Doctors Wear Scarlet

by Raven, Simon

  And then, “You realise, Anthony, that if I am right in doing…what I am now going to do – and we shall have no way at all of knowing – then there may be…consequences for Richard. Even afterwards. Nobody knows really.”

  “We must deal with them as and when they arise,” I said, not really understanding.

  Piers rummaged in the valise and took out a large clasp knife.

  “Take her outside, Anthony.”

  I went to the body of the woman and took it by the shoulders. With some difficulty I dragged it to the door, which Piers opened for me, and then on to the topmost of the wide and graceful steps outside. There was a light cold wind and a trace of dawn.

  Piers joined me. He was carrying the storm-lantern and Roddy’s stick, which he had sharpened down to a point. He put the lantern down and with great care sawed the stick in two with the knife about nine inches above the sharp end. Then he looked about in the light of the lamp and selected a large, flat-bottomed stone.

  “Hold up the lantern, Anthony.”

  He knelt down on one knee and placed the point of the stake he had made over the heart of the thing which had been Chriseis.

  “Now keep this upright with your other hand.”

  I clasped the stake some six inches above the point; and Piers, drawing a deep breath, raised the stone high above his head with both hands, so that he might be able to strike down again with all the strength of his two arms.

  X

  When we awoke it was nearly noon.

  “We must find Roddy,” said Piers, “and let the mayor know what has happened. He will be ready to bring his men and his mules right up here…now.”

  “I’ll go,” I said; “you stay with Richard.”

  I set off down the path the way Roddy had gone the previous evening. It was a warm, soothing day: the sky was unbroken blue over the gleaming mountains, and there was a gentle breeze. So that’s what it was, I thought: and now the danger has gone – everything possible has been done to ensure that. But Piers is still afraid: it is in his eyes. What was it he had said the night before? There might be…consequences for Richard. And then I remembered him as he had sat talking, years ago it seemed now, about the taint of the ancient city of Hydra. A number of branches attached to one body: an infection, a contamination, which crept from the main body along all its tributary necks. And I remembered other legends. Yet surely, if you destroyed the source of infection…? But then what were the rules in any case? Which world were we in?

  For on the one hand you had a superstition: that this thing was infectious, that the victim automatically inherited the taint, that when…one of them…died, then precautions were necessary to ensure his rest. But there was hope of a sort in the superstition: once the parent, the contaminator, was destroyed – as we had destroyed Chriseis – then the taint vanished altogether and all the victims were redeemed. Or so I thought I remembered.

  And on the other hand, you presumably had some sort of medical truth – a truth with which, as a civilised and rational man, I must now concern myself. But what was this truth? Did Piers know it? And did he subscribe to it, or did he favour the superstition?

  But I was walking in the dark. Whatever the medical theory, the scientific explanation, might be, I did not know it. Perhaps Piers did and perhaps he didn’t, but whatever he knew he was far from happy. And that, I thought, is all you’ve got to go on. In which case, the only thing to do is to look to Richard’s present health and safety; time enough to consider the rest when some definite information is available and Richard is strong enough to discuss the matter himself.

  At first the path descended; then it levelled out; then, some way later, it ascended again, till it twisted over a rocky mass and down on to the ledge where the mayor was waiting. The walk took me some fifteen minutes, and nowhere on the way was there any sign of Roddy.

  I very soon understood why.

  When I reached the ledge, the mayor was standing there looking out over the mountains. His two men were under the projecting shelf with their backs to me and were squatting attentively over something; the mayor himself turned to greet me.

  “Your news is good?” he said.

  “I suppose so. The woman is dead. You will be able to see for yourself.”

  He nodded.

  “That is good. What I must tell you is not so good.”

  He spoke to the two men under the shelf. They stood up and aside. Roddy was lying on the rock, his face looking straight into the sky.

  The mayor took me gently by the arm.

  “He came last evening to tell me that you must stay longer because of the weakness of your friend. I agreed to wait also. Then he asks me if I know of a friend of his, who was an officer with your people in Crete during the German occupation. I know this man well, and we talk of him – of him and how he died. We talk of him for a long time, you understand, because we both loved him and he died bravely.

  “Then at last, long after it is dark, your friend says he must return. I ask him to stay here with us, because at such a time the mountain is dangerous for a man alone. But he says no, you will be already worrying for him, he must go. So then, for all I do not wish to come near where you have gone, I think of Major Longbow’s friend back in those other days and I say I will come with him as far as the fort, and will then come back here to my men, for though they are two I cannot leave them long by themselves. But he says that will mean I must return alone; and he cannot permit this, he says, because it is his fault that he has stayed so long. Anyway, he is not afraid, he says. So I am much in doubt but I let him go.”

  There was no sign of remorse or guilt in the mayor’s face. There had been a situation, his eyes seemed to say, and everyone had acted as he saw fit; for the rest – it could not be helped.

  “So he went,” the mayor was saying, “and we heard no more. But in the morning I am standing on the rock” – he indicated the mound above us – and I see a body along the path. We go to him and he is dead. His head has been split open with something heavy and hard. A rock. The woman has done this. But even so, perhaps it is better than what she has done to your other friend.”

