The Secret Anatomy of Candles

by Quentin Smith

  SIXTY

  Jasper’s journey to meet Charlotte was arduous and tiring. First there was the three hour train journey to Kings Cross Station, then the Victoria Line to Oxford Street, followed by the Bakerloo Line to Waterloo and then a rattling train that smelled of old motorcar down to Esher Station.

  He sat in silence all the way, staring out of the carriage window, deeply absorbed in his thoughts. Although he had a new iPhone he had not yet synchronised any music onto it, not that he had felt in the frame of mind for listening to anything other than the reassuring rush of his own heartbeat in his ears – the one constant in his life.

  From the station Jasper caught a taxi to Charlotte’s home close to Sandown Park, an ostentatious house that she shared with her city banker husband. Jasper arrived as Charlotte was walking to a burgundy Range Rover in the driveway, keys in hand and brown leather hold-all slung over her shoulder.

  “What on earth do you want?” she said in astonishment as Jasper paid the taxi and turned to face her.

  “We need to talk, Charlotte.”

  Jasper’s face twisted and he tried hard to subdue the writhing of his left shoulder. She narrowed her eyes as she took it all in. Then, suddenly, she dismissed him with a wave and moved to open the car door.

  “I haven’t time. You should have called.”

  “Wait, this is extremely important. Please give me just five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

  She stared at him, her hand still holding the car door open.

  “Five minutes?” he begged, inclining his head to one side.

  “I have to fetch the boys from school,” she said, looking at her wrist watch.

  “I’ll come with you, we can talk in the car.”

  She hesitated, her eyes breaking from his.

  “OK.”

  They pulled off sharply before Jasper had even fastened his seatbelt and he noticed that Charlotte had failed to secure hers. Was she always so careless, or was she flustered?

  “What do you want? Is this about the exhumation again?”

  Her tone was sharp and uncompromising.

  Jasper sat and studied his trembling hands, the constant writhing and twisting of his limbs now virtually impossible to conceal. Every now and then his mouth and cheek would pout and contort in such a way that the sound of his speech would be altered.

  “This is extremely difficult for me, Charlotte, but I believe Jennifer took a massive secret to her grave, a secret with potential implications for all of us.”

  Charlotte shot a piercing look at him. She had cut her hair short since he had last seen her in York and it had not in any way softened her face. Her glare was menacing.

  “You mean, for you?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding, “and perhaps your family too. I believe Jennifer knew a lot more than she let on and it now seems almost irrefutable that this knowledge, this secret, was the reason for her death.”

  Charlotte was quiet, biting her lip and driving the car hard.

  “Jennifer’s visit to Dr Eldabe pushed her over the edge and I need to know what it was that took her so close to the edge in the first place.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t tell you because she didn’t want you to know,” Charlotte said.

  Jasper nodded slowly as a twist of his neck corrupted this ponderous movement.

  “Charlotte, Jennifer may have taken our baby’s life because of incorrect assumptions. She believed there was something wrong with the baby and Eldabe did nothing to dispel her fear. In fact, he fuelled her apprehension. What if he was wrong, what if Jennifer was wrong?”

  Charlotte shook her head and pursed her lips as she pulled up at a traffic light. She turned to Jasper with argumentative eyes.

  “What if she was right?” She sat back, sighed and shook her head. “Does it really matter now anyway, she’s gone, and nothing can bring her back.”

  Jasper lowered his gaze and stared at his increasingly errant hands, the hands of someone who drank too much, the hands of a diseased person, someone with an affliction. The hands he was looking at did not seem to belong to him.

  “She left behind her others who might still be affected.”

  The car behind them hooted and Charlotte, realising suddenly that the lights had changed, pulled away abruptly.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Eldabe was talking about a genetic condition which Jennifer’s baby may have inherited. It had to come from somewhere, Charlotte, either from Jennifer’s side of the family, or from mine.”

