I recalled the small group of girls who used to cheer us from the side-lines; Joanne must have been one of these.
“Remember that cow, Hazel Hart?” Her voice rose, and her face became pink with passion. “After one match she walked back with you, and insisted on holding your hand. I hated her!”
“She's married now,” I tried to mollify her. “And has small children.”
“My brother was at school with you ...”
“Of course – Flinders ... Henry ...”
He had been in my year at Clapham Grammar; a tall handsome boy, excelling at games and quite bright; he had been good at History, and had progressed to the Arts Sixth Form, while I joined Lower Six Science. Flinders lived the other side of the Common, and I had had very little contact with him; though he had always been quite friendly towards me, it had come as quite a surprise when I had been invited to his sixteenth birthday party.
“I asked Henry to invite you to his birthday.” Joanne's voice, coming right on cue, broke into my thoughts. “Henry knew about my crush. He was quite amused, but agreed ...”
Now I remembered her: a small girl with plaits and glasses, staring at me from a corner of the room, sipping lemonade through a straw.
“What became of your brother, Joanne?” I asked after another long pause, as the sunlight slowly moved around the walls of my cabin. Her face was now completely in shadow.
“Please call me 'Jo' ... Henry did his National Service, then went on to Bristol University ... Took a History Degree and his Dip Ed. Now he teaches History and English at a State school in Newcastle ... He's married and has a little boy of three ... He's happy ...”
“What about you, er, Jo? Where did you train?”
“At The London ... I was a second year student nurse in Thoracic Theatres when you were house surgeon to Mr Taverstock ...” (Bugsy Taverstock, I thought with shock. A bit sharp with us, somewhat obsessional, but a brilliant surgeon.) “I wasn't ever permitted to scrub; I was just a runner; but I was there for six weeks ... I felt sorry for the way he spoke to you ... you could never seem to get things just right ... just the way he wanted them. Still, he did let you do a closed mitral valvotomy ...” (Good grief, she had even seen that!) “I wore a mask most of the time ... You wouldn't have known me ...”
She fiddled with a button, and I wondered vaguely whether she was going to strip again.
“At last, fate has brought us together ...”
She pulled herself out of the arm-chair, and moved towards me. Was this indeed what fate had decided for us? Was this to be the the significant moment – the turning point – of my life? The trill of the telephone broke in on my thoughts; for a long moment I considered letting it ring; finally I picked up the receiver.
“'ospital orderly 'ere,” Joe Spall's excited voice was almost shouting. “I 'ave an emergency at the 'ospital. Little boy bleedin' from a 'ead wound, barely conscious ... Friend tried to brain 'im with a cricket bat ... Can't get Dr Hardcastle ... Can't find any of the Sisters ...”
“I'll be right over, Joe.” I put down the phone. “Emergency at the hospital,” I told Joanne. “You'd best come too ...”
She choked back a sob, and, as I grabbed my Gladstone bag, she preceded me through the cabin door.
Friday, 5th August: After tea (16.30 sharp), I gave a talk for the junior ratings in the Leading Hands Recreation Room on “Health, Hygiene, Resuscitation and Simple First Aid”. It was well attended and well received; and I spent twenty minutes at the end answering questions.
Saturday, 6th August: We arrived in Auckland today. The city was hilly, and I wandered around on my own in the morning; the weather was cool, and there was a light drizzle from a gun-metal sky. The architecture was very British, but the place had a somewhat old-fashioned and parochial atmosphere. The main differences from home were the palm trees, and the Maoris standing motionless at street corners. Traffic was light, and the trolley-buses that passed me were half empty. The shops were shut, adding to the sense of desolation. I sat for a while in a park on a hill, gazing meditatively over Auckland ... To my surprise, John Whittlesea, in his grubby khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt, approached me striding briskly up the hill. Had he been following me? I started to rise, but before he reached me, a figure rose from another bench a little below me; they exchanged greetings; the man with the scarred face had apparently not noticed me, and now turned on his heel; they walked down the hill together, deep in conversation. I followed cautiously. Whittlesea's companion was tall and casually elegant in slacks and jumper; he had his back to me, but there was something familiar about his bearing. They stopped briefly, and the stranger pulled a wallet from his hip pocket, extracted several notes, and handed them to Whittlesea. They resumed their walk downhill; as they started to draw away from me on the path towards the main road, my ex-patient's companion turned towards him to make some point; I saw him in profile: it was Davey Goodenough!
