An Empty Death

by Laura Wilson

  ‘I can’t just leave her to it, can I? It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Realising he’d said this with bad grace, Stratton added, ‘It’s just what with the Rest Centre and this bl—this wretched woman, I never seem to see you.’

  ‘I know, dear. He’s got a nasty temper though, Ted. I didn’t like him at all.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Jenny. It’s enough to make anyone bad-tempered, what he’s been through.’

  ‘No, but this was…Oh, I don’t know. He was rude, and…He grabbed her, and when I tried to stop him he pushed me out of the way.’

  ‘Oh?’ Stratton sat up sharply. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘Just bumped my head on the wall, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, come here and let me kiss it.’ Jenny sat down on the arm of the chair and allowed herself to be pulled towards him. ‘You steer clear of him in future, all right? He’ll only have forty-eight hours’ leave, so they’ll be gone tomorrow and you can both forget all about it.’

  ‘But supposing—’

  ‘There’s no point supposing, Jenny. Dr Makepeace’ll sort it out, and he’ll take her off to wherever they’re going and that’ll be the end of it.’

  ‘But—’

  Stratton laid a finger on her lips. ‘No buts. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from police work, it’s never a good idea to get between husband and wife. Not unless she wants you to, and then ninety per cent of the time she decides she’s made a mistake.’

  ‘But she doesn’t think she is his wife, Ted.’

  ‘Look, it’s bound to sort itself out in time. Or maybe she’ll decide he’s a better bet than the old one.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Jenny levered herself off his lap, glaring at him. ‘I’d better finish the cooking. Will do you the blackouts later?’

  Although the whiffy haddock had almost disintegrated, it still needed chewing before it could be swallowed, and trying to breathe through his mouth at the same time in order not to have to smell it was difficult. Jenny was clearly having a similar struggle because, after several minutes, she put down her fork. ‘I am sorry, Ted.’

  ‘It’s all right, love. Can’t be helped. Is there anything you could put on it? Bisto or something?’

  Jenny giggled. ‘You can’t put Bisto on fish.’

  ‘Well, what about some of that tomato chutney you made last year?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Jenny looked at him doubtfully. ‘There’s a jar left.’

  The addition of tomato chutney was surprisingly successful, as was the pudding – bottled fruit with the top of the milk and a sprinkling of sugar. Afterwards, while they were drinking their tea and Stratton was having a smoke, Jenny said, ‘Do you remember George, Ted?’

  ‘George?’

  ‘Mum’s cat.’

  Stratton grinned at her. ‘I remember. It was the first time I came to your house.’

  ‘That’s right, we were courting, and we’d all sat down to tea, and George came in – he’d been wandering about all over the house, miaowing, and none of us knew what was up until you told us he was going to have kittens. We just thought he was getting a bit fat round the middle.’

  Stratton laughed. ‘Your faces!’

  ‘We couldn’t believe it. You helped us make a sort of nest in the garden shed, remember? With old blankets and things. And he went in there, quite happy, and when we looked next morning there were four little kittens. We thought we shouldn’t change the name, so we went on calling him George. Her, rather – but we never really got out of the habit of saying “he”.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘Do you know what Mum said, afterwards?’

  ‘A few sharp things about both me and the cat, I should think.’

  Jenny smiled. ‘No. I never told you this – didn’t want to make you big-headed. She said that you’d make a good husband, because you’d looked after George.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes. And you don’t do so badly with us, either.’

  ‘Well,’ Stratton, pleased but slightly embarrassed, said, ‘I’ve never made you a nest in the garden shed.’

  ‘Silly! You know what I mean. Anyway, I just thought I’d never told you that, and I should. That was it, really.’

  ‘Well, thank you. It’s very nice.’

  As Jenny washed up before leaving for Doris’s, Stratton, watching her move about the kitchen, thought that ‘nice’ wasn’t exactly the word, but he couldn’t think of one that really expressed what he was feeling. Flattered, touched, proud…He went up behind her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘I do love you, you know,’ he said. ‘I know I don’t say it much, but I do.’

