So why don’t we pop to church and say a few prayers for him… I saw the rector on the way here and he promised to leave the side door unlocked. We can go whenever we want.” Dr Monroe explained as sympathetically as he could, as he took the holdall from Martha’s hand and placed it on the hall floor.
But the calls he had from the consultant in Cornwall and then Dr Atkinson, had worried him more than he cared to show. For one thing, the man they both knew as Donald, might now be a man called Tom Cox… a man about whom they knew very little, other than his former wife had obviously hated him so much that she’d tried to kill him, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Dr Monroe was worried that Martha might believe she was still in love with a stranger called Tom Cox.
Donald drifted in and out of sleep for most of the next day or two. Rarely was he awake longer than the time it took for the nurse or the doctor to check his stats and then he’d fall back into another black dream of unfaithfulness and insincere love, where his selfishness hurt those around him. Sometimes his dreams were less self-damming, sometimes he drifted into a world of love and happiness where he spent all his time selflessly helping those around him and they loved him back in return. It was a good life, a life that made sense and then he’d wake up, see the world was still the same and silently drift away again.
It was after one of his darker, deeper reveries, when he’d woken up sweating and shivering and the numb feeling of sleep had begun to drain away from his prostrate body that the small selection of cards, which had sat on his bedside cabinet had caught his attention. Pulling himself upright, the final shroud of darkness that had temporarily covered his life, was washed away by the bright light of another beautiful day, as it poured in through the open window. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the fresh air and for the first time since being shot, he felt truly alive.
Stretching out his hand, he inquisitively corralled the cards together and dropped them in an untidy pile on the bed. Taking each one in turn, he read out the verse to himself and then looked to see who had been kind enough to send it. Some of the names he remembered from the clinics he’d stayed at, others such as Elsie and the ladies from the luncheon club, he had to think about for a moment before their names registered and sent a shiver of dread down his back… but the one that made him sit up and take note was the card sent by Martha and the scribbled note inside…
Dearest Donald,
I so wanted to be there with you, to help you come back to us all, but father said it could take a while for your journey through the darkness to end and it would be better for you if I stayed here and prayed. I don’t know what will happen when you do finally come back from wherever it is that you’ve been and father says you may not be the same Donald that went away and I shouldn’t expect too much, but I still live for the day that you return and we can once again walk along the beach and watch the seals…
I guess there’s always the chance that you may not remember me at all and if that turns out to be the case I just want you to know that I love you… I think I knew that from that first moment you walked into the reception and collapsed. You were so helpless and alone and needed me.
Anyway father says I should leave you to make up your own mind about the future, as only you will be able to make the decision and it would be unfair for me to try and influence you… but just so you know the garden is looking wonderful and has been very productive and that’s all thanks to your hard work. I managed to keep the weeds down and plant the seedlings but the hard work in clearing the plots… that was all your doing.
I’ll pray for you every day and send you all my love and hope that in some small way it helps you recover.
All My Love
Martha xxx
He read the card twice more, until his eyelids felt heavy and weary. Finally, as his mind drifted back to Cromarty and the Monroe’s garden, Martha’s card dropped from between his fingers, and he slipped back into unconsciousness…
Everything about Martha and his time in Scotland played havoc with his emotions and in that instant the irrelevancy of his name became crystal clear. Whether he was John Smith or Tom Cox or just plain Donald wasn’t the issue… more important than his name was what he could remember about himself and those that were most dear to him, and thankfully even being shot in the head hadn’t dulled the memories of Martha. For whatever else he might or might not remember about Rachel Cox or Bouchet or Fitzgerald, he found it impossible to forget a single moment of his time with Martha.
Physically, if he ignored the bandages, he appeared to be the same man that he remembered from before the shooting, but psychologically who was he really, he wondered? If his name was irrelevant, the character behind it wasn’t… and much of what he thought he knew about himself was conjecture and hearsay, mixed with a degree of intuition.
But standing out from all the uncertainty was the beating that had started his long journey into the darkness… slowly, in the hours of unconsciousness, his mind had started to piece together the events. Now he felt certain that it had been night-time and although he couldn’t picture where he’d been, he could picture himself lying face down, with all the smells of the sea, salt and fish assaulting his senses… Unfortunately, he couldn’t understand what his attackers were saying… their accents were broad and cloaked in alcohol, but if he concentrated and occasionally when free of other stimuli, his memory could just smell the cheap rum on their breaths, the pungent sweat of their labours and somewhere nearby, the whiff of some cheap, clinging perfume… an aroma that was reminiscent of the Anchor pub and Elsie. But then each time that sensation came back, rather than elucidate his memories, the perfume like smelling salts, brought him back into the conscious world.
After dozing and waking with equal regularity, Donald finally understood that love and fidelity were two beasts that might easily have shared the same body, and even though he had no doubts about his love for Martha, the fidelity of the stranger now sat in the hospital bed, and the truth behind his injuries had yet to be established.
Donald recognised the visitor’s face, as soon as his head appeared around the door.
