by Pat Herbert
As Bernard was finishing his breakfast, his friend Robbie was in his surgery, going through his list of patients which, that early April morning, mainly consisted of cold and flu sufferers. Nothing out of the ordinary, he noted, disappointed as on most mornings. What he wouldn’t give for something a little more out of the ordinary, like a ruptured spleen or a champagne bottle leg.
Robbie studied his first patient with concern. At first glance, this seemed a more interesting case than he was expecting. She was a middle-aged, careworn-looking woman with a very pale complexion, dark circles around the eyes and a general air of ‘unwellness’ about her.
“Ah, Mrs Carstairs, please do sit down. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Doctor, I’ve not been sleeping very well, and I’ve got this dreadful headache. I wouldn’t normally have bothered you, but it’s been days now and I really can’t stand it much longer.”
“I see,” said Robbie, writing something on his pad. “Perhaps I should take your blood pressure first of all.”
He wrapped a thick black band around the woman’s arm and started pumping.
“I don’t think it’s anything physical, Doctor,” said Mrs Carstairs as she felt the pressure on her arm build. “It’s just the worry, you see…”
Robbie raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Worry?”
“It’s our daughter – Helen. I think she’s got in with a bad crowd.”
“Oh, dear,” said Robbie, removing the arm band. “Well, your BP is a little high, but not abnormally so.”
“I don’t really know who to turn to. She’s been staying out to all hours and not saying where she goes or who with. I’ve been away for the last couple of nights, staying with my sister who’s not well.” She paused, as if considering what to say next. Then she continued. “When I got home this morning, her bed hadn’t been slept in. That was the last straw. I don’t know where she is. She’s only seventeen.”
“I know Helen – Helen,” said Robbie, writing something more on his pad. “She came to see me – er, a few weeks ago.” He stopped. He realised too late that he probably shouldn’t have said that.
“She did? She never told me. What about?” The look on Mrs Carstairs’ face was enough to break his heart.
“Oh dear, Mrs Carstairs, you know I can’t tell you,” he said. “But she isn’t unwell or anything like that, so don’t concern yourself on that account.”
“Oh, well, that’s something I suppose.”
“Look, take this prescription for painkillers for your headache and try not to worry too much about your daughter. Teenagers are often difficult. Growing up’s a painful business sometimes. If you still have the headache after a few days, come back and I’ll organise some tests for you.” He rose to show his patient to the door.
As he opened it for her, she hesitated. “What is it, Mrs Carstairs?” he asked kindly.
“Er – well, it’s my hubby, Henry,” she said falteringly. “He – he gets headaches too. Not like mine, though. They’re much worse – or so he says. He’s always holding his head. I’m very worried about him as well as Helen.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Robbie. “But you know I can’t do anything for him until he comes to see me, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Ivy Carstairs, looking resigned. “But he won’t go near doctors – doesn’t believe in them, he says. Can’t you give me something for him too? Or will these pills you’ve prescribed for me be all right to give him?”
“No, you can’t give your husband these pills. I haven’t prescribed them for him, and I won’t prescribe anything until I have examined him.” Robbie spoke very firmly.
“I see,” she said. “I suppose I knew you were going to say that. It’s just that he doesn’t seem the same person since he’s had these headaches. He never used to be so miserable. Not that he was ever the life and soul, like. But he gets angry at the least little thing these days and takes his pain out on me and Helen.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Carstairs, but you must try and persuade him to come and see me. Until he does, I can do nothing.”
After she had left, he sat back down at his desk, taking a breather before his next patient who he could hear coughing in the waiting room. He recalled Helen Carstairs’ visit only too vividly. She was a pretty blonde, but her prettiness had been dimmed by the strain she was under. He hadn’t helped ease her worry by confirming her pregnancy and advising her to confide in her parents. She had told him she was afraid of their reaction and thought it very likely they would throw her out of the house. He couldn’t see the mild-mannered Ivy Carstairs doing that, but he couldn’t answer for her father, as he had never met him. He just hoped, for all their sakes, Helen would tell them the truth before it became obvious and they could see for themselves what was happening to their daughter.
