‘She was worried about her son during the night,’ the sister said. ‘Apparently she tried to get up and cook him his tea. Actually got out of bed and collapsed on the floor.’
‘Silly woman. I’ll look in again this evening or perhaps tomorrow.’
Dr Bayswater set off for Ward Eleven. He was in sight of the doors leading to the ward when a voice from behind hailed him.
‘Dr Bayswater, are you going to see Jack Harcutt?’
Bayswater turned. Charlotte Wemyss-Brown was advancing down the corridor towards him. Too much fat, he thought, and the fur coat made her look like a grizzly bear.
‘How is he?’ she asked.
‘How should I know? I haven’t seen him yet.’
‘Now, now.’ Charlotte waved her finger at him. ‘You mustn’t be tetchy with me.’
‘I only heard he was here when I got to the hospital this morning.’
‘Philip heard about it at the police station. Some sort of road accident, I understand. I phoned the hospital, but they didn’t seem to know anything. It’s so hard to find anyone who understands plain English these days, don’t you find? One has to be on the spot if one wants to get any information or anything done.’
Dr Bayswater was not the sort of man who habitually opens doors for ladies. But Charlotte paused at the entrance to the ward, fixed him with her eyes and simply waited. Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled open a leaf of the doors and stood back against the wall.
A nurse poked her head out of the sister’s office beside the doors. She was a heavy-built woman with red hair and glasses. ‘I’m sorry but it isn’t visiting hours now. If you’d like to come back this afternoon . . .’
‘You’re obviously new here, dear,’ Charlotte said kindly. ‘This is Dr Bayswater who has come to see one of his patients – Major Harcutt. Where’s Sister?’
‘She’ll be back in a moment. She—’
‘I’m Mrs Wemyss-Brown, and the major’s a very old friend. The major needs me to make certain arrangements on his behalf.’
‘I see.’ The colour rose in the nurse’s cheeks, but she was not foolish enough to apologise. ‘In that case, would you wait while I fetch his notes.’ She slipped back into the office.
Charlotte hissed in Bayswater’s ear: ‘Gone to make sure you really are his GP.’
Bayswater ignored her. He began to saunter down the corridor.
The nurse returned with a brown manila envelope. ‘This way, please.’
‘What exactly is wrong with him?’ Charlotte asked.
‘He’s sprained his left ankle. Apart from that, there’s a certain amount of bruising. He’s really very lucky it was no worse. Of course, for a man of that age the shock itself isn’t easy to cope with.’
‘Twaddle,’ Bayswater said absently, as if most of his attention was elsewhere. ‘Depends on the man and depends on the nature of the shock.’
The nurse’s colour deepened still more. She stopped by one of the doors and peered through the small window set in it at eye level. ‘He’s awake.’ She pushed open the door and twisted her features into a toothy smile. ‘You’ve got some visitors, Major.’
Harcutt was lying on his back in the high hospital bed and smoking a cigarette. He had the room to himself. One of the many things Bayswater disliked about Lydmouth RAF Hospital was its habit of forcing civilians to conform to the hierarchical absurdities of service life. Anyone whom the hospital authorities deemed to be an officer, active or retired, had a far better chance of a bed in one of the smaller wards than most other patients. Harcutt had been staring at the ceiling, but his eyes slid towards the door as it opened.
‘Charlotte,’ he said. For a second, his mouth worked, as though he were chewing something. ‘I want to go home.’
‘So you shall, Jack.’
‘I have to sort out the poppies. Everyone’s depending on me.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage somehow. Now, Dr Bayswater’s come to look at you. Isn’t that kind?’
Harcutt stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t discharge myself, is there?’
‘It’s up to you,’ Bayswater said. ‘No one can stop you making a bloody fool of yourself if you want to.’
‘But there’s nothing really wrong with me. Just a few bruises.’
‘You needed a wheelchair this morning,’ the red-haired nurse said. ‘You had to be helped in and out of bed.’
Bayswater waved her aside. ‘Let’s see this ankle of yours.’