“Hello again.” He said through half-opened eyes.
“Hello. I don’t think we were properly introduced last time… I’m Detective Inspector Langford, Truro CID.” The policeman announced before saying another word just so there could be no mistaking his identity or his intent. Selfishly, he’d been relieved to discover that the man he’d helped had been the victim of the shooting and no the perpetrator… a fact which the chief constable had told him was the only thing keeping him in the force and in touch with his pension… a situation that would only be improved by putting the investigation well and truly to bed.
“What? You want me to sweep it under the carpet?” Langford had asked with just a little too much insubordination for the chief constable’s liking.
“You can stuff it up your arse Langford for all I care… just make sure the shit doesn’t come across my desk in future. Now get out!” The chief constable had succinctly directed his officer.
But that was problem with DI Langford, he’d never been very good with a broom.
He found it difficult not to screw his face up as the man spoke and knew that if he hadn’t been warned by the doctors, he might have thought he was about to interview the wrong patient, but they’d been very careful to tell him that the man himself didn’t know about the Foreign Accent Syndrome yet… and that was the way they wanted to keep it until such time as they thought him ready to be told… but that would be down to the psychiatrists and they had still to fully assess the man.
“The doctor said you were well enough to talk but only if you wanted to.” He posed his question in a way that made it sound more like a statement of fact than seeking his permission to continue.
Initially the doctors had been unsure about their patient’s chances of being any help to the police investigation, but then he’d physically made such a rapid improvement since coming out of the coma that they’d agreed to
give the inspector the chance to chat unofficially with the man… provided the patient agreed and he didn’t over-exert him.
“If you think I might be able to help, of course I will… but everything is still a little confused in here.” Donald tapped the side of his head, carefully avoiding his injury.
“How is the head?” Langford pulled out one of the visitor’s chairs and sat down next to the bed.
“Surprisingly good. There’s still ringing in my ears and my scalp is very sore but considering it’s had a piece of lead bounce around in there… like the doctors, I’m amazed. That’s twice now, you know and as the doctor told me, some people die from just bumping their heads, whereas I’ve been nearly kicked to death and shot.” Donald explained. He was just pleased to have a visitor that didn’t want to take stick a thermometer somewhere, but instead merely sought to engage him in a conversation that didn’t revolve around PET and CT scans.
“Let’s hope it’s not third time lucky then…” Langford quipped, as he crossed his legs and took the small notebook from his jacket. “So… Donald or do you prefer Tom... do you feel up to answering a few questions?” Langford pressed the point of his pen out and poised his hand ready to start scribbling. It had been a while since he’d taken notes at an interview but the doctor had stopped short of having a ward full of policemen. Even Sergeant Morris had been dispatched to the hospital café to get herself a coffee.
“Donald, and if I can, I will… that’s the least I can do.” Donald said with little conviction and an awkward smile.
Irrespective of his dressing down at the hands of his superiors, Langford had felt sorry about the man’s condition… of course he blamed himself but as he’d said at the time, all he’d done was shake the tree.
Looking at the man now though and listening to the strange way he spoke, he was unsure if he’d get anything useful from him, especially in light of what the doctor had told him ten minutes after arriving…
“He’s still very confused inspector, so just keep your questions short. Considering everything that he’s been through, I’m surprised he’s even awake and conscious of his surroundings. He has some memories, but between you and me… he’s definitely not the full shilling.”
“Ok, so let’s start at the beginning and go on from there. The night you vanished… can you tell me what happened?”
By the time Langford left the hospital, he’d learnt all he could from the man lying in the hospital bed.
Unfortunately, the sum total of his knowledge didn’t amount to anything more than a few disjointed memories, which may or may not have had anything to do with the current police investigation. It appeared to the inspector that there was still so much that the man had to remember that what little facts he could recall had no bearing on the disappearance of Clarence Dickens or the murders of Henri Bouchet and Helen Fitzgerald.
But the one overriding question, which had remained unanswered and which was pivotal to Langford’s investigation was, why had Rachel Fitzgerald shot the man he’d just interviewed? Of course he had his theories, like everyone, but they were just that at the moment theories with little evidence to support them.
But what kept coming to the top of the pack, no matter how hard he tried to shuffle the cards… was Clarence Dickens. His disappearance… again, seemed to be the link between the pool murders, as the press had dubbed them, the clinical killing of Rachel Fitzgerald and the random shooting of the stranger at the wedding.
The real shock for Donald had come with the news that Rachel Fitzgerald hadn’t shot herself, as everyone in the aftermath of the shootings had assumed, and whilst he’d not immediately recognised her as someone from his past, her reaction to his sudden appearance left him cold every time he thought back to that moment.
Her post-mortem and forensics had proved beyond doubt that the bullet, which had killed her, had in fact been fired from a rifle and not the small automatic that had so unfortunately and accidentally killed Patrick Fitzgerald.
“But who… who killed her and why?” Donald asked, finding it hard to comprehend the new evidence. None of what had happened had made sense to him, but that piece of news he’d found totally incomprehensible.