Contrary to the intelligence put about by Mrs Selfridge and spread with glee by Mrs Harper, the body on the Common wasn’t as mutilated as it was supposed. The stomach had been ripped open, which was bad enough, but at least the head was still attached to the body.
“Who found her, do we know?” asked Inspector Phil Craddock of his young subordinate.
He idly swung around on his office swivel chair while he waited for Rathbone’s response. The chair creaked under his excessive weight, causing the younger (and slimmer) man to worry that it was about to collapse under him.
“Some old chap walking his dog, sir,” he replied. “A statement’s already been taken.”
“Hmm,” said Craddock, deep in thought. “If it weren’t for the dog walkers, half the bodies would remain undiscovered, I reckon.”
“Just as well,” observed Rathbone wryly. “We’ve got enough on our plates with the ones that are discovered.”
“That’s true. Has Bucket come up with a cause of death?”
“His initial finding suggests by a deep stab wound to the abdomen, but he isn’t ruling anything out until he’s got her on the slab.”
Craddock winced. He hated the way the bow-tied, goatee-bearded Graydon Smythe-Bucket wallowed in his work. He could hear him using that very term, ‘got her on the slab’, and he didn’t like it one bit. Didn’t the man realise these bodies had once been human beings, with families and friends who cared very much about their deaths? The man was an arrogant, stuck-up bastard and they were some of his better points.
“Do we know how long she’s been dead?”
Rathbone studied his notebook. “Er, between about seventeen and twenty-four hours according to Mr Smythe-Bucket. But he thought it was possibly even longer.”
“Vague, isn’t he?” Craddock sniffed.
Brian Rathbone smiled. “I don’t think he wants to commit himself at this stage.” He knew only too well what his boss thought of that particular pathologist.
“No, of course he doesn’t. Anyway, the first thing we need to do is find out who she is and inform the next of kin. Get on to it, Rathbone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Brian Rathbone was relieved to be dismissed by the inspector as he was still having trouble keeping his breakfast down, even after a gap of several hours since seeing the body. He had never got used to viewing dead bodies, especially first thing in the morning. Inspector Craddock, he knew, felt exactly the same, but he’d been longer in the job and knew how to hide it better. Now, he thought, all he had to do was identify the corpse and then break it to the next of kin.
A piece of bloody cake.
Chapter Fourteen
Bernard had been looking forward for over a week to the posh West End meal he and Robbie were to share that evening. He was looking forward to it all the more as it was Robbie’s treat. Mrs Harper had sniffed when Bernard told her he would be ‘dining out’. She prided herself she could compete with the best chefs in the West End, but if they wanted to waste their money, that was up to them. It was no skin off her nose.
Robbie had booked a table at Simpson’s in the Strand and Bernard hope
d it would be a night to remember, as his birthday, so far, had been a washout. He hadn’t received a single card, not even from his dear friend Dorothy Plunkett, but at least Robbie would bring one round to him that evening. He knew the good doctor wasn’t one to waste money on a postage stamp.
Robbie arrived at the vicarage at seven-fifteen complete with the expected card and a carefully wrapped parcel. Bernard suspected that Robbie’s housekeeper, Lucy Carter, had wrapped it because it looked far too neat for Robbie’s handiwork. Bernard also suspected that Lucy had bought the present on his behalf but dismissed this thought as unworthy and uncharitable.
“Hello, Bernie old chap,” Robbie greeted him. “Happy birthday.” He handed his friend the card and gift. “Hope you like aftershave,” he added, spoiling the surprise. “Lucy chose it – I’m no good at that sort of thing.”
Bernard smiled, hiding his disappointment as best he could. “Thanks,” he said.
