Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3)

by Felix Bruckner

  I'm sitting on a deck-chair on a low island, with swaying palm trees; the sun is setting. As twilight falls, my sense of contentment vanishes: the chief officer and two obese Tongans in grass skirts approach slowly, menacingly. I have difficulty in extricating myself from the folds of the chair; finally I'm on my feet; I flee – directly into the arms of the head chef! In a trice he seals my mouth with adhesive tape: I can't call for help, I can't breathe. At the same time, the Tongans bind my hands and feet with thick rope.

  The scene shifts to ship-board by moonlight. The chef and chief officer watch impassively, as I am carried, struggling vainly, to the ship's rail; there is a momentary pause, before I am tossed casually overboard.

  I fall for long minutes, splash into a calm sea; the moonlight disappears as I sink below the surface. Down and down I plunge, underwater into a gloomy green world; fronds of sea-weed clutch at me ... I manage to free my hands, and then my feet, but I feel myself drowning. I struggle with the tape over my mouth – I must call for help, even though I'm still under water ...

  I woke, bathed in sweat, to pale moonlight filtering through the port-hole of my cabin.

  Thursday, 11th August: I had finished my afternoon crew surgery, and was writing up my notes. There was a tap on the door, which opened to disclose Mr Kipper on the threshold.

  “Oh no, what have I done now?” I wondered anxiously. However, my first impression was swiftly revised: this was a professional consultation.

  The Chief's face wore a frown of pain; his trunk was tilted to the right.

  “Please come in and take a seat.” I nodded towards the chair facing me.

  “I'd sooner stand, Doc ...”

  “Well then, Mr Kipper, tell me how you strained your back.”

  A gasp of surprise escaped him, his dark eyes opening wide.

  “It's incredible ... You really are the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes. How on earth do you do it?”

  I smiled modestly, suppressed the impulse to reply “Elementary, my dear Kipper”, and merely waited for a reply to my question.

  He'd lifted a heavy suit-case awkwardly from a corner of his cabin two days before, and “felt something go” in the low back. The pain had gradually got worse, and had spread to the right buttock region, but not down the leg. It was eased by lying down, but made worse by bending, lifting, coughing or sneezing.

  “I had a previous episode about two years ago, now you ask, but much less severe, and only lasting a day or two altogether.”

  He had had no numbness, pins and needles or weakness in either leg, and was passing urine normally. He had been diagnosed with a duodenal ulcer about five years ago, but this pain had settled with antacids, and only returned when he was stressed. Otherwise he was fit and well.

  I got him to strip to his underpants, and stood behind him. The back muscles were in spasm, and this caused the spine to tilt to the right. With his knees straight, bending his body forward, backwards, or to the left was painful.

  He began to bare his soul to me, as patients frequently did when eye contact was removed. He was forty-six, came from Hull, but had moved south when he married – Ashurst, a little village just west of Southampton.

  “Much more convenient for seeing the family when I'm on leave.”

  He had three daughters and a son. The eldest daughter was in her second year at the University of London, studying Mathematics.

  “Don't know what she intends to do with that ... but Judith's a bright girl, and she'll make out ... the youngest – Don – is only ten ... Already he's talking about following me to sea ...” There was no trace in his speech of his roots; nor any sign of the famous Yorkshire humour. “They say I'm a bit of a martinet ... but I only push my men as hard as I do myself ...”

  I learned with surprise that he loved the theatre and the opera. He had been to see Chekov at the Chichester Festival, and Shakespeare at the Old Vic and Stratford upon Avon. He visited Covent Garden or Sadlers Wells whenever he could – especially for Puccini or Verdi. I ventured a few platitudes about La Boheme and the quartet from Rigolletto, but by now he was in full flow, and in no need of encouragement. In the mirror, I saw his face become animated, his eyes expressive, and his pale, rather sallow skin flush with enthusiasm.

  I placed him prone on the couch. There was tenderness in the low spine over the space between the fourth and fifth lumbar vertebrae. I turned him over onto his back; straight leg raising was restricted on the right; I confirmed that power, sensation and tendon reflexes were all normal.

