Others

by James Herbert

  ‘I’m afraid I have some rather sad news to tell you, Mr Dismas,’ he said after announcing himself.

  For a heart-stopping moment I thought something dreadful had happened to Constance, but it soon became apparent that the doctor wasn’t aware that his care-supervisor had already been in touch with me earlier.

  ‘I’m afraid our guest, Ms Vogel, passed away in her sleep last night.’ He continued before I could put in a word. ‘I’m so sorry that we cannot be of any help in your enquiries, but I doubt very much if Hildegarde would have remembered anything useful to you anyway. Of course, I’m not putting any blame on you, but I do believe the unfortunate circumstances on your first visit to her might somehow have precipitated her sudden demise. I’m afraid you did rather upset her.’

  Whoa, wait a minute, I thought. ‘I’m sure nothing I said or did would have caused her to leave her bed in the middle of the night to wander the corridors,’ I said bluntly. I could almost sense his stiffening.

  ‘How did you know she was found outside her room?’

  There was a sharpness in his tone and I could have kicked myself for my stupidity. I recovered quickly. ‘I didn’t know. I just assumed she’d taken a fall and it must have happened when she was unsupervised.’ It was pretty lame – she might just as easily fallen out of bed – and I don’t think he was fooled. Wisbeech appeared to let it go, although I was certain he wasn’t satisfied.

  ‘Very well then, Mr Dismas. Again, I’m sorry that you were unable to find the information you were seeking. Your client, no doubt, will be disappointed.’

  ‘The investigation isn’t over yet.’ I guess I wanted to rile him.

  ‘But surely there’s nothing more you can do?’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty more. I can contact all the hospitals Hildegarde worked for as a midwife, for a start. You never know, I might strike lucky and dig up some long-termer who even worked with Hildegarde at Dartford. They might have some answers.’ I wondered if he would fall for the bluff.

  ‘Then I wish you luck.’

  That was disappointing. ‘It’ll be interesting to discover if any other babies died under her supervision,’ I said, almost in spite.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand what you are implying by that.’

  ‘I’ve just got an idea that quite a few babies failed to survive their birth when Hildegarde Vogel was in charge.’ It was a hasty remark, but a deliberate insinuation. To my own surprise, wild though it was, the speculation was suddenly a suspicion in my mind.

  ‘I would be extremely careful about making such preposterous accusations, if I were you,’ Wisbeech said, rather severely, I thought. I couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘She’s not going to sue me, is she?’

  ‘Let me caution you again, Mr Dismas – be very careful with what you say and do.’

  That was more like it. Civility had taken on a harder edge.

  ‘I have to earn my fee,’ I said amiably. ‘And I’ve always believed in client satisfaction, you know what I mean? That’s why I run a successful little business. We’re not super-sleuths, but we’re dogged; we don’t give up easily. Incidentally, Dr Wisbeech, I’m very impressed by all those letters after your name. They must cover almost everything in the medical field, but I’m particularly interested in your work as an obstetrician.’

  ‘I can’t see that my career in medicine has anything to do with you. In fact, I believe that your own . . . shall we say, shortcomings? . . . are rather clouding your vision. Might I suggest that you stick to your own profession, Mr Dismas, and leave mine alone? Is that, at least, clear to you?’

  I was too aroused by my own train of thought to take umbrage. ‘Oh yes, that’s very clear, Doctor. But you see – ’

  He didn’t give me the chance to say anything more. The line went dead and to be honest, I was relieved, because I’d had no idea what I was going to say next anyway.

