“Well, if he has been improving, he’s lost a good deal of ground, and I will not permit him to be moved again, certainly not tonight.”
“But …” Mrs. Cortland began.
“Perhaps it might be better to let him remain here tonight, Mrs. Cortland,” said Dr. Thurlow smoothly. “If he’s better tomorrow—or even if he’s no worse—I’m sure Dr. Reeves will be willing to release him to your very capable hands.”
“If you think that’s best,” she said with ill-concealed annoyance, “very well.” Then, looking at Andrew, “What’s your friend Tillett doing here, Benedict?”
“Keeping me company,” said Cortland before Andrew could answer, even decide what he should say. “He and his friend, Miss Wiggins, were passing by when the fire broke out, and when they saw whose house it was, they stayed to see if there was anything they could do to help.”
“Very kind of them,” said Mrs. Cortland without much conviction. “All right. We’ll go. Come along, Benedict. But I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Doctor.”
“By all means,” said Dr. Reeves, bowing. “And I hope I’ll be able to give you a better report on Mr. Cortland’s condition then than I have now.”
“I hope so, too,” said Mrs. Cortland. “But I’m telling you now that no matter what you say, I intend to take him back home with me where he belongs!” She went off with Dr. Thurlow walking beside her and young Cortland a step or two behind.
Dr. Reeves, Andrew and Sara watched them go, then looked at one another. Dr. Reeves’ face was expressionless, and in the light of that, Andrew decided not to comment on what had happened.
“How are you two going to get home?” asked Dr. Reeves.
“Probably take a hansom,” said Andrew.
“No need for that,” said the doctor. “My carriage is downstairs. You know it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Andrew.
“Well, I’m going to be here for a while yet. I want to take another look at Mr. Cortland. Tell my coachman to take you home and then come back here for me.”
“Thank you very much,” said Andrew.
Dr. Reeves dismissed his thanks with a wave of his hand and went back up the corridor to Mr. Cortland’s room.
9
The Hospital
Andrew went back to Sherburne Place at about ten o’clock the following morning. Sara had an early rehearsal so she could not go with him, but she made him promise that he would come to the theatre as soon as he could and tell her what happened.
It was lucky that Andrew got there when he did, for when he turned into the street, he saw that a carriage was waiting in front of the house, and as he approached it, the door opened and Cortland and his stepmother came out and started down the steps. Andrew hurried toward them.
“Good morning,” he said to Mrs. Cortland. “I was very worried about Cortland’s grandfather, and I wondered how he was this morning.”
“We don’t know,” said Mrs. Cortland shortly. “We’re on our way over to the hospital now to find out.”
“Would you like to come with us?” asked Cortland with barely concealed eagerness.
“Why, thank you. I have some things to do later on, but … Yes, I’d like to come. I know how fond of him you are, and as I said, I was quite concerned about him.”
“Come along, then,” said Mrs. Cortland not too graciously.
The coachman had descended from the box and was holding the carriage door open. She got in.
“St. Mary’s Hospital,” she said.
The coachman saluted. Andrew and Cortland got in. The coachman closed the door, climbed back into the box, cracked his whip, and they went off.
It was, on the whole, a silent drive. Mrs. Cortland sat there, lips compressed and frowning, until they had almost reached Praed Street. Cortland was quiet at first also, looking out the window rather than at his stepmother. But he finally asked a few questions about Sara, and when Mrs. Cortland heard that she was in the play with Andrew’s mother, she began to exhibit a little interest, asked who else was in it, when it was opening and the other things that people usually asked.
They went in the hospital’s Norfolk Street entrance and up the stairs to the ward where they had been the night before.
There was a different sister at the desk this time. Mr. Cortland might be a little better this morning, she told Cortland’s stepmother. In any case, he was no worse, did not seem to have suffered too much as a result of the fire.
“That’s good,” said Mrs. Cortland. “Becauses I’ve come to take him home.”
The sister looked at her in astonishment. “That’s impossible,” she said.
“Is it?”
“Of course. He’s in no condition to go home. And, in any case, Dr. Reeves left no instructions that he was to be permitted to leave.”
“Did he not?” Mrs. Cortland’s normally fair skin was becoming flushed. “That’s too bad. I am, in any case, taking him.”
“I repeat, that’s impossible,” said the sister firmly.
“Are you saying that you intend to keep him here against his will?”
“Since he’s unable to speak, we don’t know what his will is in this matter and must rely on Dr. Reeves’ opinion of what is best for him.”
“And that’s your final word?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Well, we’ll see about that! Who is your superior? Who is the chief official here at the hospital?”
“That would be Dr. Pinkham. His office is downstairs.”
“Very well.” Her face no longer flushed, but white with rage, she turned to Cortland and Andrew. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”
Andrew and Cortland watched her go down the stairs, then went over to the bench against the wall and sat down. As the sound of Mrs. Cortland’s footsteps died away, a door behind the sister opened, and Wyatt came out.