‘Would you like me out of your way?’ Charlotte asked, meaning the question to be rhetorical.
‘Yes,’ Bayswater said.
Charlotte compromised by standing just outside the door while Bayswater skimmed through Harcutt’s notes and examined the injured ankle. She could see what was happening and hear everything that was said because the door wasn’t closed; her foot was in the way.
‘Let’s have a look at the bruises now,’ Bayswater ordered.
Harcutt unbuttoned his pyjama jacket. Charlotte caught a glimpse of his scraggy chest with the blue and purple smudges of the bruises, the points of the collarbones pricking against the pale skin and a mat of dirty grey hair below the neck. How very different from Philip’s pink and well-fleshed body. Of course, Harcutt was in his sixties, to all intents and purposes an old man. She forced herself to look away. There was something dreadfully unpleasant about old bodies.
‘All right. Do yourself up.’ Bayswater handed the notes to the nurse. ‘What happened, exactly?’
‘I was walking Milly.’ Harcutt shut his eyes and the eyelids fluttered. ‘That’s the dog. Let me get this straight. We’d gone round the green. You know the green at Edge Hill? Went back across the road. For once, Milly wasn’t on the lead. Well-trained dog.’
There was a long pause. Harcutt had finished buttoning up his pyjama jacket, so Charlotte judged that the professional part of the consultation was over. She slipped back into the room.
‘And then what?’ Bayswater prompted.
The major shook his head wearily. ‘Milly must have heard something on the green. Anyway, she ran across the road. You know what dogs are like when they’re chasing something. Talk about single-minded . . . Anyway, there was a lorry. Travelling ridiculously fast. It’s against the law, of course, but the police don’t give a damn.’
He groped for his cigarettes. Charlotte came forward with a match. His hand was trembling so much that she had to steady it with hers.
‘I tried to stop her. Christ, I tried. She went under the front offside wheel. And the lorry nearly got me too. Just jumped back in time. Not as young as I was. Came a cropper. And Milly – it didn’t seem possible, somehow. Still doesn’t.’
‘Your dog’s dead, then?’
‘Of course she’s bloody dead. That’s what I’m telling you. Anyway, she wasn’t my dog. She was Tony’s.’
‘Who’s he?’
Charlotte coughed. ‘She, actually. Antonia’s the major’s daughter. I imagine she must have been one of your patients at one time.’
‘Then you imagine wrong.’
‘Of course she hasn’t lived in Lydmouth for ages, has she, Jack? Not since before the war.’ Charlotte smiled sweetly at Bayswater. ‘Perhaps you simply don’t remember.’
‘Nothing wrong with my memory, thank you.’ Bayswater looked at Harcutt. ‘They’ll probably want to keep you in for a few days. Best place for you to be.’
‘I want to go home,’ said the major obstinately.
‘Use your common sense. You live in that big place on the main road, don’t you? Have you got anyone living in?’
Harcutt shook his head.
‘I thought not. The state you’re in, you’ll need someone around for a few days, if not weeks. And when I say days I mean all twenty-four hours’ worth. Can you afford a nurse?’
Harcutt brushed ash from the sheet and said nothing.
Bayswater sighed. ‘Well, if you’re determined to discharge yourself, get your daught
er to come and stay. That’s the best thing. At least you won’t have to pay her.’
‘I don’t want her to come,’ Harcutt said pettishly. ‘Besides, she won’t be able to. She’s got a job.’
‘But, Jack,’ Charlotte said. ‘This is an emergency. Family comes first where a woman’s concerned – you know that. Anyway, you’ll need to let her know what’s happened. Where does she work?’
‘School near Newport. Dampier Hall.’
‘The place for handicapped girls? I know. I’m sure they’d—’
‘I don’t want her disturbed. I can manage perfectly well by myself.’
‘Aren’t you being just a little bit unreasonable, Jack?’
Harcutt’s face darkened. He twisted round to stub out his cigarette and knocked the ashtray to the floor.