“We don’t know. All we have found out is that the shot was fired from one of the hotel’s upper windows. Ironically the bedroom had been allocated as the bride’s changing room for the day. We found the rifle lying on the bed on top of Rachel’s going away outfit. It was almost as if the killer wanted to make a point. Can you think of anyone who would want her killed like that and then be totally unconcerned about leaving the evidence? It’s almost as if he was mad.”
“He?” Tom had asked quite naturally.
“We have reason to believe that the murder was a contract killing and that Mrs Fitzgerald was carrying the automatic as some form of self-protection. We think the hit was probably ordered by someone called Clarence Dickens… does that name ring any bells?” Langford knew it was a gamble to tell his potential star witness more than he should but the other potential witnesses to the crimes were diminishing with every new murder.
“No, but I don’t think you’re looking for a man. Do you remember when you found me staring up at the front of the hotel? Well I’d just spotted a woman watching me from one of the windows and then there was the flash from the other window at the rear of the hotel… it was on the same floor.”
“But you didn’t recognise her?”
“No… it all happened so quickly inspector. Do you know how the killer got away?” Donald added without knowing why.
“We assume they walked straight out of the front door during all the kafuffle and disappeared. To be fair by the time we’d got you off in the air ambulance and restored some calm to the place, the killer could have been miles away and anyway at the time we didn’t know we were looking for anyone else.”
“Weren’t there any other witnesses? I mean I can’t have been the only one who saw the flash and the open window.” He asked worriedly. The thought had struck him that perhaps the shot had been meant for him and not the blushing bride. Maybe it was someone from his past with a grudge to settle and the victim just got in the way.
“None that were taking any notice of… they were too busy running for their lives or diving under the tables for cover. Our problem now is that we have a whodunit where the only person who survives is the victim and all the suspects get killed… frankly, it makes for a great Agatha Christie novel but a bloody awful police investigation.”
~~~~~
Martha had placed the small ad in the post office window the week after hearing about the shooting and the day after her father had reluctantly agreed to the small change in their domestic arrangements.
“But father I want everywhere to be just perfect for when Donald returns and there’s just too much for me to manage without help.” Martha had pleaded with him at diner.
“Really? You’ve managed so far with any assistance and let’s not forget it was you who dismissed Mrs Henderson.” Dr Monroe hadn’t really meant to criticise his daughter, but the words had tumbled from his mouth before he’d had a chance to fully engage his brain.
“I’m not going to argue father. I need some help and you did say we needed to talk.” Martha replied with a maturity that made her father proud and ashamed all at the same time.
“I’m sorry Martha that was uncalled for but since you’ve brought up the subject of Donald coming back here…” Dr Monroe had barely spoken Donald’s name before he was interrupted by his daughter. She’d not intended to eavesdrop the private conversation, it had just sort of happened. But whatever the rights or wrongs of her actions, she’d heard everything that the consultant had told her father about Donald’s condition, the mysterious Tom Cox, the police’s investigation into the fatal shootings, his apparent Foreign Accent Syndrome and his patient’s inability to remember anything that might give them a clue to his true identity. It had been as candid a half hour conversation as Martha could have wished for, but nothi
ng that was said had made an iota of difference to the way she felt about Donald or her desire to see him return home.
“Well he’ll need somewhere to sleep…” She said without drawing breath or looking at her father. “…you know a room of his own and I don’t mean the attic, it’s such a cold draughty place. Anyway, I thought he could have the room next to mine but it’s in such a pitiful state being so full of all your old junk and the paper’s peeling off the walls and there’s the paintwork… I don’t think the room’s been dusted let alone painted since mother died. And then there’s this room and the kitchen, they both need brightening up and making jolly. We can’t expect him to get fully better sitting around in some old Victorian prison cell.”
The choice of words was a little unfortunate and as soon as she’d uttered them, Martha wished she could have wound back the clocks and left her mother’s memory out of the conversation.
“Sorry father I didn’t mean it to sound disrespectful like that.” She added quickly, avoiding his sad eyes. She’d noticed over the years, since her mother’s death, that every time her mother was mentioned, her father’s eyes would well up and he’d excuse himself from the room or hide his face beneath his large white handkerchief, as he feigned another the onset of yet another cold.
But her father knew Martha was right and what did it matter if Donald now sounded more like a Viking invader than Robbie Burns. Time he knew, waited for no one and his daughter’s happiness was more important than any misgivings he might have about Donald recovering… what would happen if he never recovered and Martha had wasted years of her life waiting.
“I know… but you’re right, I have wanted to keep the house more like a shrine than a home and I haven’t thought enough about your feelings but will Donald want the same? I mean he may have changed since the shooting you know.” Dr Monroe was unsure how to tell his daughter about Donald’s condition and so instead of the truth he merely danced around the subject. “Granted the doctors are confident that he’ll make a good recovery, but right now he seems to be a little confused as to his real identity, which could mean…” Martha’s father looked to the heavens and wished his wife was still alive.
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