“Well done, sister,” he said. Then to Andrew, “I was quite sure that irate lady would come back this morning, and I rather suspected you’d manage to come along with her. Is this your friend?”
“Yes. Benedict Cortland, Third. Inspector Peter Wyatt.”
“Hello,” said Wyatt. “Nice to meet you.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, sir. How is my grandfather?”
“Dr. Reeves is in with him now, but what the sister told your stepmother was the truth. He does seem a bit better this morning.”
“Oh, I’m glad. I’ve been very worried about him.”
“I know you have. I also know you’ve had a feeling for some time that something very odd, even sinister, has been going on.”
“Yes, I have. That’s why I was so delighted when Tillett became interested in what was happening and spoke to you about it.”
“Good. I understand that you were with your stepmother and Dr. Thurlow when they left here last night.”
“Yes, I was.”
“What did they talk about?”
“Mostly about what had just happened. They were both furious that they couldn’t take grandfather home. Though Dr. Thurlow didn’t say as much as my stepmother, he was just as angry—perhaps even more so. When she said something about how she would have expected him to be able to do something about it since he was a doctor and supposedly a very well known one, he turned on her and shut her up, saying she didn’t know anything about medical protocol or hospital procedure. Then they both looked at me and quieted down a little, and she said she’d go back there this morning.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.” He thought a minute. “They said that there was something very odd about the fire, which wasn’t at all serious, and they were going to ask Hodge about it, how it had started and who had called the fire brigade. And when we got home, they sent me up to bed and … Well, as I started up the stairs, I heard them saying something about a dispatch box.”
“Ah! Do you know what they meant?”
“No.”
“Do you know what a dispatch box is?”
“Ye
s. When my father was alive, he would occasionally get one from the Admiralty or the embassy or send one off. They were red metal boxes with the royal seal on them for important official papers.”
“That’s right. You haven’t seen one around the house since you came home?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“All right. Now, your stepmother will be coming back here again soon. I don’t know what she’ll do next: either go to see Dr. Thurlow again or consult with a solicitor, probably. I doubt that she’ll want you with her, but in any case, if you can possibly get away from her, do so and come back here. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Until later, then.” And nodding to them, he went off along the corridor to the room Dr. Reeves had come out of the night before.
They had gotten up and moved away from the sister’s desk when they talked to Wyatt. Now they went back to the bench and sat down again.
“So that’s the inspector,” said Cortland. “I hoped I’d meet him some day.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He seemed very nice and very intelligent. He doesn’t look anything like what I thought he would, though.”
“I said the same thing the first time I saw him in mufti, and he said, ‘What’s an inspector supposed to look like—an off-duty policeman with thick soles to his boots and a terrible hat that he never takes off?’”
“Of course. I never thought of it, but the less he looks like a policeman, the better.”
A few moments later Mrs. Cortland came up. They did not have to ask her whether she had accomplished anything in her discussion with the hospital authorities. If she had been angry before, she was now in a towering rage.
“If they think that’s the end of this,” she announced, “they’re very much mistaken! I’m going to see my solicitor! Benedict, you go home.”
Cortland glanced quickly at Andrew.
“Would you mind very much,” he asked, “if instead of that, I do something with Tillett?”
“Do what?”
“It’s another nice day,” said Andrew. “We could go over to Regent’s Park and take a boat out on the lake.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Cortland, and it was clear that she was no longer thinking of her stepson but of where she was going and what she was going to do. “But be sure that you’re home in time for tea.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Cortland.
She went down the stairs, and they followed a bit more slowly. When they went out the door onto Norfolk Street, she had already gotten into the carriage and it was on its way toward Praed Street.
“Shall we go back now?” asked Cortland.
“Let’s make sure she’s really gone,” said Andrew.
They walked to the corner. The carriage seemed to be still going east toward Marylebone Road, but to make sure, they walked completely around the west wing of the hospital before they went in and upstairs again.
“Oh, there you are,” said the sister when they approached her desk. “Dr. Reeves is waiting for you. This way.” And she led them along the corridor to the room. She tapped lightly on the door, opened it to let them in, then returned to her desk.
Old Mr. Cortland, propped up high with pillows, was in the bed. Dr. Reeves, his stethoscope hanging around his neck, was on one side of the bed, and Wyatt was on the other. Mr. Cortland’s eyes went from his grandson’s face to Andrew’s, then back to young Cortland’s again. His own face, though no more mobile and expressive than it had been, did not seem quite as tense and strained as it had.
“Hello,” said Wyatt. “Has she gone?”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “To see her solicitor. Or so she said.”
“Good,” said Wyatt. “I know you know my young friend, Andrew Tillett,” he said to the doctor. “Do you also know young Cortland?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Reeves. “We met last night.”
“How is my grandfather?” asked Cortland. “The sister said that he was a little better today.”
“He is. He seems to be regaining some sensation and even some mobility in his extremities. And while he still can’t talk, he has been making a few sounds. Isn’t that true, sir?” he asked the old man.
Mr. Cortland made a kind of growling noise deep in his throat.