‘Whoopsy,’ the nurse said brightly. ‘I’ll get a dustpan and brush.’
No one spoke. She left the room.
‘Look here, Harcutt. If you want to make a fool of yourself that’s up to you. But you’re better off here, believe me. Good day to you.’
‘Now don’t worry, Jack,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out. I’ll be back.’
She followed Bayswater down the corridor, passing the red-haired nurse who was hurrying back with the dustpan and brush. ‘Try to keep him calm,’ Charlotte advised the nurse as she passed. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
Bayswater was already through the first set of swing doors. He was walking quickly and Charlotte had to hurry to catch him up.
‘I think the kindest thing to do,’ she said breathlessly, ‘is to contact Antonia ourselves. Don’t you agree?’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘Oh, but it is. Major Harcutt’s one of your patients, after all.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m responsible for all the lunacies he’s capable of.’
‘But you agree that he needs someone looking after him?’
‘Of course I do. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.’
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ Charlotte said. ‘Goodbye.’
She walked thoughtfully back to Harcutt’s room where the red-haired nurse was on her knees, sweeping up the contents of the ashtray. Harcutt was making a strange grunting noise and his face was screwed up. For an instant, Charlotte hovered in the doorway, wondering what was happening and whether it would be embarrassing and not the kind of thing she would care to witness. Neither of them saw her.
‘What is it, Major?’ the nurse asked.
‘Nothing. I’ve got a bit of ash in my eye.’
Chapter Three
All morning, rain-laden squalls gusted out of the grey sky. By midday, the damp had seeped through Charlie Meague’s jacket and his cap was as wet as a sponge.
Together with Evans, Emrys Hughes and Frank Thomas, he had spent the morning stripping the roof from the back of the Rose in Hand. The slates were in relatively good condition. Cyril George was not a man to buy new materials when old ones would do.
The four of them joined the other men drifting towards the warehouse for their sandwiches. To the east, there was a strip of duck-green sky between the horizon and the mass of grey clouds above with smudges of mauve moving slowly across the green. Charlie quickened his pace and caught up with Evans just as they were going into the warehouse.
‘My mum’s up the RAF Hospital.’
Evans glanced at him but did not stop. ‘Why?’
‘They reckon it might be pneumonia.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
They went into the warehouse. Evans sat down on a packing case and opened his bag. He had a Thermos flask, sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper and an apple. Charlie waited, looming over him.
‘Not much fun for anyone,’ Evans went on. ‘It’s the time of year. Terrible month for germs, November.’
‘The visiting hours are between two and four this afternoon.’
Evans looked up, a sandwich halfway to his mouth. ‘So that’s what’s on your mind.’
‘I’ve got a bike. I could be there in ten or fifteen minutes. I don’t think I’d stay long. I’ll work late.’
‘How do I know that this isn’t some cock-and-bull story?’
‘You could check with the hospital. Or with Dr Bayswater.’
‘Why should I want to do that? It’s not my mother.’
Charlie pulled out his tobacco and began to roll a cigarette with hands that trembled a little. ‘Look, I’ll make it up. You won’t lose by it. Nor will Mr George.’
‘That’s not the point, is it? The point is, I can’t be sure you’re not taking me for a ride. Do they have different visiting hours on different days?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Between seven and eight tomorrow evening.’
‘Well – there you are – no problem, is there? How long is she going to be in there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If you want to take time off for visiting her during the working day, Meague, you get yourself a letter from Bayswater or from the hospital. It’s like the Boy Scouts say: be prepared.’
Charlie licked the edge of the cigarette paper and gummed it down. He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. The desperation inside him came to the boil.
Evans put down his sandwich, unscrewed the cap of his Thermos and poured himself a cup of tea. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘You’re a little shit,’ Charlie said in a conversational tone. ‘But I expect you already knew that.’