  Jenny turned her head, surprised, and Stratton saw that she was blushing. ‘That’s good,’ she said, ‘because I love you, too.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ Stratton released her, patted her on the bottom, and went off to carry on reading the paper.

  Jenny left, and he tried to concentrate on the Russian army’s advance on Minsk. After a while, finding himself unable to concentrate for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he turned on the wireless to listen to J.B. Priestley talking about post-war conduct, but that did not engage him, either. In the end, he turned it off again, and sat staring into space, thinking vaguely about Dr Reynolds and Nurse Leadbetter and Mrs Ingram and not coming to any conclusions about any of them. By the time Jenny returned he’d given up and was dozing.

  ‘Mr Ingram telephoned again just before Dr Makepeace arrived,’ she said, taking off her scarf and patting her hair into place. ‘Doris overheard the conversation – Mrs Ingram recognised his voice and kept asking why he’d sent this other man to fetch her. Then Mr Ingram spoke to Doris. She’s sure it’s the same voice, and he talked about the visit and everything. She didn’t know what to say. They decided it would be best if he didn’t come tomorrow – she’s too upset.’

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Well, when Doris told him about the telephone call, it was as if he didn’t believe her – thought she was trying to make trouble or something. When we said perhaps it wasn’t her husband at all—’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Well, I did. He looked at me as if I was a complete fool.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Oh, charming! I know you think it’s a stupid idea, but no-one’s seen him, have they? And he could have stolen Mr Ingram’s ID card, couldn’t he?’

  ‘But why would he?’

  ‘I don’t know…Because he’s fallen in love with her and wants to go away with her or something.’

  ‘Now you really are imagining things. Look at it logically. If—’

  ‘Oh, men and logic. It’s always the same. You look at the state the world’s in, because of your logic. And it’s got to be her who’s wrong, not him. It always has to be the woman’s fault.’ Jenny sounded unusually venomous. Stratton wondered if there was something else bothering her as well, but decided – for the sake of peace and quiet, and also in case it was something that he’d done wrong – not to enquire.

  ‘Steady on,’ he said, mildly.

  ‘Well, it does. Dr Makepeace treated all three of us as if we were hysterical.’

  ‘Well, you do sound a bit hysterical at the moment.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jenny, who had been standing with her back to the mantelpiece, took a step sideways and plonked herself down in the other armchair. ‘What worries me most is that, for all Dr Makepeace thinks we’re idiots, he doesn’t seem to understand what’s going on any more than we do. He gave her a tonic – something to calm her, he said – and told us it was bound to come right and we weren’t to fuss.’

  ‘He’s probably right, you know.’

  ‘Oh, you would say that. You didn’t see her. She kept asking why Mr Ingram hasn’t come for her, and she was crying her eyes out. There was nothing we could say, Ted. It was horrible.’


  ‘What did Donald say?’

  ‘He’d gone to the pub. Doris said he’s pretty fed up about it all.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Look,’ he added, hurriedly, ‘I know it’s a worry, but it’s not that bad – I mean, Mrs Ingram knows who she is, doesn’t she, so the rest is bound to come back soon. The brain’s a funny thing at the best of times. Yours must be,’ he added, winking at her, ‘after all, you married me, didn’t you?’

  When they went to bed he sensed that a cuddle and a bit of comfort was definitely required. Not that it was any hardship, of course, and Jenny seemed cheered up by it, or at least mollified.

  ‘It’s all so peculiar,’ she murmured, lying in his arms in the dark.

  ‘I know.’ Stratton stroked her hair. ‘It doesn’t make sense, but neither do a lot of things, do they?’

  ‘S’pose not. But at least I know you’re you.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Stratton, ‘because I don’t permit my wife to go to bed with strange men.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Jenny yawned. After a moment, she said, warily, ‘Te-ed?’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. It’s nothing.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, as long as you weren’t about to tell me you’re planning to run off with the postman or something.’

