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

  “Would you care for a cup of cocoa, a poached egg on toast?”

  The light in sister's office, though still subdued, was bright compared to the rest of the ward, and it took a short time for my eyes to accommodate, while I waited in an arm-chair for the nurse to return from the kitchen. She entered quietly, bearing a tray. The smell of eggs, toast and cocoa revived my appetite.

  “I'm Belinda Peach ...”

  Apart from a trim figure and regular features, I could gain only a vague monochrome impression of her in the light from the shaded table lamp.

  “Edwin Scott ...”

  “I know.”

  While I tucked in ravenously, she joined me in a cup of cocoa, watching me over the rim, her large eyes sparkling with amusement. Her voice was low and slightly husky, and she smiled down at me from her perch on the edge of the desk, giving me goose pimples.

  “You've been the talk of the nurses' dining-room, Edwin. How do you like St Peter's?”

  “Well, I don't really know ... er yes, it's quite er ...”

  The silence lengthened uncomfortably.

  “Would you like to come to a party next Thursday,” she came to my rescue. “Just a small do ... at our flat – I share with a girl-friend. It should be quite fun.”

  “Well ...” I remained at a loss for words. “I'm not sure I should. I've just become engaged.”

  I found myself blushing, and was glad of the deep shadow of the room.

  “That's all-right, Edwin. That's not a problem; my own fiancé will be there... But we're always short of men ... and it would be quite a coup for me with the nurses to have you along. Please say “yes”. It's only a short distance from the hospital ...”

  10

  Tuesday, 22nd June: There was a short buzz, and my lights (red, green, yellow and white) flashed on the wall of the doctors' dining-room. With the usual feeling of faint anxiety, I approached the telephone and lifted the receiver.

  “Dr Scott? I'm putting you through, sir ...” Ernie's voice at the other end; a click, and then the deeper voice of Dr Middleton, sounding a slightly querulous note:

  “Dr Root is unwell, and will be off duty for a few days. Dr Cotter's registrar, Dr Bolton, will cover for emergencies, but I'll need you to help me today in out-patients – could you come over straight away? And Dr Scott, I'm sorry, but you won't be able to take the day off tomorrow for your degree ceremony ...”

  I had no time to feel dismayed. I checked my watch immediately – twenty-to-two! I'd better hurry, as I was already ten minutes late. I left my plate unfinished; while I headed briskly towards the out-patient department, I allowed my mind full reign. I couldn't phone my mother until I had finished the clinic. She would be hugely disappointed at missing the great event. Maybe she'd let the degree people know I wouldn't be attending ...

  The porch light was on, and I could hear music as I rang the bell – “Lets twist again, as we did last summer ...”

  After what seemed a long wait, the door was opened by a somewhat dishevelled West Indian girl carrying a glass and a bottle of gin. Without a word she turned on her heel, and disappeared into the back of the ground-floor flat. The singing was now quite loud, and an insistent beat was picked out by the double base. Though yet indistinct, there was loud conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. After a moment of hesitation, I followed the young lady toward the sound. It was just after nine-thirty; the party appeared to be in full swing, as I passed from the brightly lit hall into the more subdued illumination of the large sitting room. It was quite crowded: a few couples danced, some sat on the arm-chairs and settee, while in the far corner, around the record player, a group stood in earnest discussion, glasses of beer, wine or spirits in hand. The room was warm, and all were casually and lightly dressed. At my entrance, a form detached itself from this group and approached. I barely recognised Belinda Peach in an expensive-looking and revealing party dress in midnight blue.

  “I'm so glad you could come, Edwin. I'm afraid Russ Potter was called out to an emergency a little while ago, and I'm not sure if you know anyone else ... What will you have to drink? Come on over, and I'll introduce you to some of my friends ...”

  I found myself in a group of three young women and a man:

  “Shirley, Elizabeth, Poppy, and this is Mackie ...”

  Shirley and Elizabeth I vaguely recognised as staff-nurses on the medical wards, though they were subtly different in their party frocks. A moment later, a large whisky was placed in my hand, and Belinda disappeared.

