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

by Felix Bruckner

  The consultant tarried next door for twenty minutes to explain the situation to Mrs Silvester, answer her questions and reassure her as far as possible. Then he and Steve Bolton departed together, with courteous thanks and good-nights to me, the night nurses and Night Sister, who had joined us only minutes before. I glanced at my watch: half-past twelve. I declined the staff-nurse's offer of cocoa, and made my way to bed.

  10

  Monday, 22nd November: I was called to the Medical Superintendent's office just after half-past two in the afternoon.

  What have I done now, I wondered half-guiltily as I opened the door.

  Across the desk sat Detective Chief Inspector Charles Butter, with a seraphic smile on his face; in a corner, scowling at me, perched Detective Sergeant Stebbings, a notebook on his lap, his jacket slung over the back of his chair, and shirt sleeves rolled up to expose bulging biceps and hairy fore-arms.

  “Good afternoon, Dr Scott ... You remember my sergeant, Gary Stebbings, of course you do ...”

  “You still attracting deaths, Dr Scott?” Stebbings interposed nastily. “Like bees around the proverbial honey-pot?”

  “What's this about, Chief Inspector ...” I was puzzled now, rather than apprehensive.

  “Haven't you heard? Your 'wife', Dr Howard, was found dead last night at about ten-thirty on the path to the Rose and Crown public house ...”

  Good Lord, not Paula as well! I was thunderstruck. My eyes went dim, and Butter's voice continued, as though from far away, from under water.

  “... She was strangled just like the other two victims (and the one attempted murder), but we have been unable to find the cord or scarf – it must have been removed from the scene by the killer ...”

  For a time, I sat silent and dazed, struggling to make sense of his words. Finally I roused myself sufficiently to give a brief statement. On this occasion, I again had a pretty solid alibi: I had been at the hospital all day, and was in Ward Eleven in the company of the nursing staff (and subsequently Doctors Bolton and Cottar) from nine-thirty in the evening until well after midnight. I explained the circumstances of Paula's bad joke in calling herself my wife. I told them how I knew her, how we had met during my paediatric course when I was a medical student and she was a houseman; I mentioned seeing her briefly in the car-park on my way to the ward last night. However, I did not mention our recent relationship – no point in incriminating myself any further.

  If only I hadn't been in such a rush in the car-park last night, I thought, Paula would have given me the name of her murderer.

  I walk up the dark path towards the Rose and Crown. Even through the branches of the trees, the full moon casts sharp black shadows. I am apprehensive, and my steps falter. The quiet unnerves me. Suddenly Imran Khan stands before me, dressed in the robes of a Thuggee strangler, an evil grin on his face. Slowly he unwinds the silk cummerbund from around his waist, while I stand stock still, unable to move, unable to make a sound. Slowly he advances on me, gripping the long strip of dark silk in both hands. One end sails through the air, weighted by a gold medallion; it winds itself around my neck like a snake. I feel the pain in my throat as it tightens. Then I am choking. I can't loosen the cummerbund, though I tear at it with both hands. My vision goes red, then black. I feel myself falling ...

  I woke, bathed in sweat, mouth dry, heart pounding, a visceral pain in my throat. For a while, I lay on my back, disorientated. Then I realised I was in my own bed in the doctors' quarters at St Peter's Hospital. The cold light of dawn was filtering through my curtains.

  11

  Tuesday, 23rd November: After our morning ward round (Sister Milton once more in attendance, now that Dr Root was gone), he took me to the parking bay behind the doctors' annexe. There she sat: silver-grey, sleek, with clean lines, and exuding power – even cold, with the engine off. I touched her smooth skin, unable to speak, envious ...

  Bill Boyd (I refused even to think of him as Hopalong or Hoppy) seemed to have taken a fancy to Tess Milton. He had even interrupted his swotting for the MRCP exam – which was looming in the New Year – to take her out. However, they seldom ventured beyond the Rose and Crown – probably a sop to his conscience. Personally, if I possessed as desirable and macho a motor as his brand new E-type Jaguar, I would have been half-way to Scotland at the drop of a hat.

