Another Man's Poison

by J F Straker

  ‘No doctor would discuss a patient with an outsider,’ Hardy said, a touch of asperity in his tone. ‘That’s the best guarantee I can give. However, subterfuge apart, what are your intentions regarding the child? He’s your responsibility, you know. Yours and your wife’s.’

  Or the bloody father’s, Robin thought bitterly. ‘Have it adopted, I suppose,’ he said. ‘And if coloured babies are more difficult to place than white — in a predominantly white community, I mean — well, if money can help I’ve plenty of that.’

  ‘Yes. Well, physically your wife is fine, but her nerves are all to pieces. I would like to keep her here for another week or so, which should give you time to make the necessary arrangements for adoption. The Social Services will advise you on procedure.’ Hardy stood up. Now, would you like to see your wife?’

  ‘Please.’

  The room was a mass of flowers, as it had been since Karen was admitted, providing a gay contrast to the gloom beyond the windows. Karen lay on her side, her eyes closed, with one hand resting on the pillow. She looked pale and he thought to see a trace of tears on her cheek. For a while he was content to watch her. Then he lowered his body on to a chair and leaned over to kiss her forehead. The long lashes fluttered at the contact and presently she opened her eyes, to look directly into his. Slowly they filled with tears.

  ‘It’s all right, my darling,’ he said, covering her hand with his. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘They told you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’ His hand moved to caress her forehead, stroking back wayward hair.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘I mean, I was drugged, I never dreamed that — that —’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Please, darling, it’s all right.’

  ‘Really? You’re not angry?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m angry. But not with you. I’m angry that you should be tortured like this, that —’ He stopped, aware of the rising intensity of his voice. That could upset her further. ‘I love you,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ She smiled, blinking back the tears. ‘When can I come home?’

  ‘Soon,’ he promised. He took her hand and squeezed gently. ‘A few days.’

  Still smiling, she returned the squeeze. Her eyes closed, and she was quiet for so long that he wondered if she were dozing. But suddenly she was awake again. Raising her head from the pillow, she said, her voice more agitated than before, ‘The baby, Robin! We don’t have to keep it, do we?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said soothingly. ‘I’ll arrange for it to be adopted.’

  Her head sank back. ‘Poor little mite!’ she said. ‘I’d like to think it will be happy. But not with us.’ She shuddered.

  ‘It would always be a reminder of — of — you know?’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’ll be happy. I’ll see it has a good home.’

  She sighed and closed her eyes, and presently he realised she was asleep. He sat and watched her, wondering just how deep the wound had gone. Poor little mite! she had said. Well, it had not killed her talent for sympathy; and no matter how hysterical she might have been after the birth she was calmer now. But was the calm only drug-induced? How would she feel when she returned home to a nursery equipped with every conceivable aid to a baby’s care and upbringing — and with no baby to put in it?

  He was reminded that he should have told her he intended to inform everyone that the baby had died. But he had not the heart to wake her, and he left a message in Reception for Hardy, who was not available. Mrs Granger, he told the girl, had requested that no visitors be admitted to her room and no telephone calls put through; all inquiries were to be answered with the information that Mrs Granger was well and expected to leave the clinic around the end of the following week, and no information was to be given concerning the baby. Was that quite clear? he asked. Yes, she said, unable entirely to conceal her surprise. She would see that Doctor Hardy got the message.

  Mrs Huntsman was on the point of leaving when he got back to the Hall. She was distressed when he told her that the baby had died; Edith, she knew, would be terribly disappointed. Mrs Mallett, Mr Beck and Miss Stevens had all telephoned while he was at the clinic, she said, and she had given them the news he had left for her, that mother and son were fine. Neither Polly nor Martin answered when he rang, but Kate was shocked; she had spent so much time with Karen preparing for the baby that it had been almost like expecting one of her own. Karen’s sister too was shocked, his father both shocked and angry. What the hell sort of a place is this clinic? his father demanded. How can a baby be pronounced healthy at birth and dead a few hours later? What did it die of, anyway? Robin said weakly that he didn’t know but that presumably there would be an autopsy, and that perhaps he had misunderstood the original message from the clinic. Nonsense, his father said, you couldn’t make a mistake over a thing like that. It sounds to me like the staff there are a bunch of damned incompetents. Insist on a full inquiry, Robin. Not that it will repair the damage done to you and Karen. Give the poor girl our love and sympathy, eh?

