Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2) Page 6

  He poured the coffee.

  “Just a dash of milk and three sugars, please.” Delicious.

  He topped up my port; we sipped our drinks while he continued his narrative. I felt relaxed and mellow, content just to listen.

  “I never really got on with my father, and when he urged me to move to St George's Hospital for my clinical studies, I rebelled and opted for The London – as far away as I could get from Hyde Park, Knightsbridge, Mayfair and my father's cronies. I qualified in 1956, got a house job at The London in the orthopaedic department ...”

  (I vaguely remembered him now, as a final year student, queueing for lunch in the refectory, when I was in my first year.)

  “But I haven't been able to pass my MRCP – I can't get down to study somehow, can't seem to concentrate on the books, stare at the same page for an hour at a time ... I came here for my second house job under Uncle Peter – and then returned as registrar a year ago.”

  “How do you find Dr Middleton?” I interrupted the flow.

  “My dear fellow, he tries to look stern, but he's a bit of a softy really. Bit upset with me, when I don't conform. Gwen, his wife's a poppet. Waging a charm offensive on her just now – hoping to bring the Boss around, that way. He's impressed with you though, so keep it up!”

  I flushed with pleasure.

  “What about Hitchin?”

  “Oh, Hitchin's fine if you like the countryside ... Not much to do. Take the dolly birds to the flicks once in a while, or for a meal – Ace of Spades on the Newmarket Road about the best around. Tessa Milton's quite bed-worthy, but gettin' a bit above herself. Dumped her the other day; now taken up with little Shirley Jenkins, staff-nurse on Ward Ten, more biddable ...”

  He lapsed into a silence, broken only by the ticking of the long-case clock in the corner of the room, and the occasional hoot of a hunting owl from outside. The music had long since ceased. We finished our port simultaneously, and stood up to go. I felt mellow, relaxed, with a feeling akin to friendship toward my companion.

  “Tessa took it badly ... D'you know she rang me up only yesterday: 'Meet you at the Rose and Crown, around the corner from the hospital ...Got something very important to show you.' Put the phone down on her, of course. Not interested any more ... Well, best take you back, before we both fall asleep ...”

  The drive back was, if anything, even more erratic than the journey there. However, I didn't care, hardly noticed. Brian dropped me off in the empty hospital car park, performed a U-turn, and accelerated through the gates. Whilst I watched, his tail lights disappeared around a bend.

  4

  Thursday, 8th July: “Let's look at our patient with the rather bizzare haematemesis – Horatio Tupper ...”

  We had reached Ward Ten, at the end of Dr Middleton's short ward-round. Tupper had been moved from the side ward to the main ward on the previous day. With a mysterious self-important air, Stanley Pollett, who was hovering just inside the swing doors, had taken us aside before we could reach the patient, so I started my progress report in his office.

  “There has been no further bleeding, Barium meal, chest X-ray, haemoglobin and liver function tests all normal ...”

  “I have been doing a bit of detective work,” Pollett interrupted, when I drew breath. “I had heard rumours on the grape-vine about a tramp making the rounds of hospitals in order to provide himself with rest, recuperation, food and a roof over his head; he was peddling a story very similar to our Horatio Tupper's – and reported to be a racist to boot! So I rang around the casualty departments at Luton, Bedford, St Alban's, and also a few in North London. In the last six months, this man has been admitted to no fewer than six hospitals, staying between three and ten days at each. On every occasion his tests were found to be completely negative. The theory from my contacts is that he ingests the blood shortly before presenting himself; but whether it be human or animal blood no-one seems to know. He's a homeless tramp with the nerve of Old Nick. The icing on the cake? He even uses his own name ...”

  By the time the charge nurse had finished his recital, Uncle Peter was smiling broadly.

  “I did wonder,” he murmured.

  We reached the patient's bed.

  “Good morning, Mr Tupper,” the consultant greeted him. “You'll be pleased to hear that all your tests were normal. The only thing left to offer you now is an exploratory laparotomy by our surgeons – see if they can find the source of the bleeding ...”