  22

  I was like a jittery kid on his very first hot date. I kept glancing at the clock to check the time and more than once I lingered over my stash, tempted to calm my nerves the illegal way. I resisted though and stuck to regular smokes, not because of noble resolve, but because I didn’t want the distinctive odour of cannabis stinking up the place. I’d been on edge all day, not just because I was going to see Constance that evening, but because I was frustrated with the stop-go progress (or lack of it) of the Ripstone case; also I was still frazzled by the previous night’s drama – in fact, just about all of my experiences over the past week! Life itself had never been particularly normal for me, but now it had turned positively weird. Everyone at the office was aware that something was up with me, but when their probing was constantly met with short, sharp responses, they soon gave up. There had been other times when I was just plain unapproachable, times I developed headaches so bad I wanted to scream, and I guess Henry, Ida and Philo assumed this was one of them. I was grateful when they left me alone. I checked the clock again, then my wristwatch for corroboration. 8.15pm. She had said she would try to get here by 8pm after I’d given her directions. Had she got lost? Or had she changed her mind? Surely she would have phoned? Perhaps I should ring PERFECT REST, maybe she’d been told she had to work late at the last moment. Or maybe she’d forgotten our meeting – our date. No, I didn’t think so for one moment: Constance wasn’t the cavalier type.

  I paced the sitting-room, the air blue with cigarette smoke. Had Wisbeech somehow found out about her plans and forbidden her to see me? Yeah, that wouldn’t surprise me. He had that kind of arrogance. But wait, I was getting in a tizz for no reason at all. Maybe she couldn’t find a parking space – Lord knows, the crescent was always filled with double-parked vehicles, so maybe she was touring the area, searching for somewhere to leave her car. Even parking spaces for the disabled were at a premium in Brighton. And if she had managed to find somewhere far away, it would take her a while to make it back to the crescent on crutches. Or it could be that she was circling the crescent right now, driving round and round until a parked vehicle gave up its space and she could nip into it. As I headed for the front door, the bell rang.

  She was on the doorstep, petite and vulnerable, and I wanted to gather her up in my arms and tell her I was crazy about her.

  ‘You found somewhere to park then?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, close by. It wasn’t a problem.’

  ‘I was anxious . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t allow enough time for the journey.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m just glad you made it.’

  Was that a flush on her cheeks? Light from the hallway wasn’t too good.

  ‘I’ve had a busy day,’ she said by way, I thought, of saying something. ‘There’s always so much to do when one of our guests passes away.’

  ‘I’m sure. Please, come in. Are you hungry? Have you eaten? I could rustle up something . . .’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I managed to have something quick before I left.’

  I stepped aside so that she could enter and I caught her perfume as she brushed by: Anais Anais, I guessed. The fragrance battled with cigarette smoke drifting along the hallway.

  ‘Straight ahead, to the right,’ I told her. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Just coffee, please.’

  Constance was wearing a pastel-green dress, its hem reaching her ankles, the skirt flowing gracefully despite the awkwardness of her steps. Over it she wore a simple beige jacket, a thin gold crucifix chain adorning her neck. Her make-up was minimal, practically non-existent, and she wore no other jewellery: no earrings, no rings on fingers. Her hair was tied back in its usual tail and I had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it as I followed her into the sitting-room.

  She stopped in the middle of the room and jokingly waved a hand in front of her face. ‘You must enjoy bar-room atmospheres,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologized sheepishly. ‘I didn’t realize it’d got so bad. Let me open a window.’

  I rushed to the barred window, p
ulled it open, and began to flap at the smoky air with both hands. She gave a little laugh at my antics.

  ‘It’ll clear on its own, Nick. Please don’t worry.’

  I smiled, delighted again at the sound of my own name from her lips. ‘Make yourself comfortable while I get that coffee. How d’you like it – milk and sugar? Cream? Only instant, I’m afraid.’

  Constance returned my smile, but I could still detect a tenseness in her eyes, an apprehension that was scarcely veiled.

  ‘White, one sugar, milk rather than cream,’ she replied.

  ‘Right. You’re sure you wouldn’t like something stronger?’

  ‘No, but please don’t let me stop you.’

  Did I look as though I needed one? I had to admit, a good malt would have been welcome right then.

  I left her settling into the lumpy sofa, going through to the kitchen and switching on the Morphy Richards, which I’d filled with water before she had arrived just for something to do.

  ‘You sure I can’t get you something to eat?’ I called back through the doorway.