  “You've had quite a bad disc prolapse at L4-5 ... a slipped disc. Fortunately there's no evidence of nerve root compression ... You'll have to avoid lifting, bending and prolonged sitting – as you have already discovered ...”

  “What about treatment, Doc? Can anything be done?”

  “I'll give you some pain killers, Mr Kipper, but you'll need bed rest and physiotherapy to get the condition to settle.”

  “I didn't think there was a physiotherapist on the staff complement ...” He was becoming despondent. “I have to continue with my duties – I'm needed.”

  I paused, deep in thought.

  “There's a passenger at my table in Tourist Class, Mr Kipper ... an Australian girl ... I'm almost certain she said she was a physio ... Charlene's her name – Charlene MacDonald ...”

  As she was preparing to leave the restaurant, after dinner, I approached Miss MacDonald, and steered her to an empty seat in the adjacent lounge. She was a lovely girl with delicate features; however she was big – well over six foot – with the shoulders of a rugby player. She listened with interest, as I explained my problem. Yes, she would be happy to treat the chief officer – it would be an interesting experience. By way of a sweetener, I told her that I was just about to start as a senior registrar in rheumatology at a major London teaching hospital, and might be able to help her find a job.

  “Is this your first visit to Europe?”

  “Yiis, I'm from Brisbane, in Queensland ... No worries, I'm a fully qualified physio ... I've already corresponded with the Chartered Society of Physiotherapists in the UK? They tell me there's plenny o' locum posts available ... though not necessarily in London ...”

  The chief officer got the okay from Dr Hardcastle; he arranged with the purser for Charlene to be upgraded to a First Class cabin in lieu of payment for her services.

  I awoke with a start. For a moment I didn't know where I was ... Memory returned. The Koh-i-Noor was cutting her way smoothly through the waves in a pitch-black night. What had woken me? I could hear movement next-door, a thud and some soft swearing. Charlie Hardcastle had just returned to his cabin. I turned to look at the luminous dial of my alarm clock: 2.50 am.

  What had the surgeon been up to, wandering the empty decks at this time of night? Hardcastle was moving around quietly, humming softly to himself; he appeared to be undressing. I heard his light go off – then silence. After a while came the sound of snoring: he was asleep, while I was left wide awake.

  My mind couldn't disengage; I couldn't relax; I couldn't return to my slumbers and my pleasant dreams. Charles Hardcastle wasn't the simple amiable drunk he purported to be, the persona he presented to the world. Something about him didn't fit, something was seriously wrong. I liked him, sure. He was charming, even kind in his way; and to me he presented a vulnerable, rather lonely side of himself. Yet there was something sinister about him, a steely quality deeply buried beneath the bland surface. Sometimes I had caught him gazing at me when he thought I wasn't looking; appraising me with a penetration I found uncomfortable, a far cry from the alcoholic cloak he usually wore.

  Was he friend or foe? Who was Charles Hardcastle?

  Of one thing I was certain – he wasn't what or who he wanted everyone to believe.

  Friday, 12th August: I visited Mr Kipper in his cabin before lunch. He was transformed: for the first time since I had known him, his face was wreathed in smiles. He had had two treatments from Charlene already; she had improvised a corset
with some lengths of strapping, and he was able to continue at work.

  “Your Miss MacDonald is an absolute marvel ... I'm delighted ... Even the Captain is pleased. Well done, Edwin ...”

  Crossing the equator again last night, I managed to miss the Crossing the Line Ceremony. I had had to deputise for Charles Hardcastle on one of his numerous sickness absences: a notice had been posted on his door, informing passengers that the evening's surgery (4.30 – 6.00 pm) would be held next door in my cabin ...

  “'It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it was a chance, as the results showed. These people had never, to my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at the last. They could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that such considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to insure against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear some brilliant incidents in their future career.'”

  I finished The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax, and closed the book, just as a knock sounded on my door – my first patient of the afternoon. With uncharacteristic timidity, Wendy Alexander poked her head around the door.

  “Come in, Miss Alexander. What can I do for you?” I enquired in my best professional manner.