  But before he had finished speaking, the patient, with a look of consternation on his face, was already out of bed and struggling into the clothes from his bedside locker. In five minutes he had disappeared through the ward doors without a word or a backward glance.

  5

  Friday, 9th July: My phone rang whilst I was packing the dirty laundry into my overnight case, in preparation for the drive home straight after lunch.

  Don't they know I'm off duty? I thought with irritation.

  “Sorry to trouble you, Dr Scott,” Ernie's voice was bland, emollient. “There's a gentleman here, outside my switchboard, name of Singh, enquiring after a Mr Tupper – Horatio Tupper ... Most anxious to find him ... Says he's a friend of the family (Unlikely!), and Tupper owes him money (This I can believe.) ...”

  He lowered his voice: “Between you and me, sir, he's rather a rum character – dark-skinned, bushy beard, one of them turbans, rather shifty if you ask me ... Mr Tupper was in Ward Ten under Dr Middleton, wasn't he, Dr Scott?”

  “Yes, Ernie ... We discharged him only yesterday – or rather, he discharged himself! As far as I remember he has no fixed abode ... You'd best try Charge Nurse Pollett on Ward Ten. He'll know where Tupper is now, if anyone does ...”

  “I've already tried him, Dr Scott ... He's no idea ... Thinks he's likely left the area by now ... Well, thank you for your time, sir ... I'll inform the gentleman ...”

  6

  Saturday, 10th July: We sat in a quiet corner of the doctors' common room. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, and I could see dust motes floating in its beam. A group of three young doctors in white coats were ensconced on a large battered leather sofa, chatting in the relative gloom at the other end, but such was the size of the room, that we could hear only a soft murmur, reinforcing the impression that we were alone. The ugly brown wall-paper was partially obscured by posters, a few framed pictures of landscapes and portraits of dignitaries, and two ancient book-cases of dog-eared paper-backs. Newspapers, magazines and medical journals littered the small occasional tables and overflowed onto empty upright and easy chairs. A large new television stood in one corner, and three standard lamps and two ceiling lights would provide illumination at night – but were currently switched off.

  Jill's white coat hung open, revealing a white blouse and grey skirt. She wore no make-up, and I could see the dark rings around her eyes and the lines of fatigue around her mouth. She was into the second week of her house surgeon's post at St Thomas', and the strain was showing. Already her tan was fading, and she appeared pale and wan. I was again home for a week-end, and had dropped in to see her on the Saturday afternoon.

  “This is the slack time of my week,” she murmured, gazing at me from under her long lashes, and smiling shyly.

  “I don't actually have any formal time off during this six months – one of the draw-backs of a teaching hospital house job. But we have been able to get to the pub across the road a couple of times for an hour or two – we can be on call on the telephone from there.”

  She worked for Mr Ingram and Mr Alexander, general surgeons, who each had two operating sessions a week. After clerking the patients, long periods of standing in the theatre, post-operative care and occasional night calls, she found that she was exhausted by the end of the week.

  “Last Thursday, I passed out in theatre – it was a particularly hot day, but I didn't really think I was the fainting type. It caused a great upheaval ... Mr Alexander has treated me more considerately ever since, but I think he may be having second thoug
hts about choosing a female houseman.”

  Jill interrogated me gently about my work at St Peter's Hospital – much less arduous than hers – and asked what I did in Hitchin in my spare time, whether I was bored, whether I missed her. When we reminisced about our holiday in Alassio, a soft smile lit up her face, and she was once more at peace ... We discussed the topic closest to our hearts – our forthcoming wedding – still a year away, and how our families were coping with the idea: after an initial hesitation, a slight ambivalence, our mothers were now throwing themselves enthusiastically into preparations, our fathers happy to sit on the side-lines. At some time in the near future, Anne and Eileen were even planning to meet!