I had arranged to meet Uncle Tom at the St Mary's Bay end of the Harbour Bridge at one-forty five, and he took me to a nearby pub for a late lunch. The place was rather shabby, and almost deserted; however, after a modest wait, the barman arrived with two huge steaming plates: roast lamb, roast potatoes, peas and roast parsnips; and pints of chilled lager to wash the meal down.
My uncle bore a striking resemblance to my father, though he was taller, leaner, more sinewy, face tanned and leathery.
“How's Dad?” He spoke slowly and deliberately, his soft Scottish burr over-ridden by a New Zealand twang.
My father had the same fair hair and intense blue eyes, but was short, muscular and immensely strong. He had been a proficient amateur boxer, becoming regimental fly-weight champion in the early months of the war. In the kitchen, as head chef, he maintained an iron discipline; if necessary, he fought men a head taller than himself, his speed and weight of punch leaving them surprised, supine, bloody, and determined never to cross him again. He had met mother when he was a sous-chef at London's Savoy Hotel and she was a junior receptionist; they married a year later, and moved into the Edwardian terraced house in Clapham Common Old Town. At the onset of the Second World War, he had volunteered for the Army, only to find himself once more a chef – now in an officers' mess. It was not for this that he had volunteered; so he became a despatch rider. I had never seen him on a motorbike, but I gathered that he had been a keen motor-cyclist in his youth; he had owned a Harley-Davidson machine at that time, one of a select few in Oban. When I was twelve, he took me to Wimbledon Stadium to the speedway racing, and we watched the home team battling wheel to wheel against the Wembley Tigers. I still remember the acrid smell of cinders mingling with exhaust fumes, and the feeling of exultation at our team's victory, as we made our way slowly homewards on the bus. Father chafed at the endless manoeuvres and the lack of action, whilst his regiment was bogged down in Britain during the early nineteen-forties; ultimately, he joined the first wave of the Normandy landings, on D-Day, 6th June 1944.
I have absolutely no recollection of him during the war, though he may have visited me in the early days of my evacuation to Llangammarch Wells. My first memory of my father was his return from the war. I had come away with tears and a heavy heart from Wales to the dusty empty echoing house in Clapham, to a mother whom I scarcely knew and didn't want, torn away from my beloved Auntie Bronwen and Uncle Daffyd whose home I had shared throughout the war. After several weeks of getting to know my mother, helping to tidy the house, wondering whether (or when) I would have to return to school, the doorbell rang. There stood a handsome but sombre man in the uniform of an army sergeant, with his kit-bag on the door-step beside him. Mother flung herself into his arms, and kissed him hungrily, while I stood shyly behind her, trying to meet his gaze as he examined me over her shoulder.
“Oh, he and Mum are fine ... and how about your family?”
“Mm ... Annie and the girls are ... fine. They're away on the South Island at the moment.”
Uncle Tom had been a GP in Oban on the West
Coast of Scotland. I had last seen him when I was seventeen (twelve years before), just before he had emigrated to New Zealand. He had exchanged a practice in a small seaside town with a backdrop of snow-clad mountains, for another general practice in a small seaside town, with a similarly spectacular view; however, he was fit and seemed happy enough. Last time, he had taken me to tea at a Lyons Corner House in the West End of London, and there presented me with his battered old Gladstone bag, in the knowledge that I, too, wanted to take up Medicine.
“I miss the old country occasionally ... your Dad and my sisters ... but New Zealand is just dinkum ... Maybe I'll come visit you all sometime ... I'm sure the twins would love it ... Not so sure about Annie.”