“Come on, old boy, taxi’s waiting. You can open it later,” as he watched Bernard struggle with the wrapping paper. “It’s Old Spice,” he informed him, thus spoiling any element of surprise that was still left.
“Oh, very nice,” said Bernard with all the enthusiasm he could muster.
“Leave the card,” said Robbie. “I think I forgot to sign it, by the way. I’ll do it later. Come on.”
Bernard left the card and aftershave on the hall table and followed his friend out to the waiting taxi.
“This is very good of you, Robbie,” he said, stepping into the vehicle. “You shouldn’t have spent all this money on little old me, you know.”
As the cab moved off, Robbie laughed. “Well, I’m getting some pleasure out of it too. We don’t do this every day of the week. You can reciprocate on my birthday, if you like.”
Bernard gave an inward sigh. If he could afford it, he thought. A vicar’s stipend didn’t stretch to many extravagant nights out.
When they were seated at their table in the sumptuous surroundings of Simpson’s studying its ornate menu, Robbie asked Bernard if he knew the Carstairs family. Ivy Carstairs’ visit that morning had been preying on his mind all day.
Bernard, however, was too busy studying the menu to pay much attention. “Hmm?” was all he managed, his mind concentrating on the all-important question of what to have for a starter.
Robbie looked at his friend in disgruntlement. It was taking him ages to choose his food. “Come on, old chap,” he said, “the chef will have gone home by the time you’re ready to order.”
Bernard looked up from behind the large menu card which practically hid him from view. “Sorry. It all looks so delicious…”
The waiter hovered over them impatiently as Bernard continued to waver between the Welsh rarebit and the French onion soup. Finally, he plumped for the soup and the waiter whisked the menus away before he could change his mind again.
“Sorry about that,” said Bernard, “but I want to enjoy every mouthful, and I don’t want to make a mistake by ordering something I’m not going to like.”
Robbie smiled. “Of course you don’t, but the food’s all good here. I’m sure whatever we have will be first rate,” he said.
“Yes, thanks again, Robbie. This is a real treat.” Now that the all-important decision on starters had been made, Bernard remembered what his friend had just asked him. “Why do you ask about the Carstairs?”
“Ivy Carstairs came to see me today and she told me she was getting headaches because she’s worried about her daughter, Helen. And she’s also worried about her husband’s health.”
“Oh dear,” said Bernard. “I know the Carstairs quite well. They come regularly to the Sunday morning services, although I fear that young Helen is dragged there by force.”
“Anyway, let’s enjoy our meal and talk about them later,” said Robbie as the first course arrived.
No more was said on the subject of the Carstairs while the roast duck, sherry trifle and cheese board were in progress. When all the food had been dispatched, they sat back, lit cigars and sipped their postprandial brandies.
They looked around, taking in their elegant surroundings, feeling happy and relaxed. A band was playing The Very Thought of You and couples were smooching around the dance floor.
“Well, Robbie,” smiled Bernard after a few minutes of contented cigar puffing and brandy sipping. “That was a meal to remember. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Robbie, swirling the brandy around his glass, watching the gold liquid making waves up to its rim. “This is the life, eh? You’d hardly know there’d been a World War, would you?”
“No, it feels good to be alive. Anyway, what were we talking about earlier? Mrs Carstairs’ daughter, I think you said?”
“Yes. I was wondering if you had spoken to her recently?”
“Er, no,” said Bernard thoughtfully. “She never bothers to speak to me. Even when we part at the church door, she just hides behind her parents. Doesn’t even shake my hand. Can’t wait to get away.”
“Hmm,” said Robbie, “I see.”
“Why do you ask?” Bernard was suddenly interested.
“I really shouldn’t say anything,” said Robbie, puffing on his cigar with relish. “But, you’re a man of the cloth, so I suppose it’s all right…”
“Well…?”
