat. They are vampires – the Vampires of Hertfordshire! Blood oozes from their lips onto my clothes and then onto the couch. Each takes a scarf to staunch the bleeding, and winds it tightly around my neck ... I am walking towards the Rose and Crown on the dark, narrow path. It is eerily empty, and I have a feeling of impending doom. I should never have come. A gigantic figure appears before me with scarecrow straw-coloured hair. It is Daniel Ellington again. He approaches me with a sneer. He utters an incantation which I can't understand. He unravels the flame-red scarf from around his neck. Then he is behind me. The scarf loops over my head. Before I can grab it, I feel a sharp stab on the front of my throat. I am being throttled ... My vision goes red, and then all is black ... I am dying ...
I awoke from the nightmare with a constricted feeling in my throat, radiating down my sternum into the pit of my stomach. The adrenaline was pumping, and my heart was pounding forcefully in my rib-cage, shaking my bed with each beat. Something had woken me. I held my breath, and listened. There it was again: something or someone was moving about in my room. Was I still dreaming? I lay motionless, paralysed with fear, my mouth dry, my eyes wide open, trying to make out the details of my room. My eyes accommodated to the feeble light: there was no-one there. Then I heard it again – the movement was coming from next door, quiet and stealthy; the window was opening. There was a grunt, and then a muttered curse. Someone was climbing out of Ginny's window. I swung my legs to the floor, and padded quietly across the room; I opened the curtain a crack and looked out. I observed a figure retreating towards the doctors' annexe; I only saw it from the rear, but it was unmistakeably Daniel Ellington – scarecrow form, hair dishevelled and sticking out at all angles, almost white in the bright light of the full moon, flame-coloured scarf looped around the neck. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, gave a small wave, and broke into a jog. Next door, I heard Ginny moving about quietly, closing the window, singing softly to herself – at least she was still alive! I let out my breath in relief.
What a strange fellow that Dan Ellington is, pretending to be celibate, saving himself for his wealthy widow, when all the time he was bonking Ginny Lund – Beauty and the Beast, I thought. Can't see what she sees in him, though. I've always thought that he looked weird, rather sinister, but then even the beautiful Paula had confessed that she found him attractive ...
I turned my mind to Paula. She was an enigma, and I was never quite sure where I stood with her. Did she truly love me? My own feelings were ambivalent. Sometimes, when Paula and I were together, the memory of Jill and the accompanying feelings of guilt came crashing down between us like a portcullis, dampening my ardour and leaving me empty, overtaken with self-loathing. St Peter's Hospital was a rumour-mill, a small enclosed community. How much did people know of my relationships? After Brian Root had dumped Sister Milton, she held herself aloof from him: a staff-nurse had replaced her on the registrar's round of Ward Four, but I still saw Tess on my own rounds and on the main weekly session with Dr Middleton. She had regarded me wistfully during these encounters, but treated me formally, keeping her distance. Sometimes there had been a look of entreaty, latterly a hard, cold expression. Nothing was mentioned, even when we were alone, of our night together ... And what about Russ Potter, who had previously been benign, benevolent? He was now distinctly unfriendly towards me. Everything had changed since the arrival of Paula Howard.
9
Sunday, 21st November: When we returned from Sunday lunch in the doctors' dining room, there was an all-pervading smell of curry. Olly, Russ and I had had tepid fatty braised beef, boiled potatoes, peas (and prunes for dessert), from which my stomach had not quite recovered. The television played an old Randolph Scott Western, with the sound off.
“Won't you join us?”
Abida Siddiqui sat on the settee with an empty tray on her lap, waiting for it to be filled. I seated myself next to her, the other two on separate easy chairs.
From the kitchenette next door came cooking sounds, then the scraping of a serving spoon on saucepans; finally, Imran Shah emerged, bearing another tray containing two large plates filled to overflowing with a meat dish in a thick curry sauce, and yellow pilau rice. On a separate serving plate were stacked thick fleshy round parathas and crispy white chapattis.
“Do partake with us,” he offered.
He wore a white apron over his formal striped trousers and waistcoat; sleeves were rolled up, face was slightly flushed – though whether from exertion or pleased anticipation, I couldn't tell.
“We would be honoured ... There's plenty for all – lamb curry, Madras style ...”
By now, my a
ppetite had re-emerged.
“Thank you ...” I joined my companions in accepting a second lunch.