  He spent most of that Sunday afternoon at the clinic. She shed a few tears when he told her of the fate he had invented for the baby to explain its disappearance from their lives; and although he tried to comfort her with the assurance that there would be other children, children completely their own, he knew that at that juncture the comfort was minimal. The outrage that had so lacerated their lives was too fresh in her mind for rational contemplation of the future. He knew too that, however unreasonably, she felt guilt. Time, he supposed, would heal the wound. But how long would it take for the scar to disappear completely?

  He had been back at the Hall only a few minutes when Martin arrived. Martin was tired and in an ill humour after a long and frustrating day spent in a so far unsuccessful investigation in cooperation with the drug squad. His ill humour had not been eased by a visit to the clinic. ‘I’ve just come from there,’ he announced. ‘Popped in to inquire after mother and child. They wouldn’t let me see either; said Karen was in a deep sleep and was not to be disturbed. Well, that seemed a trifle odd, seeing that according to Reception you’d only just left. And when I asked after young Martin the woman went all mysterious. He’s all right, isn’t he? I asked. So far as she knew, she said. Well, what sort of an answer was that, eh?’ Martin sipped the whisky Robin had handed him. ‘Thanks! I needed that. Anyway, I decided to come round and find out what’s going on. They’re all right, aren’t they? No complications?’

  ‘Karen’s fine,’ Robin said. ‘Unfortunately the baby died.’

  ‘Died?’ Martin nearly choked on the whisky. ‘Good God! I mean, from the girl’s manner I suspected there might be something wrong with him. Deformed in some way, or a mongol perhaps. But dead! Jesus! I just can’t believe it. What happened, Robin? What went wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask?’

  ‘No.’ That needed excusing, and he added, ‘I suppose I was too upset.’

  Martin nodded. ‘I can imagine. But you were there this afternoon. Didn’t you ask then?’

  ‘No.’ What excuse could he invent for that? ‘The doctor wasn’t available.’

  Martin’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know what? It sounds to me like a cover-up. There must have been someone who could answer questions. Did you see the child?’

  Robin was getting rattled. He should have realised Martin would be inquisitive, it went with the job. And if Martin had a suspicion that something was wrong his answers were not helping to allay it.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t face it. But can we drop the subject, Martin? It’s been a shock, and right now I don’t feel like discussing it.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry.’ Martin finished his whisky. ‘It’s been a shock to me too. After all, he was my prospective godson.’ He held out his empty glass. ‘Mind if I have another?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘How’s Karen taken it?’

  ‘Not too w
ell.’

  ‘Poor girl! When will you be seeing her again?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, give her my love.’ Martin trickled a little water into the whisky. ‘And let me know the funeral arrangements, won’t you? I’d like to be there.’

  Eleven

  It was strange, Robin thought later, that the problem of the funeral had never occurred to him. His mind had been so occupied by rage against the rapist and grief for Karen that although he had recognised the need for deception he had not fully appreciated the many problems that deception would pose. Now he did. Others beside Martin would expect to attend the funeral, there would be queries about flowers. Even if these hurdles could somehow be overcome, for the benefit of the curious there would need to be a grave. It was all too much for his tired, unhappy mind to handle; he felt lost, unable to cope. He needed advice, someone to lean on, someone to help him find a way out of the mess. And perhaps because of their old association, or perhaps just because he happened to be there, he told Martin the truth.