  “They're playing Cliff Richard and the Shadows – my favourites,” the nurse standing next to me became suddenly animated. There was the faintest trace of a Welsh accent, which I found appealing, reminding me of my childhood.

  “Would you care to dance?” I found myself blurting out, totally against my will.

  “I'd love to, Dr Scott,” and she was in my arms.

  Just like Emergency Ward Ten, I thought to myself.

  “Can you do the jive?”

  However, after two or three passes, it was soon evident that there was not enough space for the dance, and we settled down to a comfortable clinch. Her hair brushed my cheek, but in the subdued light I couldn't make out much detail of her face, her figure or her outfit.

  “I'm Shirley Jenkins, staff-nurse on Ward Ten. I've seen you of course, Dr Scott, but haven't got round to speaking to you yet ...”

  “Yes, I recognise you, Shirley,” I lied. “But please call me 'Edwin' ... Er, have you been in Hitchin long?”

  “I trained at St Peter's, and passed my SRN about six months ago. Ward Ten's a good ward to work on. Stanley Pollett may pretend to be strict, but he is very loyal, supports the nurses if we're ever in trouble; he's a sweetie, and we all love him dearly, even if we aren't quite sure about his sexual preferences ...”

  There was an army camp nearby, I learnt, a steady supply of dates for the nursing staff, but most of the soldiers were rather boring. The cinema was the main source of entertainment, or an occasional visit to a local café. Without a car, life was rather limited.

  “Do you have a car, Edwin?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Her ardour cooled dramatically ...

  “Got myself a walking, talking, crying, living doll ...” Cliff finished softly. I downed my whisky; it burned my throat in transit, but I felt much better after.

  “Can I get you another drink, Shirley?”

  When I returned with a whisky for me and a large sherry for Shirley, she was dancing with a tough-looking man whose clothes seemed too tight for him; he might have been a prize fighter, but was more likely a squaddie from the army camp. I decided I wouldn't intervene, wouldn't try to retrieve her – that discretion was the better part of valour.

  I handed the sherry to Poppy, who turned out to be the girl who had let me in: “I'm Sister on Gynae – just been promoted from staff-nurse ... Mackie is my old man. Ah, here he comes back again ...”

  He was a big jovial West Indian with a bone-crunching hand-shake.

  “I run de garage just outside of town. If your car ever give you trouble, I's yo man ...”

  “Afraid I don't own a car yet – but I hope to get one soon.”

  I started on my second drink and settled down in an arm-chair, content to watch the other guests; I was still way behind everyone else in my alcohol intake. There was a lull in the conversation, and simultaneously the music stopped. The sound of the door-bell was loud, and I looked toward the hall. After a few seconds Brian Root and Sister Milton followed Belinda into the sitting room. I was outraged: he had skived off out-patients this afternoon, but – much more seriously for me – his excuse would cause me to miss my degree ceremony tomorrow! I said nothing, and he ignored me. I hardly recognised the ward sister out of uniform; briefly I took in dark hair hanging loose to her shoulder-blades, a narrow waist and broad shoulders – no other details could be made out in the subdued light. Brian seemed slightly pissed, and in a bad mood. Nevertheless he accepted the glass of wh
isky which Belinda had thrust into his hand.

  “Sorry we can't stay, Belinda. I've booked a table at the Ace of Spades on the Newmarket Road, and we're already late. Could I just ring them from here, to let them know?”

  He was pointed to the phone in the hall, and disappeared, still wearing his driving jacket, but his glass already half-empty. Acker Bilk's clarinet started up with Strangers on the Shore.

  “Do you fancy a dance, Edwin?” I felt hands in mine, raising me to my feet, and found Theresa Milton standing before me, an inviting smile on her face.

  “All right ... er, should I call you Theresa?” I ventured tentatively.

  “No. Please call me Tess – all my friends do!”

  I felt her soft body against mine, and her hand caressing the nape of my neck.

  “Right we're off, everybody ...” rather peremptorily to the room in general from Brian Root, as he reappeared. “Come on Tessa, or we'll miss our meal altogether.”