Dessert plates were brought from the kitchen, piled precariously with rice and curry, and balanced on our laps. On the coffee table before us stood the serving dish of parathas and chapattis, glasses of water and a full jug for refills. Shah turned out to be an excellent cook; we ate, and very little conversation took place until we were finished, replete, content.
“There's plenty more ...”
But we refused courteously; Imran and Abida cleared away the dishes, and stacked them in the kitchen sink next door.
“How did you two get on in your Final Fellowship Exams this time?” the Australian enquired after everyone had resumed their seats.
I had heard that Russ himself had got through on his second attempt.
“Passed,” murmured the woman shyly; she was the younger of the two senior house officers by two or three years, and had effortlessly surmounted the hurdle of Primary Fellowship at the first attempt.
“Failed again,” came almost simultaneously from Shah. He was a more than adequate surgeon; however he was no good at passing exams: he lacked the academic skills, the ability to revise or regurgitate facts in a systematic manner. He seemed destined to return to Madras to work in a small provincial hospital or at a sub-consultant level in a larger establishment. Abida Siddiqui, by contrast, might well rise to the top of her profession, if her surgical technique could match her theoretical knowledge.
“What about you, Mr Potter,” Shah continued after a long, slightly embarrassed pause. “I hear you were successful. When will you be leaving us?”
The question was not completely academic: he had hopes of succeeding Russ as surgical registrar at St Peter's.
“A few months yet. I'll probably start applying for a senior registrar job somewhere in the UK, in January. My wife, Charleen, has another couple of years as neurology SR at Edinburgh; then we'll both be returning to Oz – hopefully to Canberra ... She's a high flyer ... Won the gold medal for medicine when we were students there ... I was just run-of-the-mill ... Couldn't make out what she saw in me ... Came over to the UK together two and a half years ago ... She passed her Membership of the Royal College of Physicians of London first time, and then the Edinburgh RCP ... Got taken on at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, first as registrar and then SR in neurology ... She's quite some cookie?”
His manner had been rather cool towards me since I'd been linked with Paula by the St Peter's Hospital rumour mill, having had hopes in that direction himself; now it had thawed again, changed completely; I'd never seen him so enthusiastic – the normally laid-back Aussie was flushed, almost bursting with pride.
There was another long pause.
“What do you folks think of our serial murders?” I enquired in order to break the silence which was becoming uncomfortable. “Do you reckon it could be an inside job? Are we harbouring a murderer at St Peter's?”
“The killings remind me of the Thugs – or Thuggees – in India,” Imran Shah responded, a strange light appearing in his eyes, his voice low and expressionless. “They used to infiltrate groups of travellers on the road, befriend them and then, while they slept, strangle them with silk scarves, each weighted with a coin ... Finally they buried them all, leaving no survivors to tell the tale... Some sort of robber cult ...”
“I believe they were followers of the Goddess Kali, the one with four arms, the Destroyer Goddess ...” Olly smiled shyly. “They were founded in the fourteenth century ... Professional assassins ... Thugs apparently murdered a million people in their heyday between seventeen-forty and eighteen-forty, before they were sought out and destroyed by the British Raj. The scarves were wound around their heads as turbans, each weighted with a sewn-in medallion ... As I am probably the only Hindu male at St Peter's Hospital, I must be the chief suspect ...”
Unexpectedly, I recalled Ernie's phone-call about the sinister Sikh gentleman with beard and turban, who had been trying to trace the tramp after his discharge from Ward Ten. Was he a modern day Thuggee? Could he have links with Kumar, Shah and Siddiqui?
I opened the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes at the chapter headed The Naval Treaty, and began to read:
“The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable by three cases of interest, in which I had had the privilege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the headings of 'The Adventure of the Second Stain', 'The Adventure of the Naval Treaty', and 'The Adventure of the Tired Captain'. The first of these, however, deals with interests of such importance and implicates so many of the first families of the kingdom ...”
It was nine-thirty, and my room was bathed in the warm light from my reading lamp; I had supped well, and looked forward to a restful literary evening; however it was not to be: my tranquillity was interrupted by the trill of the telephone.
“It's switchboard, Dr Scott ... I have Dr Headington-Reece for you ... Putting you through ...”
“Hello, Dr Scott, it's Tony Reece ... Sorry to disturb you, but I've got a very sick patient here ... Tired, short of breath, pulsus paradoxicus, low BP, neck veins elevated, ankle oedema, enlarged liver ... In short, I think he may have constrictive pericarditis ... He's Mr Alan Silvester aged fifty-eight, non-smoker ... May I send him in?”