  ‘No. I’m fine,’ came the reply. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  While the water boiled I poured myself a large Dalmore, loading the tumbler with ice first so that the whisky didn’t look excessive. It was a poor ploy – the dark brown liquid reached the brim of the glass and I had to gulp down some of it just so my guest wouldn’t think I was an alcoholic. Then I realized I had swallowed too much and decided to top the drink up again to a decent level. By the time this rigmarole was over the plastic kettle had boiled, so I poured the water into the best mug I owned, only to remember I hadn’t put in coffee grains beforehand. This remedied (and making sure I opened the correct coffee jar), I placed the mug on a tray with the sugar bowl and small jug of milk, added my whisky tumbler, and returned to the sitting-room.

  Constance seemed to be taking an interest in the framed prints on the walls, but when I looked directly into her eyes, I realized she was distracted, that interest only superficial, her mind apparently on other matters.

  ‘Coffee,’ I announced needlessly, taking the mug from the tray and placing it on the low table by the sofa.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, equally needlessly.

  I couldn’t make up my mind as to whether I should sit beside her or in the armchair opposite. The former might appear presumptuous, I reasoned, it might even make her more tense – nervous? – so I plumped for the armchair. It was growing dark outside by now and I switched on a standing lamp before I sat down. Its glow was soft, the shadows around us deep.

  Constance lifted the mug and sipped. ‘Hot,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied.

  ‘It’s good,’ she said. Then she began to weep.

  I held her close to me, fingers lightly brushing the dampness from her cheeks. We had talked for a long time, Constance and I, and by now she was visibly growing weary, her emotions drained. She had spoken of her life, how disability had closed so many doors to her, but how she eventually had managed to overcome the worse aspects of other people’s unthinking intolerance and carve out a decent and worthwhile career for herself. She had been sixteen years old, a time of psychological and hormonal changes that confused and frustrated even the most normal of adolescents, when her parents had been taken from her in the horrendous road accident, leaving her alone in the world, no siblings, no relatives there to offer support or comfort. Fortunately, Dr Leonard K. Wisbeech had been a close friend of her father’s, who himself had also been a surgeon, and had for years taken an interest in Constance’s progress, encouraging her in her resolve not to allow the spina bifida to ruin her life totally. Unmarried himself, with only one dependant, the doctor had brought her to PERFECT REST, where she had been trained to look after the sick and the elderly. It was obvious to me that Constance was deeply grateful to her guardian and mentor, but I sensed something more in her attitude towards him, something she did her best to hide. Again, the tell-tale signs were in her eyes, the shadowy veil that descended over them at each mention of his name. She was afraid of this man.

  This did not account for her tears that evening, though, and I pressed her as gently as I could to discover what had upset her so. But she countered my probing with questions about myself, one leading to another, and her unselfish concern encouraged me to talk, her soft, searching gaze ripping through barriers maintained for longer than I could remember. I talked – perhaps I rambled – without rancour, following her example of truth without bitterness, recounting the hardships as facts, the difficulties as part of my history. And the good thing was, we were able to share the feelings of those moments, Constance knew, really knew, how certain things, certain slights, certain incapabilities, affected me. I was talking to someone who was inside my emotions, who had experienced my experiences, perhaps in different ways, but nevertheless with an understanding of the instances and the consequences. She knew how the tiniest indignities imposed by the oblivious few could make you want to hide away into the darkest recesses of your own space; she understood how the most trivial remark from the unwitting dimwit could resurrect barricades you thought you’d long since dismantled. Yet we spoke of funny incidents as well, those times our shortcomings had led to hilarity – not many, I grant you, but enough to share with humour and enough for us both to recognize mutual methods of coping. We both laughed, Constance through her tears, me through my top-ups of whisky, and we gradually broke down whatever safeguards there were between each other. We reached out and touched – or so I thought – each other’s inner self.