  Bill was clearly considered a better catch than Brian Root; Tess seemed to preen herself, seemed to glow; even her social life with the other sisters and staff-nurses had improved. However, on Ward Four, Bill and Tess maintained a formal and professional demeanour. Whether they ever ended up in bed I never knew.

  “What are the clinical features of Behcet's syndrome?”

  We sat in Boyd's room after supper. He was again quizzing me, as part of his revision for the Membership Examination.

  “Hmm, orogenital ulceration ... (long pause) ... Eye inflammation ... Arthralgia ...”

  “Very good, Edwin ... You're making spectacular progress ... Would you like a trip up the A1 in the Jag as a reward?”

  I was elated – he had hardly driven his E-type since he had been here, let alone taken anyone on a joy-ride; much too busy revising, when he wasn't performing his clinical duties. I got on well with Bill: he was patient, charming, good-natured and an excellent companion. He lacked Steve's clinical flair, and was a bit pedantic in his teaching, but overall I was pleased to be working with him; a far cry from the erratic and unpredictable Brian Root. I returned to my room for duffel-coat, gloves and scarf, and met him by the car. It gleamed in the lamp-light as though phosphorescent. Once more I marvelled at its slim elegant line, the long bonnet with its characteristic hump – it was built for speed. We got in; I slipped on the seat-belt.

  “Click it on, if you like ... I don't usually bother. Her chassis is solid as a tank; in a crash, nothing will harm us, unless we hit a ten-ton lorry or a tree ...” (Again I thought of Brian Root.)

  The engine roared. The dash-board lit up like the cockpit of an aeroplane. We moved off smoothly.

  He headed through Letchworth on the A505, and picked up the A1 at Baldock. The night was pitch-black, the moon and stars blotted out by clouds. The road – largely dual-carriageway – was deserted. We cruised smoothly at a hundred and thirty miles an hour – all I could hear was the wind rushing past. Occasionally I saw a pin-prick of light in the distance. Within moments, we were behind the car. Bill flashed the powerful headlights, changed down into third gear and accelerated past the vehicle in the fast lane as if it were stationary. Biggleswade, Northampton, Leicester – the haze of their lights appeared on the horizon, as we skirted the towns.

  We stopped at the King's Arms, a hostelry a few miles North of Nottingham, where we stretched our legs, consumed a pint of their best bitter and a packet of crisps. The saloon bar was comfortable, warm, spacious, almost empty; in the subdued light we discussed Hitchin and St Peter's Hospital.

  “I've only seen the town once – when I passed through, on starting my locum ... Seems nice enough ... The only place I've got to know is the Rose and Crown ...”

  He had not even seen the market.

  He liked St Peter's, the mess, the doctors' quarters, the informality of the staff; he got on well with our consultant.

  “Is it true that the hospital was named after Uncle Peter?” I merely smiled.

  I was eager to learn in detail the capabilities of the E-type Jaguar, and listened star-struck to his exposition.

  “One day I intend to take her on the Autobahn, in Germany. That'll really test her ...”

  For the first time since I had known him, he talked about himself: I discovered that he loved reading, the theatre, travel, ski-ing. He was comfortably off financially, had a house in Hampstead, where he lived on his own. His widowed mother stayed in Sussex, on the South Downs, and he visited her about once a month ...

  “We'd best be getting back, Edwin ... We both need our beauty sleep.”

  It was ten o'clock. When we emerged into the cold night air, ours
was the only car in the spacious car park. We climbed in, and the big sleek E-type headed south. On the return journey, the wind noise seemed less – perhaps he was driving a shade more slowly – and we were able to converse. I told him about Jill and Paula. He smiled and nodded, but his mind was clearly far away.

  “What about you, Bill ...”

  He came out of his reverie.

  “Oh, I was briefly engaged a few years back – lovely girl, but her daddy never thought me quite good enough for her ...”

  He had trained at Barts, house jobs and SHO posts at his teaching hospital ...