We lapsed into silence as we tucked into our meal; its simple perfection contrasted favourably with the sophisticated international cuisine of the Koh-i-Noor with which I had become sated. We replenished our pint tankards. Although there had been a few arrivals and departures while we talked, by now we were once again the only customers left in the bar; yet the barman seemed happy enough to wait, polish the glasses, and eavesdrop on our conversation.
“D'ye still play on your violin, Edwin?”
He had bought it for me on one of his rare visits to London, when I was only twelve: we had spotted it in the window of a music shop in Battersea, and I had admired the instrument.
“D'ye want it?” he asked. I had nodded.
He went straight in, and emerged a few minutes later, carrying it in its case.
“Yes, Uncle Tom, though not regularly ... I have to be careful of the neighbours ... my play is not too melodious nowadays: I tend to screech ... still, I regret not having brought it with me on the ship – it's supposed to help you think through problems! I have taken your old Gladstone bag, though. Call it my Sherlock Holmes bag ... Use it all the time ...”
We discussed my medical career, and his eyes danced. I mentioned my little sister Jane who was now several inches taller than me, and who hoped to start University in a year; he nodded his approval. He told me about his professional life – there was very little bureaucracy in New Zealand to mar the enjoyment of his vocation: he admitted emergencies to the local cottage hospital under his own care, and even performed minor surgery. Though busy, he felt fulfilled.
He held forth enthusiastically about the geography of the country:
“There are hot springs and geysers around Rotorua and Lake Taupo on the North Island ... spectacular but smelly ... Did you know that Auckland is built on a volcano that could erupt again at any time? The South Island is even more scenic: high mountains (the Southern Alps) that are snow-covered the whole year round, with a large glacier – the Fox Glacier – a great tourist attraction; there are earth-quakes and more volcanoes in the South... Something to do with a fault line and tectonic plates ... altogether a place of wild geological activity ...”
He seemed reluctant to discuss his personal life, and I sensed that all was not well ...
In a low voice, I told him about the murders of Graham Parkin and Fiona Henderson Scott, the attempt on my life in Sydney, and the passenger who had been following me in Melbourne, and whom I had seen in Auckland only this morning. He listened intently.
“Keep your eyes and ears peeled, but keep a low profile,” he advised. “No more Sherlock Holmes outbursts ... The killer's most likely a ship's officer or crew ... Could be someone close to you, either at work or at play ...”
The barman was beginning to fidget.
“Talking about work, I must get back, Edwin,” Uncle Tom concluded abruptly.
We drained our beer, and rose to leave.
Maori dancers came on board, in the evening; they performed for us in the ship's theatre, in full costume and war paint. On a geological time-scale the Polynesian and European colonisations of New Zealand were not greatly separated; yet I found the haka symbolically very powerful: somehow, this war-dance defined for me the essence of New Zealand much more vividly than had my earlier anaemic exploration of Auckland. I thought of Uncle Tom – was he truly happy? But my mind kept returning to the meeting of Whittlesea and Davey Goodenough. Had he been paying him to follow me? What was Goodenough's role in the conspiracy surrounding me?
We sailed from Auckland at eleven pm.
Sunday, 7th August: I was still in blue mess-kit for the Captain's First-Class Cocktail Party, which started at six, the first round of formal conviviality for the return journey; after dinner, the entertainment continued with the First Class Gala evening, in the Aztec Room.
I was monopolised for most of the evening by Mrs Crawford, a pleasant matronly, but still attractive widow from Canberra; we danced well together, and won a bottle of champagne in the novelty dances (which she insisted I keep).
When midnight approached, the chief officer caught my eye – only senior officers were allowed in the public rooms after twelve o'clock; as a two-and-a-half striper I didn't qualify.
I guided Mrs Crawford out through the swing doors, explained the rules, apologised, bade her “Goodnight”, pecked her on the cheek, and made a somewhat relieved getaway.