“Oh, I am glad,” said young Cortland, going to the bed and pressing his hand. “I’ve been very worried about you, Grandfather.”
Mr. Cortland made another slight noise that could have been an acknowledgement.
“I’ve already told you who I am, sir,” said Wyatt. “I’m Inspector Wyatt of Scotland Yard. I think you know that I’m indirectly responsible for getting you here to the hospital. There are some things it’s quite important that we find out. I thought I’d wait until your grandson got here before we began, but now … Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”
Mr. Cortland made a very brief sound and blinked.
“Good. I was going to suggest that we use the same system you used with my young friend, Andrew. One blink for yes. Two for no. Is that agreeable?”
Mr. Cortland blinked once.
“Splendid. Now when your grandson went home last night with your son’s widow and Dr. Thurlow, he heard them talking about a dispatch box. Do you know what they meant?”
Again Mr. Cortland blinked once.
“You do know? Very good. Now this is going to be very difficult, and it’s probably going to take several questions to arrive at an answer, but … Can you tell us what’s in the dispatch box?”
Mr. Cortland made another, more extended noise, and he blinked—not once or twice—but five or six times.
“I’m sorry. I gather that’s a question you can’t answer with a simple yes or no. So let’s try another one. Do you know where the dispatch box is?”
Mr. Cortland made another, even more extended noise and blinked five or six times. Dr. Reeves, who had picked up the old man’s wrist and was taking his pulse, frowned.
“Just a second, Wyatt,” he said. Slipping the earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears, he listened to Mr. Cortland’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t let you ask him any more questions. He’s getting too excited, and it’s too much of a strain.”
“Right,” said Wyatt. “I’m sorry if I upset you, sir,” he said to the old man. “Please try to relax. I have the case in hand. I have a fairly good idea of what it’s about, and I intend to see it through. In the meantime, I promise that I’ll keep my eye on your grandson and make sure that no harm comes to him. Does that help any?”
The old man blinked once, then closed his eyes wearily and seemed to go to sleep.
“All right,” said the doctor. “Out you go, all of you.”
He opened the door, and they all went out. A nurse, trim and capable looking in her white cap and starched uniform, was waiting in the corridor. Reeves summoned her with a jerk of his head, gave her some instructions in an undertone, and she nodded and went into the room.
“I hope I didn’t do him any harm,” said Wyatt.
“I don’t think you did,” said the doctor. “But I was afraid you might if you continued. His pulse rate was going up, probably from frustration because you were asking questions he wanted to answer but couldn’t.”
“That’s the impression I got. And of course that in itself is useful. Now can you tell us anything about his condition? You said you wanted to wait until young Cortland got here before you did.”
“Yes.” He looked at Cortland. “You were told that he was suffering from a stroke?”
“Yes. By my stepmother and by Dr. Thurlow.”
“Well, I’m a little surprised at Thurlow. Because I don’t think it was a stroke.”
“That’s what you said when you first saw him at home,” said Wyatt. “Are you sure now?”
“Fairly sure. Many of the symptoms don’t fit. But the most interesting one is the fact that, as I told you, sensation seems to be returning to his extremities—his toes, for instance—and he�
�s even able to move them a little. This might happen in time if it were a stroke, but not so quickly.”
“Do you have any idea what might have caused his condition?”
Dr. Reeves hesitated. “Possibly. I can’t prove it, but … Do you know what curare is?”
“It’s a poison that the South American Indians use, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s a powerful alkaloid that arrests the action of the motor nerves, which of course would induce paralysis. Detlow in Germany has been doing some interesting work with it, trying to determine if it can be used as an anesthetic. And … well, as I said, I can’t prove it, but it occurred to me that if someone was injected with exactly the right dose in exactly the right place, he might develop the symptoms that Mr. Cortland has.”
“If that’s true, will he recover?”
“Yes. That’s another reason it occurred to me as a possibility. Because, though it can cause almost instantaneous death when it is used as a poison, when it is used in smaller doses as a drug, its effects wear off quite rapidly.”
“I see,” said Wyatt. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
Sergeant Tucker had come up the stairs and was standing near the sister’s desk, waiting. Wyatt went over to him, and Tucker gave him a note, which he read with a good deal of interest.
“I don’t really have anything more to say, and I do have some other patients to look at,” said Dr. Reeves to Andrew. “So will you tell the inspector that if he wants me for anything else, he can find me either here or at my surgery?”
“Yes, sir,” said Andrew.
“As for your grandfather,” he said to Cortland, “if I’m correct in my guess as to the cause of his condition, I can virtually promise you that he’ll be himself again within a few days.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed,” said Cortland.
“Not at all,” said the doctor, and he went up the corridor and disappeared into an open ward. Tucker caught Andrew’s eye and winked at him, and taking this—if not as an invitation—at least as an indication that nothing secret was going on, Andrew went over to them.
“You’re sure about this?” Wyatt was asking.
“Yes, sir. Pearson sent us the word on it, and he’s very reliable.”
The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6) Page 7