  “But I couldn't pass the bloody MRCP exam ... failed three times. Tried a couple of provincial registrar posts in general medicine, Luton and St Alban's – still no good: failed again ... Now I've taken the Papworth Membership Course. Must nail it this time; otherwise it's off to general practice for me – or the Royal Army Medical Corps ...”

  I told him about my Uncle Tom, a GP who had emigrated to New Zealand, and seemed to find it fulfilling; but Bill was no longer listening; he was back in his own world.

  What about Tess? I wondered. Was she the one for him, or would he remain for ever a confirmed bachelor?

  12

  Wednesday, 24th November: I was still struggling to come to terms with Paula Howard's death, and I had mixed feelings, when I discovered that her locum was to be Dr James Smythe, the husband whom she had been due to divorce. I had met Jamie, when I was a student at the London Hospital, on a fortnight's attachment to the Hackney Children's Hospital, where he had been a houseman. He was popular with everyone – children, staff, students; he was tall, athletic, handsome, with a square jaw, a five o'clock shadow and dark twinkling eyes ...

  The ringing of the telephone roused me from a deep sleep. I looked at the luminous face of my alarm-clock – twelve-thirty: I had been asleep less than an hour!

  “There's an admission coming into Tippet Ward.” Night Sister's voice was quiet but urgent. “I gather you're shadowing Dr Smythe ... His telephone seems to be out of order, so I wondered if you would wake him for me, and let him know.” Before I could reply, the phone went dead.

  I put on trousers and jumper over my pyjamas, pulled on my white coat, and made my way to Jamie's room in the next corridor. I knocked gently on the door; there was no answer, but I thought I could hear a soft moaning sound from within; I knocked again – more loudly. I heard the light switch click.

  “Come in!”

  I opened the door, and peeped in: the bedside light cast deep shadows in the small room; the narrow bed stood against the far wall; the phone was off the hook. The houseman had levered himself up on one elbow – to bring me into focus.

  “There's a child on its way to Tippet Ward. Your phone's not answering, so Sister asked me to call you ...”

  I broke off. Beyond Jamie Smythe, another head rested on the pillow – though the face was shrouded in shadow, it was framed by ash-blond hair, gleaming in the lamp-light; I stared aghast, suddenly feeling sick.

  “It's all right, Edwin,” came a familiar husky female voice. “We're just good friends!”

  I recoiled as if scalded; before I knew it, I was outside in the corridor, my back to the door, heart thumping painfully in my chest. Jamie joined me a few minutes later; he registered the look of dismay on my face:

  “It's not as bad as it seems, Edwin ... You're probably the only one in this hospital who doesn't know we're married ...”

  Two years later, my feelings towards Jamie Smythe were still ambivalent. What a quirk of fate, that he should be replacing as paediatric SHO – even if only temporarily – his murdered wife. How would I react to him after all this time? At Hackney Children's Hospital, they had been considered the ideal couple. Why had they separated? Surely not because of me? And would I be joining him at Paula's funeral when the police eventually allowed the release of her body?

  He advanced on me with the rather shame-faced grin that I had always found irresistible.

  “Ah, a friendly, familiar face ... Good to see you again, Edwin ... It's been a long time ...”

  I had had no admissions yet this evening, and sat in a comfortable chair in the sitting-room. The lights were on, the electric fire hummed, and the curtains were drawn shut. I had introduced Jamie to Russ Potter, Claud Guillam, Daniel Ellington, Imran Shah and Abida Siddiqui. I noticed him appraising Abida, before his attention returned to his whisky and his cigarette. Unusually, Dan and Russ were also smoking, to Abida's obvious discomfort, and the smoke was curling up to the ceiling.

  “Well, was it an inside job or not?” Russ lapsed into a strong Australian accent whenever he got excited. “I guess the tramp was quite unpopular, both inside and outside the hospital ... what with his strong views on anyone who was not snowy white, and that guy with the turban who was chasing him ...”

  “That would make me and Abida suspects – even Aloke,” interposed Shah.

  “What about me?” Olly had just entered, accompanied by Ginny Lund.