Evans’s head snapped up. There was a sudden silence throughout the warehouse. Though neither Evans nor Charlie had been speaking loudly, the other men knew that something was happening – something that might break the monotony of work. Neither Evans nor Charlie was popular. From the audience’s point of view, a fight between them would be an unalloyed pleasure.
There was a noise in the yard – footsteps on the asphalt.
Both Evans and Charlie glanced towards the doorway. Two men were standing there. The smaller, older one looked like some sort of clerk – a surveyor perhaps. The younger was a broad-shouldered young man with fair hair. His overcoat was open, and he had his hands in his pockets and his hat on the back of his head. Charlie hadn’t seen either of them before, but the younger man’s smile, smug and superior, gave him a clue about the men’s identity before anyone spoke.
Had someone seen him last night? Had Harcutt talked? Or was Harcutt dead?
‘Mr Evans,’ said the older man. ‘Good morning. Sorry to break in while you’re eating.’
Evans stood up. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘I understand you have a Mr Meague working here. I’d like a word with him.’
Charlie’s adrenaline was already running high: he was keyed up for violence; he even wanted it, because the strain of not knowing – about his mother as well as about Harcutt – was becoming unendurable. For an instant, everyone was absolutely still. Charlie’s eyes darted to and fro and the possibilities surged through his mind. He’d have to go through the doorway and the two busies were there. And Evans could be relied on to do his little bit from the rear. Don’t be stupid, he told himself: that’s just what the bastards want. They’d give him a bloody nose, stuff him in a cell and throw away the key.
He raised his hand in a half-salute. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just a chat,’ the man said. ‘If Mr Evans can spare you.’
‘I can do that all right,’ Evans said, glancing at Charlie. ‘No problem. Off you go.’
The elder of the two policemen cocked his head and looked at Charlie with bright eyes. ‘Let’s go for a walk, eh?’
The three of them moved towards the lane. Charlie was conscious of Evans and the rest of the bumpkins staring after him.
‘I’m Inspector Thornhill. This is Sergeant Kirby.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Charlie paused to let the sarcasm sink in. ‘I’m sure.’
Thornhill made no reply. He led the way into the lane and turned in the direction of the b
ack gates to the Rose in Hand.
Charlie said. ‘Where are we going? I don’t have to come with you, do I? Not unless—’
Kirby stopped abruptly, and laid his hand on Charlie’s arm. ‘Unless what?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Thornhill sauntered a few steps up the lane; he appeared not to have heard. ‘Is that the Rose in Hand over there?’ he asked, looking back.
Kirby released Charlie, who nodded at Thornhill.
‘I thought it was. Still getting my bearings around here. You were one of the men who found the bones, weren’t you?’
‘Me and three others.’ Charlie felt dismay creeping over him. ‘Why?’
‘They’ve caused quite a stir. You’ll get your name in the Gazette, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘That won’t do me much good.’
‘Nothing else was there, I suppose? Besides the newspaper and the brooch. Nothing that could have belonged with the box?’
‘I don’t know. Ask Evans.’
Thornhill nodded, his face serious and calm. ‘Yes, good idea.’
Charlie flicked his cigarette butt away. He was beginning to relax. The buggers wre fishing – didn’t know what they were looking for. As long as Harcutt hadn’t talked. The three of them walked on, passing the rear gates to the Rose in Hand. The lane began to move uphill towards Minching Lane. This was the route Charlie usually took to walk home.
‘You and your mother use the King’s Head a good deal,’ Thornhill said; it was not a question. ‘Very convenient for you. Practically next door.’
Charlie grunted. So that was it: Ma Halleran had been stirring it.
‘You must know Mrs Halleran very well.’
‘What do you think?’
Thornhill sighed. ‘What I think is neither here nor there. It’s what I can prove that counts.’
They walked on in a silence that grew a little more awkward with every step. Thornhill was in front of Charlie and Kirby was a pace behind. By now they were within a stone’s throw of the derelict building where Charlie had hidden the proceeds of his burglaries. He wanted to hurry past the entrance to the courtyard. Instead he made himself slow down.
An Air That Kills Page 13