  “I'm not well ... I've got a cough and a high fever.”

  “How long have you felt unwell? Have you coughed up any sputum, any blood? Have you had any chest pain? Are you short of breath?”

  “What does the 'D' in E.D. Scott on your door stand for?” she interrupted me in full flow.

  It had the desired effect. I flushed, and squirmed in embarrassment.

  “Duncan.”

  “Ahh ... well, aren't you going to examine me, doctor? Do you want me on the couch? Should I take my blouse and bra off?”

  Warning bells began ringing in my head.

  “You can stay seated in your chair, Wendy, er Miss Alexander. Just unbutton your blouse ... I should manage without you having to remove your bra.”

  I checked her pulse and her temperature – normal. I percussed her chest, and listened with my stethoscope to the back.

  “Fine ... you can get dressed ... Well, er ... Everything seems okay. It's probably just a bad cold, or maybe early bronchitis ...”

  I wrote out a prescription for a cough linctus.

  “Here, take this to Mr Slater at the pharmacy, next door ... One teaspoon three times a day, and last thing at night ... This should settle your cough ... But come back and see me again in three days if you're no better ...”

  “Are you coming to the Hawaiian Evening in the Aloha Room this evening, Edwin?” she murmured, as she buttoned her blouse. The sudden change of subject and the come-hither look took me by surprise.

  “Well, er, yes, I expect I'll be there ... but I shall only be able to stay until eleven o'clock. Public rooms are out of bounds for me after eleven since I overstayed on Gala Night.”

  “It hardly seems worth it then, does it?”

  The door closed behind her, and I was left with my thoughts.

  At dinner, Charlene MacDonald reappeared at my table in Tourist Class.

  “I asked them to move me back ... I couldn't stand First Class. Missed me mates ...”

  The band was playing tunes from Blue Hawaii, the singer giving a passable impression of Elvis Presley. The Aloha Room was decorated with Hawaiian themes, and packed with dancing couples.

  We sat together at a small table, a gin in front of each; I was nursing mine, trying to make it last. The ornate wall clock showed a quarter to eleven.

  I had danced with several unaccompanied ladies, but the other three had steadfastly refused, all evening.

  “I can't dance ...” (Danny Stone)

  “I'm absolutely worn out ...” (Davey Goodenough)

  “There's no-one here I fancy ... (Christopher McFee – but a good-natured smile robbed the comment of any offence.)

  Doubtless we appeared handsome in our mess-kit, for we were attracting wistful glances from the ladies.

  The doors swung open, and Wendy's group, in Hawaiian outfits, made an impressive entrance. As usual, Wendy was stunning: her pale gold hair reached almost to her waist; the scarlet hibiscus flower in her hair matched the lei around her neck; a grass skirt and skimpy blouse completed the ensemble. She was chatting to Stewart, whose arm was draped around her shoulder in a proprietorial manner. She waved vaguely towards us as she passed, and I waved back.

  “Come on, Edwin,” said Christopher. “The engineers are having a pour-out; it should be warming up nicely by now.”

  It was just before eleven o'clock. We got up and left.

  Saturday, 13th August: We arrived in Honolulu at seven-thirty in the morning. This is the big deep-water port on Oahu, the third largest of the Hawaiian Islands. Although I was in my accustomed state of alcoholic muzziness by this time of the week (and longing for Monday, my day on soft drinks), I elected to take the coach tour around the island, and had been ready by eight-thirty.

  “The Hawaiian Islands were first settled by the Polynesians, travelling in large dug-out canoes. The British sea captain, James Cook, discovered the islands in 1778. A year later, on his third Pacific voyage, he stopped there for water and supplies, and was killed by the natives ... From the sea-bed to the top of these peaks, the Hawaiian Range is higher even than Mount Everest in the Himalayas.” Our tour guide's mellifluous American voice wrecked my reverie.