  He placed his empty glass down on a ledge, dragged my partner rudely away from me, gave me a cursory nod, and then they were both out in the hall.

  I'm the one who's supposed to be cross, I thought to myself.

  A moment later, the front door slammed, a powerful car engine roared into life outside, and they were on their way to Newmarket. I was left standing, indecisively in the middle of the floor, as Acker Bilk slowly faded away. The conversation around me gradually resumed, and Elvis replaced Bilk: “Love me tender, love me true ...” bringing back a sudden poignant memory of Alassio and Jimmy's Club. Belinda reappeared, and the next thing I knew, we were performing a demure, nondescript sort of dance; she had to shout into my ear to make herself understood over the noise, pointing out further guests whom I didn't know:

  “There's Tim, my fiancé, on the chair in the corner. He's disgruntled, now, because I'm dancing with you ... And that's my flat-mate, Rachel, with her boy-friend.”

  A severe looking lady with glasses and long dark hair appeared to be having a row with a tall balding man in a black suit and purple bow tie. I had previously observed them jiving energetically together, but now he appeared to be quite a bit the worse for drink. As I watched, he got up from the settee, swayed to the door, and was gone, the door slamming behind him.

  I hope he's not driving ...

  In spite of open windows, the room became warmer, the noise louder. I couldn't hear what people were saying to me, but it didn't seem to matter. I just smiled and answered randomly in monosyllables. I drank several whiskies, and when that ran out, one or two beers; I danced with several of the girls, but couldn't remember their names. Time passed, but I didn't look at my watch. What the hell – I was enjoying myself!

  I was sitting in a deep leather arm-chair watching the few remaining dancers, when I became dimly aware of Rachel swaying in my direction. The light was behind her, showing to advantage her knitted dress with its corded waist, pale bra and panties just visible through the loose stitching. She staggered and toppled over as she passed, landing rather heavily in my lap. She had lost her glasses, and her face had a softer, unfocussed look. Her hair and clothes were somewhat disarranged – but not unattractively. Sweat and alcohol mingled with the scent of her rather exotic perfume, the effect, however, again quite alluring.

  “You must be Edwin. I'm Rachel Standish. I own this place. Mind if I join you?” Her words were a little slurred, but I found myself warming to her.

  “That bastard Barry has left me in the lurch.”

  From the occasional words I could decipher over the beat of the music and the still considerable clamour of voices, I discovered that she was twenty-eight (five years older than me), engaged to Barry, and worked in the High Street as a solicitor.

  “But Hitchin is so boring. I really hate this dump!”

  While we continued to sit there in a semi-embrace, people came over in dribs and drabs to thank Rachel for the party and say their goodbyes. The room became cooler and quieter. We joined two or three of the remaining couples on the dance floor to the accompaniment of some soft music, but found ourselves staggering about, hardly able to keep our feet as the alcohol took effect.

  “Come with me, Edwin. I've got something important to show you ...”

  I found myself in a dark room with a big bed. Her belt came loose, her knitted dress fell to the floor, and her bra came off with a flourish; she bent over me, as I lay on my back on the bed, hardly able to breathe. I felt her fumbling with my clothes ...

  I had fitful dreams of naked girls, kissing me, caressing me, undressing me, of bite marks and beads of blood on my neck – vampires?

  I woke to feel her breath sighing against my cheek and her soft body stirring against my side. Then I went back to sleep.

  I woke again with the sun pouring through the half-drawn curtains. I had a splitting headache and my mouth was parched. On the floor, Rachel's clothes mingled with mine in a jumbled heap. I was alone in the bed, but I could hear movement next door and smell the aroma of coffee and toast. I glanced at my wrist-watch – eight fort-five! I hadn't time to feel aroused, let alone guilty.

  I leapt out of bed, jumped into my clothes, yelled goodbye to Rachel and Belinda; and I was out of the door, and heading towards the hospital at a half-run, as a distant clock struck nine o'clock.