  Although not given to displays of extreme emotion it was natural that in this instance Martin should be angry. But Martin was more than angry. His long, sallow face went almost livid with rage, his deep-set eyes seemed to bulge from under the heavy brows. He had the look of a man bent on unbridled violence.

  ‘God Almighty!’ he exploded, banging a fist on the arm of his chair. ‘The filthy swine! I’ll get him for this, Robin. I will, I promise you. I’ll get him!’

  Robin shook his head. ‘No,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You can’t do it, Martin. I know how you feel, but you can’t do it. Not because I don’t want the brute punished. If I could lay my hands on him I’d boot him from here to kingdom come — I’d smash his filthy face to pulp, I’d castrate him and be happy to watch him bleed, I’d — I’d —’ Fury rose in him as he imagined the violence he would delight in inflicting. He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘But I have to consider Karen. Remember how scared she was before, when you wanted to investigate the kidnapping? Think what it would do to her if you now added a charge of rape. God knows why, but already she seems to have a sort of guilt complex about it. If all the sordid details were aired in court — gobbled up by the Press — discussed by friends and neighbours —’Robin shook his head. ‘She couldn’t take it, Martin. She just couldn’t. It would destroy her.’

  Martin finished his whisky at a gulp. ‘God in Heaven! What a bloody mess!’

  ‘I know.’ Robin lowered himself into an armchair, stretched out his long legs and contemplated his feet. ‘Anyway, it’s nine months since it happened. What chance would you lot have of catching him?’

  ‘Not much,’ Martin said gloomily. ‘Not unless Karen can come up with more than she’s already given us.’

  ‘Which she can’t. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Robin said. ‘That’s it. No police action. I want your word on that, Martin.’

  ‘Okay. But it sticks in my guts.’

  ‘It sticks in mine.’

  Together they tried to sort out the complications arising from Robin’s announcement that the baby had died. The imaginary funeral could be private, confined to relatives. That would eliminate all but Karen’s sister Debbie (her mother would be unable to tackle the journey) and Robin’s parents. The latter presented a problem that Robin would have to work on, there was no instant solution; but Debbie would be reluctant to leave her mother and the sisters had never been close. ‘Instead of flowers, donations to a named charity,’ Martin suggested. ‘As for the grave — well, put it somewhere in the back of beyond. Karen’s home village in Lincolnshire, for instance. Her father’s buried there, so it would make some sort of sense. And I can’t believe anyone would bother to make the journey just to visit the grave of an infant they’d never seen.’

  ‘Unlikely, certainly,’ Robin agreed. ‘Incidentally, I hope you appreciate that all this is confidential. Only you and I — and Karen, of course — know the truth about the baby. And remember, Karen won’t know you know. I promised I’d tell absolutely no one.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ Martin said, getting up to leave.

  ‘Thanks.’ Robin got up too and gripped his arm. ‘You know something, Martin? I’d just about had it when you turned up. Now — well, at least I’m breathing again. It’s good to have you in my corner.’

  Martin’s frown suggested embarrassment to the point of annoyance.

  ‘No sweat,’ he muttered.

  Robin tackled the problem of adoption the next morning, after listening with some embarrassment to Polly’s commiseration on his supposed loss. He felt mean at deceiving her. She had supported him nobly during the dark days of the kidnapping, and he did not doubt that she would have kept the second secret as loyally as she had kept the first. By confiding in Martin he had already broken his promise to Karen; and if Martin knew, why not Polly? But then Martin had caught him at a low ebb, posing questions to which he could see no answer but the truth. In Polly’s case that didn’t apply. And if Polly were admitted to the secret it could put a strain on the easy relationship that existed between her and Karen.