  He could see that she was frozen in her seat, her facial muscles afraid to move, her fingers clenched around the cream leather steering wheel, knuckles blanched.

  Jasper broke the silence.

  “I know that you have letters from Jennifer. I don’t know when she sent them to you, or exactly why, but I am certain that they hold the key to understanding this tragedy.”

  Charlotte pulled up under a large, leafless oak tree behind a row of similar Chelsea tractors. They had arrived outside Charlie and Jack’s handsome sandstone school buildings. She kept her hands firmly on the steering wheel, staring ahead. Jasper’s neck twisted and his left eye jumped wildly, distorting the entire side of his face.

  “What genetic condition?” Charlotte said without looking at Jasper.

  “It’s called Huntington’s disease – a degenerative disease of the nervous system that only manifests in mid-adult life.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Charlotte said glancing at him dismissively.

  Jasper paused, drawing on the well-honed skills he used in the court room, manipulating witnesses, outwitting opposition counsel.

  “Consider for a minute that this condition might run in your side of the family. Imagine if Jack, or Charlie, have inherited it.”

  Jasper watched as Charlotte stared ahead at nothing, chewing with increasing fervour on the inside of her cheek. Her hands still gripped the steering wheel and seemed reluctant to let go. He could see the tiny muscles around her eyes flinching nervously.

  “Wouldn’t you want to know?”

  Charlotte bowed her head and sighed deeply.

  “A friend of Jennifer’s told me that you have her letters, Charlotte. I need them, please. I have to know why Jennifer did this and what it means for the rest of us.”

  “What about the exhumation?”

  Jasper hesitated, rubbing his face hard, willing the demons away.

  “It will help us to know if the foetus, our baby, was affected or not, and also… whether Jennifer was…”

  Charlotte looked at him, the sparkle gone from her usually vivacious blue eyes.

  “What if Jennifer did have this condition?” Charlotte asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

  “Then… you need to think about the boys…” Jasper said softly.

  “And if not you can sue Dr Eldabe?” she countered, with an edge to her voice.

  Jasper knew that this was what bothered Charlotte most, her perception that he was only motivated by apportioning culpability, by pursuing his professional ambitions. Perhaps it was a perception that he deserved.

  “I don’t want to blame, I want to understand.”

  He became aware of her eyes studying his erratic and demonic movements, his restless limbs and face occupied by an alien force.

  “Are you all right, Jasper? You seem… agitated.”

  Her voice seemed a little softer and she began to relax her grip on the steering wheel.

  “I don’t know,” Jasper replied as his voice undulated uncontrollably and his mouth pouted. “I’ve been seeing a doctor.”

  Charlotte let go of the steering wheel and buried her face in her hands.

  “God, this is a mess.”

  Jasper looked at her, a small part of him feeling that he should place a comforting hand on her shoulder, after all, she was his sister-in-law. But another part of him recognised that she may have been complicit in Jennifer’s lengthy deceit, excluding and isolating him.

  �
�That’s why I need those letters, Charlotte.”

  The sounds of young voices laughing and shouting drew closer, as young school children wearing yellow and red striped ties and grey blazers emerged from the Georgian school buildings. Like inmates freed from prison, they ran to the line of waiting cars in which Jasper and Charlotte were parked.

  “This is all we wanted, you know,” Jasper said quietly, gesticulating towards the mêlée of small people around them. “Children, a normal family life. For some reason we were denied this, all of this. I think Jennifer knew why and she was prepared to die for it.”

  Charlotte straightened.

  “Oh God, here come the boys. I don’t want them to see you like this, Jasper, it will frighten them.”

  “Like what?” Jasper protested.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I won’t do anything.”

  “No, please go.”

  Jasper felt hurt, scorned for his obvious imperfections, not good enough to be seen by his own nephews.

  “What about the letters?” he said.

  “I’ll send them to you, I promise.”

  Jasper nodded and sighed. She did have them.