  I told her of how I had been found, a deformed swaddling discarded by an uncaring or frightened mother, how I had been reared in a home whose guardians were not unkind, but whose regime was not based on love. I explained how I had lost my eye, asking not for sympathy but for compassion. I related my early years as kitchen help, street market runaround, furniture shifter for the local council offices, all jobs I had while studying for a career as a private investigator, saving money week by week, month by month, year by year, until I’d learned enough and gathered enough to set up my own business. And why a private investigator? she had asked, and my reply had been that I really didn’t know, but I enjoyed snooping, that my own curiosity had always been a driving force, that I always seemed to be searching for answers even when the questions were not themselves clear.

  One important thing we discovered about each other was that neither one of us had experienced romance before. Constance had known what she had thought to be mutual love, but which had turned out to be pity on the other person’s part, and once, when she had thought she had found someone she thought truly cared, it had turned out to be curiosity on his part, and both those relationships had been the cause of her own reservation, her resistance to anyone who might try to penetrate the emotional and, admittedly flimsy, shield she now hid behind. PERFECT REST had become her physical fortress and she rarely ventured far from its confines. The walk along the lane each evening was her own way of telling herself – deceiving herself – that she was free of such self-imposed constraint. I had begun to understand how difficult her decision to come to me had been. While not exactly a recluse – her job meant journeys in her car, various non-live-in staff to take backwards and forwards on occasions, errands to run, things to buy – Constance’s whole life was based around PERFECT REST, and it was not just a place of work: it had become her home. She hated driving, she was timid (shy, I think) of people she didn’t know. The journey to Brighton had been a challenge.

  As we got to know each other and spoke of things never told to any other person before, it didn’t seem quite right to sit so far away, and when Constance wept once more, I moved nearer, taking a seat at the opposite end of the sofa. Soon, both of us had edged even closer and gradually I held her in my arms. She hadn’t resisted.

  We fell silent for a while, both pondering each other’s confidences and perhaps, she, like me, wondered at our own trust in a person hardly known before, at the mutual honesties disclosed,
the private thoughts shared. Now she lifted her head from my shoulder and looked deep into my one good eye.

  ‘You must never visit PERFECT REST again,’ she said.

  I was taken by surprise by the foreboding that was so apparent in her gaze. ‘You have to tell me why, Constance. What are you so afraid of?’

  She pulled away, turning her head aside. ‘I can’t tell you, Nick. It’s better that you don’t know.’

  I spoke quietly and my anger was not directed at her. ‘How bad can it be? It’s a nursing home for wealthy old folk, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘So explain. Whatever is going on, I’m on your side, Constance. I’ll do anything to help you. So tell me – is Dr Wisbeech running some kind of scam, is he getting his hands on their money before they die? Or working his way into their wills?’

  ‘Of course not! Please, please, don’t ask me any more questions.’

  ‘Then why did you come all this way tonight? If you had no intention of saying anything about PERFECT REST and your precious doctor, why make the journey? I know it wasn’t easy for you.’

  ‘Please, Nick.’

  ‘You came to warn me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you won’t tell me about what.’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  Another suspicion, a wild one, was beginning to form. I took a chance.

  ‘Dr Wisbeech used to steal babies, didn’t he? That’s why he was so indebted to Hildegarde Vogel. As a midwife, she used to help him.’

  Constance swung round to face me again, but I could not understand the look in her eyes: surprise, shock, anger. It could have been any or all of these.

  I went on, not giving her the chance to speak. ‘I contacted a London hospital earlier today, one where years ago Hildegarde was employed as a midwife. It seems that Dr Leonard Wisbeech was a consultant in the same place, around the same time. I know from the letters behind his name that just two of his specialities are obstetrics and gynaecology and that he was consultant to many hospitals around the country. I’ll bet that included the Dartford General Hospital until it was razed to the ground by fire. I think both he and Hildegarde were present at certain allegedly difficult births, both in Hackney and Dartford, and for all I know, plenty of others too. I also think that if I asked my client, whose newly-born baby went missing eighteen years ago, she’d probably remember the distinguished looking doctor who had attended the birth. She’d probably remember his name too, if I prompted her.’