  Jenny snorted. ‘The way you’ve been going on, I just might. Well, I might if he was better looking. ’Night, Ted.’

  ‘’Night, love.’

  Twenty

  Todd allowed some time to pass after the awkward farewell drink in the mortuary office – a finger of Scotch each in assorted receptacles gathered by Miss Lynn, at least one of which looked as if it might, previously, have contained body fluids, and with Dr Byrne conducting the proceedings as if it were a wake. Todd gave his landlady a week’s notice, and found himself some new lodgings – Eversholt Street this time, beside Euston Station. It was depressingly similar to his old room, but nearer to the hospital, which was something.

  After leaving both his job and the persona of Sam Todd, he had shaved off his moustache and dyed his hair darker. He’d done this before with a preparation bought from the chemist’s but this time it had proved unavailable, so he did the best he could with the remainder of the bottle, supplemented by a spot of boot polish. The result, he thought, wasn’t half bad, although he’d have to be careful about getting caught in the rain.

  Now, exactly two weeks later, he brushed his jacket and retrieved his trousers from beneath the mattress. This was a red-letter day – or, rather, evening: his first outing as Dr James Dacre, MB, ChB. Already, he looked more substantial; shoulders broader, back straighter, head held higher. He and Fay Marchant, he thought, would look good together – very good indeed…But, he reminded himself, until it was properly established, his new identity was a fragile thing, and must be nurtured carefully. First things first…

  ‘I say,’ he said to his reflection, in the smarter, more precise tones of the professional man, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing…You chaps are from the Middlesex, aren’t you?’ He offered his hand for an invisible shake. ‘Dacre. Trained up in Scotland. I must say, I’m jolly glad I’ve run into you…’

  He clapped his hat on his head, winked at his reflection and left his room. He made his way to the Cambridge Arms, where, in the two weeks since leaving his job, he’d hung around in the evenings watching the three doctors. Now, as Dr Dacre, newly minted, he was ready to join them.

  He’d done the necessary research into their backgrounds, and – another good omen, this – none of them had trained at St Andrews. Of course, it was entirely possible that they might know somebody who had, but an indirect connection could be easily managed…In any case, at this first, seemingly accidental, meeting, he’d be the one asking most of the questions.

  Once he’d gained their confidence – he’d enough money to buy them drinks – he’d be home and dry, but he mustn’t be too cocky. Cracking jokes, he’d found, could help out in sticky situations, as long as one didn’t overplay it. He’d have to watch the voice, too; it was important to sound natural, not ‘put on’.

  The doctors weren’t there when he arrived – no bad thing, as it would make the encounter seem more as if it had come about by chance. Perhaps, he thought, they were on duty and he’d have to come back the following evening. That would be irritating, but not disastrous. In the meantime, he’d enjoy his first public appearance as Dr Dacre. He chose a spot at the corner of the bar from which he could easily survey the whole room. Judging by what he’d seen around him, this pub appeared to attract a quieter lot than the raffish types who frequented the pubs of Rathbone Place and Soho. They seemed to be mainly businessmen, some with women – not whores – in tow, a few elderly locals, and, in one corner, two American soldiers clad in short, buff-coloured Ike jackets.

  Watching them all through the haze of smoke and the buzz of chatter, seeing their mouths open and close, their hands lifting up and down as they drank, he thought, they are like fish, swimming aimlessly in a murky tank, not knowing where they are going or what they are seeking, operating only on instinct, nothing more. Whereas he, superior, a shark scenting blood and going in for the kill, knew precisely what he was doing.

  Within five minutes, Doctors Wemyss, Betterton and Unwin entered and established themselves at one of the corner tables. Dacre waited until they had settled, each with a pint of the suspiciously watery ‘Scotch Ale’ which was all there was on offer, and began to study them, surreptitiously.