  Outside, the metalled road wound its way through the hair-pin bends of the mountainside, with vertiginous views of the dun-coloured valleys far below. It was still misty over the peaks, and the sun hadn't yet warmed the air; inside the air-conditioned coach, I was freezing, regretting that I hadn't brought warmer clothes. Next to me, Danny, in a thick woollen jumper, comfortably surveyed the passing landscape; three seats ahead, Wendy was snuggling up to Stewart; I felt a faint stab of jealousy.

  Near the summit of the pass, we stopped in front of a Buddhist temple, an octagonal structure in light grey brick, with layered silver towers, and a broad red-brick stairway leading up to the columned portico: an unusual modern edifice – not especially attractive. The coach emptied, with numerous “Ooh's” and “Ahh's”, but I elected to stay in my seat, hugging my dark thoughts to me ...

  The temple appeared to have been the sole objective of the trip; my humour was not improved at the thought. However, as the coach descended again, I spied a cove: scrub in myriad shades of green climbed its steep ochre slopes; sand shimmered gold and silver in the dazzling sunlight; palm trees (just as I had always envisaged them) stood sentinel on the shore, almost to the very edge of the ocean, casting foreshortened black shadows; the water sparkled a brilliant cobalt blue; there was no sign of human habitation. The tour guide remained silent. My mood lifted.

  Danny came to life beside me:

  “My father's a cop – a detective inspector in Torquay. He always wanted me to follow in his footsteps. When I was a boy, the idea quite appealed to me; I saw myself catching villains, like they do on TV ... Anyway, I was always good at physics at school ... interested in radio and communications ... The merchant navy was a way of seeing the world, so I joined ... It's a great life, and I love it! We make a great gang: Christopher, Jamie, Davey and me – and now you of course, Edwin ... Hm ...Dad's a bit worried about me. Thinks I drink too much; but I can take it or leave it ... I must say, I rather fancy that Joanne Flinders ... By the way, d'you know what they say about Dr Hardcastle, Edwin? It's rumoured that he killed someone ... left the Army under a cloud, before he took up ship's doctoring.”

  “D'you mean a patient?”

  “Don't know. That's all I
heard ...”

  Before returning us to the ship, the coach stopped off at Waikiki Beach. White sands stretched for miles; handsome bronzed youths surfed the huge Pacific rollers, competing with each other for the smiles of the lovely girls, who had gathered in groups to watch. The blood of many races intermingled in this newest of the American States – Polynesian, European, Chinese, African. From the crowded beach-side boutiques we bought souvenirs: I found a floral Hawaiian shirt and a paper lei for ten dollars, and wished I'd had them at the dance the previous night.

  We returned to the ship in time for lunch.

  That evening, guided by Christopher and Jamie, who were old hands, we toured the Waikiki night spots; Davey Goodenough had had to cry off, because he was on duty; for Danny, like me, this was his first time.

  At the Reef Hotel, guests dined noisily on a terrace lit by flaring torches; pink clouds floated above the distant peaks, reflecting the rays of the dying sun. We stopped to inspect a menu on a notice-board: the place was far too expensive for us. We moved on. The sky darkened to a midnight blue, as we ascended the steep lanes leading from the beach. We were casually dressed, I in my new Hawaiian shirt; yet even at ten o'clock the night still felt warm. After drinks in a couple of small smoky bars, we found ourselves in front of an altogether grander edifice: a spacious two-story white building squatted in its own extensive gardens; a blue neon sign depicted a curvaceous lady drinking a cocktail, and announced “Lulu's Dive”. Here, to my chagrin, I was the only one of our party who was asked to show identification:

  “You gotta be over twenty-one to get in here, buddy ...”

  Danny smirked. Reluctantly I took out my seaman's card, and was nodded through. We followed Christopher into a large salon with plush furniture and subdued lighting, where we were seated at a vacant table near the centre. Above us, a ceiling fan moved the air around, though I was sure I had heard the hum of air-conditioning in the foyer, as we entered. Through a curtained arch came the whirr and click of a roulette wheel. Christopher offered around his silver cigarette case, and when all refused, he lit himself a black Turkish cigarette with his silver lighter; Jamie pulled out a crumpled packet of Woodbines, and joined him; smoke eddied gently to the ceiling.