“The poor girl’s pregnant,” he said at last, “and she dreads telling her parents. I’m sure her mother will be all right about it, but I’m not so sure about her father. He’s a bit of a tyrant, by all accounts.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Bernard. “But I’m sure you’re wrong about Henry Carstairs. He always strikes me as a decent sort, although he’s been a bit miserable lately. We used to have a brief chat after the service, but recently he’s only shaken my hand without speaking. Still, it must be a worry for his daughter – to have to tell a God-fearing cove like Carstairs that she’s going to have a baby. She’s only seventeen, isn’t she? What will she do?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did,” said Robbie. “Anyway, let’s have one for the road, shall we? Toast your birthday one more time. I booked the taxi for ten-thirty, so we’ve got time.”
“I really shouldn’t, you know,” giggled Bernard, now more relaxed than ever. Some unkind people might have said he was as relaxed as a newt, but he wasn’t going to apologize for being happy on his birthday. “One isn’t thirty every day,” he asserted. “So, why not?”
“Good! Waiter!”
When the second glass of brandy had been brought, Robbie grew thoughtful again. “You know, Bernie, do you think it’s right we should be dining alone? I sometimes wish you and I had ladies to escort. Some nice, pretty women to take around to the pictures and meals and so on.”
It was Bernard’s turn to become thoughtful. The image of Dorothy Plunkett came to his mind, the woman he had met some six years ago. No one could say it had been a whirlwind romance, however. But there had been a spark between them, even so. It had been unfortunate that, before any romance between them could get off the ground, she had to return home to Devon to look after her ailing parents.
As if reading his thoughts, Robbie said, “Have you heard from Dorothy recently?”
“I got a letter from her last week. Her father’s still being difficult. I think she’ll be relieved when he finally goes. He’s never very well, and she says life is becoming a trial to him.”
“Dead, but won’t lie down, eh?”
“That’s a horrible thing to say, Robbie,” he admonished him. “But, in a way, yes…. I suppose you’re right.”
Both men sat on, sipping their brandy, lost in their own thoughts, until the waiter announced their taxi was waiting outside to take them home.
Chapter Fifteen
“There’s a Mrs Carstairs waiting to see you, guv. Says her daughter’s missing.”
Sergeant Brian Rathbone waited while his harassed boss searched for his pen. Inspector Craddock’s wife had given it to him two Christmase
s ago, and ever since then he lost it, on average, about once every two weeks.
“You can never find a bloody thing in this place,” he grumbled. “I put it down over there. Someone’s walked off with it again. My wife’ll skin me alive if I lose it.”
“I’m sure it’ll turn up, sir,” said Rathbone soothingly. “I’m always losing pens, but they usually turn up in the end.”
He stood patiently in his superior’s office, waiting for him to stop blowing off steam.
“Blasted nuisance!” Craddock continued to rummage under a pile of papers on his desk. “It’s got to be somewhere. Have you seen it?”
“Is it royal blue with a gold nib, sir?”
“That’s it! Have you seen it?”
“Only when you last had it – yesterday.”
“Ha ha, very helpful.” He sighed and slumped into his chair. “I suppose it’ll turn up, like you say. Anyway, what d’you want? It’d better be important.”
“I think it’s possible we may have found the identity of the murdered girl,” said Rathbone, unfazed by the inspector’s gruff manner. He had worked with him too long for that.
“Ah, right, good. Well done. Tell me more.”
“Well, like I said, there’s a Mrs Ivy Carstairs waiting to see you. She’s come in to report her daughter Helen missing. From an initial description, the body could be her.”
“Right, then. What are we waiting for? We’d better go and see her. We’ll need to get her to make a formal I.D. Once Bucket has finished carving her up, of course.”
Mrs Carstairs paced up and down the room into which she had been shown by the desk sergeant. She hadn’t much liked the look on his face when she had described her daughter to him. What did they know? What were they keeping from her? A kind policewoman had brought her a cup of tea which she hadn’t been able to drink. She was much too nervous to swallow anything. Why didn’t someone come and tell her what was going on?