  A maid in a white frilly apron and cap, looking like a waitress from a Lyons' Corner House, wheeled in a trolley with tea, lemon-cake and scones. Soon the common room was filling with young men (supplemented by the occasional woman), with white coats and stethoscopes, taking their tea-break. The sleepy place was transformed: conversation buzzed around the room, interrupted by the chink of crockery and occasional bursts of laughter. Our oasis of intimacy was swept aside, as though by a sand-storm. I released Jill's hand, and we moved apart. All too soon, she rose to her feet: we had finished our tea and scones.

  “I'm afraid I shall have to get back to my patients,” she murmured.

  With a sense of regret and foreboding, I, too, got up to leave. I would have to return to St Peter's and my own patients tomorrow, and would not see Jill again for a whole fortnight.

  7

  Monday, 12th July: He was tall, broad, with a square face, dark wavy hair and a narrow moustache, whom some girls might consider handsome. I had the vague feeling of having seen him somewhere before, but couldn't quite place him. Next to him stood an older man with balding head and a bored expression. Both were in police uniform.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I'm Sergeant Gately and this is my colleague, Constable Whittingstone. We won't detain you long ...”

  The party at Belinda Peach's flat – her fiancé! I remembered suddenly.

  All the resident medical staff had been summoned to the lecture theatre in the nurses preliminary training school, where the daylight through the windows had been excluded by black roller-blinds. It was six-thirty, and I hoped that whatever this talk was about it would be over soon. Supper was due to start in the doctors' dining-room any time now, and I was hungry.

  “The body of a tramp was discovered at two o'clock this afternoon by a group of nurses from St Peter's Hospital, half-way down the small path on the south side of the hospital grounds, which is sometimes used as a short cut down to the Bedford Road. He had been strangled, and had obviously been lying there for some time – probably since the night before. Sacks, newspaper and rubbish were found at the site, suggesting that he had been camping there. We would like to know if anyone here had used that path in the last week, and whether you had seen him around ...”

  The lights were dimmed, and a slide projector was switched on by the constable. A picture of the track, garishly lit by police flood-lights and sealed off by blue and white police tape, was projected onto the screen; next a figure on the ground, partly covered by sacking and newspapers; then a close-up of a man's face, with long matted black hair. The slide was left up, when the hall lights were switched full on. There was a long silence and nobody moved.

  Slowly I put up my hand, all thoughts of supper forgotten.

  “Edwin Scott, house physician. His name's Horatio Tupper. He had been my patient. We only discharged him from the ward four days ago ...”

  8

  Tuesday, 13th July: I was informed by Dr Horowitz's secretary that he would carry out the autopsy on Mr Tupper at two o'clock this afternoon in the department of morbid anatomy. I was impressed!This was a coroner's case: so he must have forensic skills and qualifications over and above those needed for his role as a simple no-frills pathologist at a district general hospital.

  This time I knew my way, and arrived promptly. It was again very warm outside; a bluebottle buzzed in the window – was it the same one? I noticed that the cobweb had disappeared from the corner, and the panes had been given a cursory wipe. Horowitz was already there, again gowned up, and wearing theatre cap, rubber gloves, apron and boots.

  “Ah Dr Scott ... How kind of you to come ...” His middle European accent seemed especially prominent. “I found from Mr Tupper's hospital notes that you had been looking after him in the ward. Perhaps you can tell me a little about his previous medical condition ... Not much relevance to cause of death maybe, but can sometimes be illuminating ...”

  The body lay supine on its stainless steel trolley, the skin pale, dark hair unkempt and an untidy beard covering his face. I summarised the details of his history, my negative physical examination, the results of the investigations, and his course in hospital. I also recounted the patient's previous progress from hospital to hospital, using his factitious haematemesis as a means of finding a roof over his head. While I spoke, the pathologist busied himself with a detailed examination of the surface of the corpse.