  “Thank you.”

  Silence.

  “I have not read them and Jennifer never said anything to me about them,” she paused, perhaps a moment of regret, “I gave her my word, you understand.”

  It seemed incredible to Jasper that Charlotte could have been unaware of Jennifer’s secret. As sisters they had been close, spending many weekends in each other’s company. It now seemed evident that Jennifer had deceived her husband, so why not her close family as well? What on earth was she hiding? He shuddered.

  “They’re almost here. Please go.”

  Jasper clambered awkwardly out of the high vehicle, almost losing his precarious balance, and disappeared surreptitiously before Jack and Charlie could catch sight of him. He did wonder if they would even have recognised him and he then imagined how Charlotte might have described him to the boys – wicked Uncle Jasper, the family ambulance chaser, devoid of ethics or morals, the Fagin of modern times.

  Surely Aunt Jennifer would have described him in a more favourable light, wouldn’t she?

  SIXTY ONE

  Jasper was unsettled after leaving London. His meeting with Charlotte had left him deeply troubled with a nagging anxiety of vulnerability, even though he had achieved what he so desperately wanted: the secret cache of letters. There had been no apology, no comfort; right down to the last frantic moment when he was prevented from seeing his nephews because of his peculiar affliction he had been made to feel like an intruder, an unwelcome outsider.

  “Drinks, sandwiches, hot and cold,” said the steward, pushing a trolley laden with refreshments up the narrow aisle.

  Jasper did not move. He sat with his chin resting on a clenched hand, his head turned slightly so that he could stare out of the window at the blur of gliding shadows created by the northbound train pushing ahead in the gathering gloom.

  The carriage was filled with the sounds of people discussing the events of their day and their plans for the evening. Many were making phone calls to spouses, arranging the time that they would reach home. The smells of bacon sandwiches, warm Cornish pasties and salt and vinegar chips wafted through the cabin as passengers snacked their way through the end of a long day.

  It all swirled together and amplified Jasper’s sense of isolation and abandonment. He now realised that this process of exclusion had begun long before Jennifer’s tragic death. Even Charlotte had admitted complicity, to some degree. The question now was simply how far back this deception would extend. Worse still was the growing apprehension of what he personally had to fear from the secretly hidden letters.

  Only a few months back, despite a less than fulfilling marriage, Jasper’s life had seemed pretty normal. Now, as he stared emptily into the darkness that threatened to engulf him, that life seemed a world away from the predicament and uncertainty of his present reality.

  Jasper was overcome with a growing need to lose himself.

  SIXTY TWO

  The Swan and Three Cygnets was busy that evening, packed with students, many of them from the rowing club and wearing clothing bearing the crossed oar logo. A small number of suited people, freshly released from their daily toil, mingled amongst them in small groups.

  Jasper pushed his way unsteadily through the noisy throng. His throat thirsted for the smack of a strong Chivas and his mind longed for the welcome release and the afterglow. He saw Lazlo seated at their usual brass table.

  “Lazlo!” he called out excitedly, raising an arm that almost immediately began to twist and spiral like that of a classical Indian dancer performing mudras.

  “Hello, guv. Care to join us?”

  Us? Jasper did a double take until he realised that Lazlo had company – a woman of similar pear drop build to Lazlo, topped with a short bob of black hair and full rosy cheeks. She was sitting where he usually sat, opposite Lazlo.

  “This is Billie, guv,” Lazlo said with a cautious smile.

  Billie smiled but could not mask her sudden nervousness.

  “You must be Mr Candle?” She had a sweet, small voice that did not seem matched to her generous physique.

  Jasper forced a grin and extended his hand, only to withdraw it awkwardly when he realised it was trembling and the arm that supported it was less than steady. It was an embarrassing moment for both he and Billie.

  “Success in London, guv?” Lazlo asked, raising his eyebrows in a boyishly furtive way.