  All eyes now swivelled round to examine Ginny. Her glasses were gone – she was wearing contact lenses – and her fine golden-red hair was hanging loose: she looked stunning. For the first time, I realised what perfect features she had: long pale eyelashes, huge cornflower-blue eyes, soft unblemished skin. She seemed to stand more erect, her eyes met yours more self-confidently. She made an immediate impact on the males in the room, especially on Jamie, who could just stare, with dropped jaw, his cigarette almost falling from his lips. I introduced the two anaesthetic SHO's to Jamie, and watched him slowly regain his self-possession. There was a long pause. Eventually:

  “Which of you in this room killed my wife?”

  There was a shocked silence; then Jamie smiled mischievously: “Only joking ...”

  “Dr Smythe was Paula's husband,” I explained.

  The conversation slowly revived.

  “Oh, you poor man ...” Ginny turned her gaze on Jamie, and received a huge grin in reply.

  “We were separated, er, Ginny ... we were going to get a divorce ... It was Edwin she was really keen on ... Shame she was killed, though. We were still good friends ...”

  Olly reprised for a fresh audience our earlier conversation about the Thuggees of India, the robber cult, followers of the Goddess Kali.

  “But none of you wears a turban,” protested Dan. “That's all a bit fanciful, isn't it?”

  “I must say, I had thought it was going to be Brian Root,” muttered Imran Shah. “Until the murder of poor Dr Howard, when he was already in police custody ...”

  The discussion again lapsed for a while.

  “You seem to have access to inside information, Edwin. You're on good terms with Chief Inspector Butter and that rather obnoxious Sergeant Stebbings, almost intimate terms, I hear,” Potter resumed the conversation, still a bit cool towards me, even after Paula's death. “What are your thoughts ... What about the weapon, mate ... Have they found one yet? I hear it's strangulation with a ligature, whatever that means – was it a silk scarf, was it wire, or is it just a piece of twine, such as you would use for tying up a parcel?”

  “I've always thought it was you, Edwin,” Claud interposed, treating me to an impish smile to mitigate the harsh accusation. There were a few coughs and the clearing of throats. The conversation was becoming rather too personal. Again a prolonged silence.

  Finally, there was a buzz, and then my wall lights flashed on, relieving me of further embarrassment. I picked up the telephone:

  “Hello, Dr Scott here ...”

  “I have Dr Cumberbatch on the line for you, sir, about an urgent admission ...”

  13

  Thursday, 25th November: “It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. In an incoherent and, I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion, I have endeavoured to give some account of my strange experiences in his company ...”

  I wa
s sitting in an armchair with a glass of brandy by my side; the light was on, the curtains were drawn, and the twin bars of the electric wall fire cast a festive glow over my room. My reading was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. I put down my Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes – The Final Problem, and picked up the receiver:

  “Outside call for you, Dr Scott ...”

  It was a new voice on the switchboard. Ernie had left suddenly – nobody knew where or why.

  “I'm not on call – I'm off duty ...”

  I glanced at my alarm clock – nine-fifteen.

  “It's a personal call, Sir ... Young lady, wouldn't give her name.”

  Who on earth could that be at this time of the evening? I wondered.

  “Very well, put her on ...”

  The phone clicked: “Edwin, it's me – Tess. I must see you ... I've something important to show you ...”

  “What about Bill, Bill Boyd ...”

  “Oh, it's much too important. It has to be you ...”

  Something in my head fought for recognition.

  “Where are you?”

  “I'm calling from a public phone box in the centre of Hitchin ...”

  “Very well ... Come to my room when you get here. How long will you be?”

  “About twenty minutes ... But I'll meet you at the Rose and Crown ... I don't want to come back into the hospital ...” And the phone went dead. I thought for a long moment.

  I have just time for a phone call of my own, I decided.

  A strong wind was blowing, and tore at the folds of my duffel coat, as I made my way up the narrow path to the public house. Clouds scudded across the night sky, occasionally obliterating the deep yellow disc of the full moon. The street lamps cast a pallid glow. I shivered in spite of my coat, scarf, and winter clothes, and the relative mildness of the November night. I felt apprehensive.