  “Hmm, tattoos on arms – look foreign, Middle East or Far East, faded, seems as though he travelled in his youth, perhaps in the armed forces ... Dirt under the fingernails, nails broken, but not necessarily from a struggle. I'll just take some scrapings from under them ... we may be lucky, and there might be some blood, which the police could match to a suspect's – if they find a suspect! Now look here, on the throat, Dr Scott ... You see the thin line of the ligature right around the circumference of the neck ... above this line the skin is white, below it is congested ... There are petechial haemorrhages over the conjunctivae as well as around the ligature mark. All these are fairly conclusive signs of ligature strangulation – it appears to have been a fairly narrow band; no sign of penetration of the skin – thus not a wire garrotte; so the murder weapon was just a cord, a piece of string or length of twine, such as you would buy at any haberdasher's or hardware store.

  “Now, I'll just incise the larynx ... I need to examine the hyoid bone. Can you tell me why?”

  (I recalled the lecture on Rape and Strangulation at medical school by Dr Francis Struthers, the eminent Home Office Pathologist: “A fracture of the hyoid bone is a classical feature of death by strangulation at post mortem ...”)

  “You're looking for a fracture of one or more of the cornua of the hyoid, Dr Horowitz ...”

  “Very good, young man ... Excellent ... However in this case – see – there is no fracture, the bones remain intact; the cord was applied too far below the larynx ... Never mind, we can't have everything ...

  “So let's commence on the dissection of the body ...”

  He removed the front of the rib-cage which had already been prepared by his technician. The lungs showed the expected evidence of heavy smoking – a flinty-grey discolouration; the heart was relatively normal. In the abdomen, liver, spleen, kidneys, gall-bladder, pancreas and large and small intestines were all substantially normal. The surprise came, when he dissected out the stomach and duodenum ...

  “Hmm, what's this? There's old scarring ... By Jove, he has a healed duodenal ulcer ... So at some time in the distant past, he may well have had a genuine bleed, a genuine haematemesis!”

  9

  Sunday, 18th July: Ward Three was our gynaecology ward. However, the hospital had no obstetric department, and all the deliveries for Hitchin and the surrounding district were carried out in the small North Herts Maternity Hospital, about half a mile down the High Street. A senior house officer in gynaecology was resident at St Peter's, but the registrar and consultant came across from the North Herts Hospital for gynaecological emergencies, theatre lists, ward rounds and out-patient clinics. The new SHO had moved into our doctors' annexe at the beginning of July. I had been aware of exhaust roars from a powerful vehicle, and, from the window of my room, caught sight of a brightly polished scarlet Maserati sports car outside the annexe, if I craned my neck.

  After Sunday lunc
h, I wandered into the sitting-room to read the papers and to chat to the Australian surgical registrar, Russ Potter, who was often there relaxing and watching television when he was not busy in theatre. A tall gangly man unwound himself from an armchair, and came over to shake my hand.

  “Hi, Edwin. I'm Daniel Ellington, the new gynae SHO ... Join us for a drink ... I've brought a bottle of scotch to celebrate my inauguration into the mess; don't seem to have had time to get here before.”

  He had a pleasant voice, in sharp contrast to his rather scarecrow appearance. Flame-coloured hair stood on end, like stubble in a wheat-field at sunrise, above a rather low forehead and pale, almost white eyebrows; his eyes were a startling green, and appeared never to blink; his front teeth protruded; his skin was pale and freckled. In spite of his broad smile, he made a somewhat sinister impression on me. He handed me a tumbler almost full of whisky.

  “Cheers ...”

  “Have you noticed Dan's red Maserati in front of the doctor's annexe, Edwin?” Russ had almost finished his glass and was waiting for a refill. “It's quite some motor ...”

  Just then Teddy Blayne, the paediatric senior house officer, and Aloke (“Olly”) Kumar, the Indian anaesthetic SHO entered together; they both accepted glasses of whisky and exchanged introductions.

  “How do you like Hitchin? What do you think of St Peter's?” I asked Daniel.

  “I've found it pretty busy so far, but my registrar, David Cavanagh comes in pretty smartly if I'm in trouble ... As for Hitchin: I doubt if I'll see much of that; be busy practising in the old Maserati during my time off. Intend to race her at Brand's Hatch and Silverstone when I'm ready ...”