  The woman in the adoption agency to which the Social Services department had directed him was helpful and cautiously optimistic. It so happened, the woman told him, that a young couple on their waiting-list, the husband a Scot and his wife a coloured girl born in England of Jamaican parents, were anxious to adopt a baby to replace the one the wife had lost after a difficult birth, as she had been warned by her doctor that a further pregnancy would be dangerous. Both were well educated and had been vetted and approved by the agency, and it was unlikely that the court would reject an application made by them. ‘The woman suggested it might be easier for you if you were to assign parental rights direct to the agency,’ Robin told Karen when he visited her later in the day. ‘That would free you from further responsibility. They could then arrange the adoption without consulting you.’

  ‘You mean I wouldn’t be involved at all?’ she asked, both surprised and relieved.

  ‘Not much, anyway. You would have to sign your consent to adoption in the presence of the reporting officer: he’s a sort of guardian in the case. Apparently they would also want my consent, although goodness knows why. But that can’t be until the child is at least six weeks old.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’s the law, the woman said. It’s to prevent a mother rushing into adoption without proper consideration. The six weeks gives her time in which to change her mind.’

  ‘I won’t change mine,’ Karen said firmly. ‘I want the poor little thing to have a good home —’ She makes it sound like a puppy, Robin thought — ‘but it couldn’t have that with us, could it? It would be a constant reminder of — of well, of something horrible we both want to forget.’ She sighed. ‘I think it would be even worse for you than for me.’ Was that true? Robin wondered. His anger against the rapist was so deeply embedded that it would need no reminder, and although the desire for vengeance might tend to fade with time he believed it would always be there; that if, years later, he were to be faced with the man his reaction would be instant and violent. But for Karen the hardest part would surely be the scandal attracted by a child of which her husband was obviously not the father. It would touch him too. But to Karen it would be an unending torment.

  ‘It wouldn’t work,’ he agreed. ‘No way.’

  ‘No.’ She was sitting up in bed and patted his hand where it lay on her thigh. ‘What else did the woman say?’

  ‘Well, if the adoption is approved by the court we’ll probably be visited by a social worker to check that all is well from our point of view. But —’

  ‘Will I have to appear in court?’

  ‘Not unless you wish.’

  ‘And this couple who want the baby. Will they be told my name?’

  ‘No. Nor you theirs. But don’t start counting your chickens too soon. They may turn
down the offer, in which case the agency will have to look elsewhere. Even if they don’t, it must live with them for at least three months before the adoption order can be made. Nothing will be final till then.’

  Her fingers counted the months on the back of his hand. ‘January,’ she said. ‘Or will it be February?’

  He smiled. ‘March. You’ve forgotten the initial six weeks’ period. The three months don’t start till that is up.’

  ‘What happens to the baby till someone takes it?’

  ‘It stays here. I’ve fixed that with Hardy. But if this couple want it they’ll probably collect it in a fortnight or so.’

  She leaned forward to kiss him. ‘You know something, darling? You’re the dearest, most wonderful husband a woman could have. And I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ he said.

  As he drove back to the Hall, Robin pondered on the change in her. According to Hardy, just one horrified glimpse of the infant to which she had given birth had resulted in such violent hysteria that they had had to sedate her, and later in the day he had found her tearful and apprehensive and with what he interpreted as a guilt complex. Yet that afternoon, only twenty-four hours later, she had been calm and lucid and at times even light-hearted. No apparent hint of guilt or horror at what had happened, or of fear at how it might affect their future. It was as if, with the unwanted child seemingly gone from her life, the memory of that harrowing experience no longer troubled her. Could that really be so?

  It seemed that it could. Back at the Hall, as during the remainder of her stay in the clinic, she was as she had been in the days before the kidnapping: cheerful and loving and eager to please, and as sensual as ever in bed. There were no sudden headaches or other minor indispositions, no bouts of irritability. They had decided to leave the nursery untouched, ready for the family they still intended to start. Occasionally she would enter the room and inspect the contents, as if to assure herself that all was in order. The visits did not appear to sadden her, although she never discussed them. She accepted gracefully expressions of sympathy from friends or relations over the loss of the baby, but she never opened the topic herself.