“Please do, Dr Reece ... We'll have a bed for him on Ward Eleven, if the ambulance could take him straight there ...”
Anthony Headington-Reece was an excellent local general practitioner with a high reputation, renowned for his diagnostic acumen, and his unfailing courtesy. This was likely to be a difficult as well as an interesting case.
I phoned the ward, slipped on my white coat and grabbed my stethoscope. The adrenaline was kicking in as I hurried across the hospital car park, where I saw Paula Howard heading for her room in the doctor's annexe.
“Guess whom I'm meeting, Edwin? Said they'd something very important to show me ...”
At that moment the ambulance overtook me, headlights flashing, bell clanging.
“Sorry Paula, this is my patient ... you'll have to tell me later ...”
I waved casually to her, and, without breaking step, followed the ambulance attendants and their trolley to Ward Eleven, my heart thumping in my chest.
Mr Silvester was a small white-haired man with dark sunken eyes. He lay quietly on the bed in the side ward, supported by the back-rest and four pillows, with a cradle over his legs. He wore his own rather florid pyjamas, his jacket open to expose his chest. Staff-Nurse had taken his pulse and temperature, and was starting a bedside chart. Meanwhile, the patient's wife was waiting apprehensively next door for my report.
I learned from the patient that he had been unwell and tired for a month, his legs had been swelling for a fortnight, that he suffered from shortness of breath only over the last two or three days, with a cough at night for the same period of time.
His lips were blue, his skin was cold and pale. Pulse was one hundred per minute, poor volume, and I found that he did indeed have pulsus paradoxicus. There was considerable oedema of the legs, the swelling extending half-way up the calf; blood pressure was one hundred and five over sixty and jugular venous pressure was markedly raised. Heart sounds were diminished on listening with the stethoscope, and there appeared to be some increased dullness to percussion over the heart. There were a few fine crackles in the lungs. Liver and spleen were enlarged, and there was quite a lot of ascitic fluid in the abdomen.
I arranged an urgent chest X-ray, and then phoned Steve Bolton at his home.
“Hi, Steve ... I've got a fifty-eight year old man with what appears to be a pericardial effusion. He's in shock – probably cardiac tamponade ... I'm about to do an ECG, and he's off to X-ray as soon as the radiographer arrives ...”
“Good man ... I'll be with you in ten or fifteen minutes ... Give him some morphine and oxygen while you wait ... we'll decide on digitalis when I see him ...”
I popped next door to keep Mrs Silvester informed, while a student nurse fetched the ECG machine, and staff-nurse drew up the opiate injection, and fitted up the oxygen cylinder and mask ...
“Well done, Edwin; absolutely right – a pericardial effusion with early tamponade, confirmed by the low-voltage electrocardiogram and the stencilled appearance of the heart outline on X-ray. You even spotted the the pulsus paradoxicus, my boy ...”
“Dr Headington-Reece picked that up,” I demurred, but Dr Cottar didn't seem to notice.
Steve had arrived within ten minutes, and had rapidly assessed the patient's condition; then, as soon as he had perused the cardiogram and X-rays, he had rung his consultant, who had left his dinner-party, and had driven over at once in the Bentley.
“I must attempt a pericardial tap to aspirate the fluid, Steve ... It's compressing the heart, and the patient's in shock ... We'll need a fine-bore needle – a lumbar puncture needle will do – and a three-way tap, sterile towels, etcetera ... Can you organise that pronto, Staff Nurse? Thank you ...”
“He's had a quarter of a grain of morphine, Sir, but we haven't digitalised him yet or given him a diuretic ...”
“Fine, Steve ... Now let's scrub up, and let's get on with this ... Right, Mr Silvester, there's a little fluid around your heart, which is pressing on it and causing your symptoms. I shall just take it off with a fine-bore needle ... It won't hurt, and you'll feel a lot better after ...”
Dr Cottar withdrew one hundred and fifty millilitres of clear straw-coloured fluid, only lightly blood-stained. There was a dramatic improvement in the patient's condition; we left him to sleep, specialled in his side-ward by a senior night nurse.
“I'll arrange an urgent transfer to the cardiac department at St Thomas' Hospital under the care of Victor Sommerville. I'll ring Victor tomorrow morning ... Doubtless his senior registrar will liaise with you, Steve ...”
Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2) Page 19