  11

  Thursday, 24th June: It was two-fifteen in the afternoon. I couldn't find the place, and now I was late. I had been told that it was behind pathology, but all I could see was a field! Eventually I tried what I had thought was a derelict barn, and found that I had arrived. The first sensation of which I was aware – the pungent smell of formalin – was familiar and reassuring, recalling my student days; yet the place differed subtly from the always pristine Department of Morbid Anatomy at The London: the walls and floor were tiled in grubby white; an ancient operating light was suspended from the ceiling; two large porcelain sinks stood in a corner; cupboards with jars and other receptacles lined the far wall. Two dirty windows and a small sky-light provided some natural light, but the sun's rays couldn't penetrate the dusty, musty gloom. A solitary bluebottle buzzed up and down one window, somehow avoiding a spider's web in the corner.

  In the centre of the post-mortem room, under the spot-light, stood a steel trolley, with my patient lying naked on this, his skin white and waxy.

  “Ah, here you are, Dr Scott. I hoped you would come, but I'm afraid I have taken the liberty of already starting without you.” He had a pronounced middle European accent, his deep sonorous voice belying his small stature.

  Dr Claus Horowitz was stooped over the body, a scalpel in his hand. He was slight, thin and elderly, with wisps of of grizzled hair straggling out from under his surgical cap. I was fascinated by the white hairs that protruded from his nose and ears, and the fine stubble of a beard. Though correctly attired in theatre gown, trousers, rubber apron and boots, he gave the impression of untidiness; a theatre mask dangled unnecessarily below his chin.

  He made an incision through the skin.

  “What can you tell me about Mr Ponsonby?”

  My pulse gradually slowed in the spacious, cool room, as I presented the salient clinical features of the case:

  “A sixty-four year old married man with a two year history of cough, shortness of breath and recent haemoptysis. Life-long heavy smoker ... We admitted him two days ago ... When I examined him ...”

  The pathologist continued his dissection with long deep sweeps of his scalpel, glancing up at me occasionally. During my recital, a vivid vision of Jill flashed suddenly before my eyes, blotting out my present surroundings, causing me to falter; however Dr Horowitz didn't pause, didn't seem to notice ...

  “My technician has taken a day off, so I have had to prepare the body myself today ...”

  He had cut through the ribs with a circular saw, and now removed the front of the rib-cage en bloc to expose the heart and lungs:

  “Note, Dr Scott, the flinty discolouration and emphysema of the lungs ...”

  12
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br />   Monday, 28th June: The Rose and Crown was a pub, just fifty yards from the hospital gates, modern and comfortable, though a trifle garish with its chrome trimmings and its jukebox. I sat in the saloon bar by the open coal fire with Adam Fenchurch and his registrar, Steve Bolton. It was ten in the evening and we were on our second round of local bitter. I confined myself to halves, but my companions were drinking pints. An open packet of crisps lay in front of each of us.

  I was on call for admissions, but Brian Root had surprisingly agreed to cover for me until half-past ten; nevertheless I had notified Ernie on the switch-board that he could reach me here if I was needed urgently. Adam was due to finish his job at the end of the month, and this was his send-off. He sat in an arm-chair next to me, but at an angle, so that I could observe him in profile, his delicate features and long thin surgeon's fingers. He had not spoken about his family before. Now that he was leaving, I learned that he had three sisters – the eldest a surgical registrar in Portsmouth – and that his father was a consultant surgeon at St Thomas', with a flat in Harley Street.

  The bar was becoming crowded, and we had stripped down to our shirt-sleeves because of the warmth, draping our jackets over the back of our chairs. Steve had to raise his voice over the increasing background hum.

  “So, where are you off to next month, Adam?”

  He brushed the foam off his lips with the back of his hand. He was big and broad-shouldered with black wavy hair, handsome in spite of a broad bridge to his nose (a relic of an old rugby injury). Though casually dressed in sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers, he nevertheless wore a hard collar with his broadly striped blue shirt, which gave him a quaintly old-fashioned appearance, at variance with his rugged stature. Everyone liked Steve Bolton, and there was a uniform regret among the senior nursing staff that he was already married.