  Jasper, seemingly frozen to the spot, turned his eyes away from Billie’s face abruptly and stared at Lazlo.

  “Er… in a way… er… yes.”

  “Please join us, guv,” Lazlo said, perhaps sensing Jasper’s awkwardness.

  “I need a drink first.”

  “I thought you had…” Lazlo began.

  “Cheese and rice, Lazlo, give me a break.”

  Jasper approached the bar and Billie leaned forward to whisper to Lazlo.

  “I should go, don’t you think?” she said, making a face.

  Lazlo shook his head.

  “No, I think you should stay. Consider it an opportunity.”

  She hesitated, her eyes betraying her anxiety, her face tense and unconvinced.

  “Are you sure?”

  Lazlo nodded slowly, rubbing his stubbly chin with meaty fingers.

  “I think the timing is right.”

  Jasper sat down next to Lazlo with what appeared to be a double Chivas and three ice cubes. Lazlo stared at the drink but said nothing. Jasper raised his glass.

  “Bottoms up.”

  Silence engulfed the table as Jasper sank into the Chivas like a hungry pup. Then he sighed deeply, savouring the warming promise of the malt as it slid down into his troubled soul.

  “What do you do, Billie?” Jasper said, turning slightly to face her.

  She exchanged apprehensive glances with Lazlo who urged her on.

  “I’m the matron in charge of several surgical wards at the local hospital.

  Jasper felt himself stiffen slightly, as though he had walked into an ambush.

  “Oh, a matron,” he said, looking at Lazlo for a sign.

  Lazlo nodded.

  Jasper drank more Chivas, cradling the thick glass in both hands, appreciating the contrast of the icy cold glass on his palms with the warmth of the liquid in his throat. He was beginning to relax.

  “So you know about Edward Burns then?”

  Again Billie and Lazlo exchanged glances. Lazlo nodded encouragingly.

  “Yes.”

  Jasper paused without eye contact.

  “You know I am investigating the case on behalf of his family?”

  She nodded and drank nervously from her beer. Jasper sighed.

  “Do you think his death was avoidable?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  Her answer surprised Jasper, who straightened and glance
d at her.

  “As a health professional I regard almost every death in my wards as avoidable. You have to in our job, our responsibility is to preserve life wherever possible.”

  Lazlo surveyed the proceedings cautiously, sipping from his Black Sheep and crunching nervously through crisps.

  “So what would you have done differently to avoid his death?”

  “If it were up to me?” she said, pointing her index finger at her chest.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I would provide better isolation facilities on wards for barrier nursing of contagious patients. Also, I would have more staff on the ward to deal with routine and infected patients, and more hospital beds.”

  “So why doesn’t the hospital do that?”

  “Because there is limited space; our hospital is an old building with inherent limitations and, as ever, there is insufficient funding.”

  “Has this been drawn to the attention of management?”

  Billie sighed.

  “It’s the same everywhere in my hospital, Mr Candle. The hospital is cash strapped, we never have enough nurses, we never have enough beds. It’s nothing new.”

  “But isn’t that the whole point – it’s not good enough?”

  Billie shrugged her rounded shoulders ineffectually around her short, fat neck.

  “We do the best we can in an imperfect system. I have to run wards with two qualified nurses and three health care workers for thirty patients, Mr Candle. It’s frantic.”

  “No time to wash hands?” Jasper said sarcastically.

  Billie’s eyes betrayed a hint of resentment.

  “Of course we do, it’s an integral part of our responsibility. But there are so many surfaces that may still convey infective organisms from one person to another. Computer keyboards, case notes, pens, desks, doors, equipment, visitors. It is physically impossible to control everything, we simply can only try our best.”

  Jasper nodded thoughtfully as he returned to his Chivas and emptied the glass into his mouth. He felt no regret, no guilt; he had savoured every molecule of the whisky.

  “If it had been your decision would you have admitted the patient with tommy guns onto a surgical ward?”