Monday, 8th August: The weather was becoming warmer, as we sailed north-eastwards. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, and the sea was a turquoise mill-pond, limitless, with only occasional white-caps in the distance.
“'But why Turkish?' asked Mr Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment, and my protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.
'English,' I answered in some surprise. 'I got them at Latimer's in Oxford Street.'
Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.
'The bath!' he said; 'the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?'
'Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and old. A Turkish bath is what we call an alternative in medicine – a fresh starting-point, a cleanser of the system.'
'By the way, Holmes,' I added, 'I have no doubt the connection between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you would indicate it.'”
I put down His Last Bow, the volume of Sherlock Holmes short stories, which I had opened at The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax.
I was spread out on a deck-chair, stripped to the waist, sunbathing on the officers' deck, my eyelids heavy and almost closed. With an effort, I shook myself out of my torpor; I got to my feet. It was time for my afternoon crew surgery ...
I was back in white mess-kit. It was half-past six, and half way through the Captain's Tourist Class Cocktail Party; I noticed her entrance, striking in a brilliant white blouse and long mauve skirt. She reminded me of Hazel Hart – my first love!
We had finished the day's class; now I sat, speaking in subdued tones with some of my new friends. Though I feigned boredom, the free-for-all in the ballroom after our dancing lessons was what I enjoyed most. Our teacher, Peggy, always made me appear better than I was by leading me, but here I was able to practice my steps to current dance tunes with real partners ... There was a break in the music; the lights were turned up, the room was half-empty, and our voices echoed faintly. Several of my group were debating whether to move on ... Suddenly the doors swung open, and on the threshold stood the girl of my dreams: golden hair framed a Botticelli face; a flared purple skirt, broad belt and tight blouse emphasised her curves. There was a soft gasp. The conversation stopped, as all heads turned towards her. She looked languidly around, before gliding purposefully across the room – directly to where I was sitting!
“Dance with me,” she murmured.
I rose to my feet, the lights dimmed, the music played, and she was in my arms. As we executed a faultless foxtrot, I felt as though I were floating.
“You're Edwin Scott, aren't you?” she asked. “You haven't changed much ... You don't recognise me, though, do you?” (No answer.) “I'm Hazel Hart. I used to sit next to you at school.”
With an effort I dragged my mind back to Elementary School: I had an indistinct memory of a scrawny girl with plaits, who used to gaze at me with rather vague eyes from behind her ... “What happened to your glasses?”
“Oh, I grew out of them ...”
I came out of my reverie, to find the girl making a bee-line for where I stood, still on my own, sipping my vodka Martini. The white-gloved waiter arrived with a tray of cocktails.
“Don't want those – fetch me champagne, please,” she demanded imperiously.
The waiter raised an eyebrow; I nodded, and he returned almost instantly with a single flute of champagne on his tray. My esteem in the eyes of the crew (which included waiters) was undiminished, since our successful appendicectomy.
“Thank you ...”
She sipped her drink and turned her attention to me. She was small and curvaceous; her blonde hair, bleached by the sun, was pinned up in a French roll, her large eyes a deep violet-blue. Her halter-neck emphasised her shoulders, arms and bare back, tanned a honey brown.
“I'm at your table, Dr Scott ... at the opposite end to you.”
“I know ...”
“Well, why didn't you speak to me at dinner, yesterday?”
“Oh, er, Miss Alexander?” (I tried to memorise the names of all the passengers on my Tourist as well as First Class tables.)
“Yes – Wendy Alexander ...”
“I attempt to be courteous to all passengers at my table, but in the hubbub at dinner, my voice just wouldn't carry ...”
A roll on the drums put an end to my embarrassment, as the captain came to the microphone. He welcomed all the passengers who had joined in Australia, hoped they had enjoyed the party so far, and reminded everyone that the Gala Evening would be held in the Arabia Room from twenty-one-thirty hours to one in the morning.
“I raise my glass to you all – may you have an enjoyable and successful voyage!” he concluded.
Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3) Page 10