  He had worked out, over the course of several evenings’ observation of the three men, who would be most approachable. The rich one, Wemyss, was easy to spot, tall and freckled, his red hair already receding at the temples; Betterton was plump, with a shiny face and fleshy, quoit-like lips, and Unwin was long-nosed with a sardonic expression. Dacre had discounted the latter very quickly on the grounds that he looked both impervious to flattery and prone to making sharp remarks. He’d considered Betterton, but after watching him, on several occasions, jabbing a fat finger on the round, copper-covered table as he made some point with eager argumentativeness, had decided against him too. Wemyss, he concluded, was the man to aim for. There was something about the way he lolled in his seat with his head resting against one of the blackout boards that were placed over the windows that suggested a fundamental laziness. Of course, it was possible that the man was simply tired, but his part in the conversation appeared so consistently languid as to suggest he was willing to agree with things because to do otherwise was too much of an effort. Perhaps it was because he was protected by his money against actually having to work for a living, jammy bastard. For casual acceptance into the medical brotherhood without too many questions being asked, Wemyss was definitely the best bet.

  Dacre’s luck was in. After half an hour, during which the pub had become far too busy for Dacre to have any chance at all of overhearing what they were talking about, Wemyss rose and brought their empty glasses to the bar for more drinks.

  Dacre took a quick glance back at the table. Betterton and Unwin were deep in discussion, both looking down as Betterton’s finger drew a diagram of something on the tabletop with the help of matches and a crumpled cigarette packet. Hoping it wasn’t some medical conundrum that he might be asked to pronounce upon later, he contrived to move next to Wemyss, manoeuvring himself so that the taller man jogged his elbow just as he was raising his arm to take a drink.

  Dacre, who was holding the glass in a deliberately clumsy manner, spluttered in an exaggerated fashion as beer splashed over both their sleeves and the lapel of his jacket.

  ‘Sorry, old chap,’ said Wemyss, in a drawling voice that managed to be both contrite and condescending at the same time. ‘Didn’t see you there. Terrible waste of beer – you must let me buy you another.’

  ‘It really isn’t necessary.’ Dacre looked down at his beer-stained clothes in dismay.

  ‘No, I insist.’

  ‘Well, in th
at case…’ Dacre smiled at him. ‘Thank you. I don’t seem,’ he patted his pockets, ‘to have a handkerchief.’

  ‘Here.’ Wemyss proffered his own. ‘This should dry it up a bit.’

  ‘This is jolly decent of you,’ said Dacre, blotting his clothing.

  ‘My fault entirely,’ said Wemyss. The barman was serving another customer, and Dacre saw that he’d have to move the conversation on to the next step before the drink was bought and Wemyss, duty done, returned to his colleagues. He didn’t want to have to resort to the line about overhearing their conversation – the racket in the place was such that it simply wasn’t credible.

  It was the barman, coming momentarily to rest opposite Wemyss and seeing the empty glasses, who saved the situation. Although there was nothing on offer but beer, the habit of years made him say, ‘What can I get you, doctor?’

  The order given, Dacre said, ‘Good heavens. You don’t happen to be from the Middlesex, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Wemyss indicated the table with a jerk of the head. ‘All of us.’

  ‘Well, there’s a turn up.’ Dacre stuck out his hand. ‘James Dacre. Trained up in Scotland. St Andrews.’

  ‘Really?’ Wemyss’s expression shifted from polite but necessary interest to engagement. ‘Wemyss,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’ Dacre gave a self-deprecating grin. ‘At least,’ he amended, ‘nothing at the moment. I’m hoping to help. On the scrap heap as far as the forces are concerned. Wanted to join the RAMC of course, but…’ he hesitated to allow Wemyss to prompt him.

  ‘But?’

  ‘Cardiomegaly, I’m afraid.’

  Wemyss frowned, and Dacre, realising in a flash that he’d never actually heard the word spoken, wondered if he’d mispronounced it. ‘Didn’t know myself until the medical,’ he continued. ‘No arrhythmia or palpitations or any of that, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Felt a bit of a chump, if I’m honest, when they told me. What about you?’