  “But he will be well. He is weak now, but soon…”

  The mayor shrugged; then he took me by the arm again and led me over to Roddy. His hair was matted with blood, but otherwise he was handsome and calm. Fond, kind Roddy, I thought, who had lingered too long to talk of a dead friend, because he was so happy to find someone else that had known him. Loyal Roddy, who had refused to spend the night in safety lest we should be concerned. Fair-minded Roddy, who had declined help because he held himself to blame for needing it. Brave Roddy, who had known so many battlefields, Dunkirk, Tobruk, Normandy, always where the fighting was thickest. Poor, cold Roddy, who was dead at the hand of a vicious, cunning woman that had sneaked up behind him in the night.

  “We shall bury him here?” said the mayor at last.

  “Yes. If his people…later… They can send.”

  “Then this we will do. I and my men will now join you at the fort. We will see the woman who is dead – see that all is attended to. And we shall bring with us your good friend, Major Longbow, and we shall all bury him in a grave of rock by the fort. We shall do this in a manner that is worthy of an honourable gentleman. Then, as soon as may be, we shall take your other friend down the mountain. For we wish him to go swiftly from Crete.”

  There was hatred and urgency in his last few words.

  “But he will do you no harm.”

  “Not yet. Not for a while. Later. You must see to him among your own people. You will be having wise men, doctors, who know of such things?”

  I nodded. There was nothing else to do.

  “Then take him to them quickly. But all that must be later, in your own country. Now we have work.”

  And he called to his men to saddle up the mules.

  Some time in the middle of the afternoon the mayor and his men appeared with the mules at our fort. The first thing the mayor did was
to inspect the remains of Chriseis, which Piers and I had moved away from the steps and placed among the rocks. Having examined the protruding stake with care, the mayor nodded approval at Piers.

  “This is good,” he said. He spoke briefly to his men, who then placed the body over a mule and disappeared on to the slope above.

  “They will see to her,” he said curtly. “And your friend? How is he?”

  “He has only woken once,” Piers said. “He took a little food and wine. He seems stronger.”

  “Then tomorrow we will take him down,” said the mayor.

  “But he must have a little longer – ,” began Piers.

  “–Tomorrow,” said the mayor, with unquestionable finality, “we shall take him down.”

  A little later the two men returned. Then we buried Roddy, making a cairn of mountain stones and paying, so far as we were able, the observances that are becoming at a soldier’s funeral.

  The mayor and his men disposed themselves early to sleep. We had all, including Richard, eaten well of a broth the Cretans had prepared; and now, while the others slept, Piers and I sat over the dying fire and talked.

  “You notice,” Piers said, “how anxious they are to be rid of us.”

  “To be rid of Richard. The mayor spoke of this when I was down at the ledge.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Not in so many words. It is plain that he regards Richard as being in some way defiled – and even as potentially dangerous.”

  “He may be right.”

  “The man is impressive,” I said, “but he is still little more than a peasant. From what point of view is he speaking?”

  “As a peasant he makes a peasant’s interpretation. But I don’t need to tell you that such interpretations are often quite accurate reflections, albeit in superstitious terms, of scientific truth. And whatever explanation you chose, the results would be much the same for Richard… Did the mayor suggest any remedy?”

  “That Richard should be taken to doctors when we get back to England.”

  “I wouldn’t relish sitting in Harley Street and telling this particular tale… Does it occur to you, Anthony, that technically I am a murderer?”

  “I cannot think of you as that,” I said.

  “Neither can I. The fact remains that I killed this woman by strangulation. Even the plea that I was protecting Richard would not excuse that degree of violence. And I could not readily undertake to convince any jury of the true nature of the circumstances.”

  “I don’t think you need worry. Chriseis is not likely to be found up here. And I doubt if she has many friends elsewhere to miss her.”

  “True. But if the police catch up with us all, they will want to know what has become of her… We must leave Greek territory, Anthony. The police have been after Richard for weeks. They are probably interested in us as well by now. We do not want to answer any questions.”

  “With any luck,” I said, “the police are still a long way behind… Though the police in this area know for themselves that something is amiss… To judge from what the mayor said they won’t interfere, but word may trickle back to someone more resolute… You are quite right, Piers. We must leave Greek waters.”

  “How?”

  “In the same way as we came,” I said. “These people know the sea as well as the mountains. The mayor likes us, I think, and is anxious to be rid of Richard. It is reasonable to presume that something can be arranged.”

  Early next morning we started down the mountain to Sphakion. Richard was still very weak, though he made a tolerable breakfast. In the end they rigged up a high back to one of the mule saddles: so that Richard, riding astride and leaning against this with his spine cushioned, could travel in some sort of comfort. The mayor and his men treated Richard with repugnance. They would not come within ten feet of him, and it was Piers and I who had to hoist him into the saddle, who had to ride by him and watch him throughout the journey.

  So down we came. Round the mountain and down the long flank to the ridge; along the ridge, stopping briefly for a midday meal from our own provisions; on through the scorching afternoon; and finally down into the valley of Hagia Persephone, more pleasing than ever in the early evening, with its graceful cypresses and the trickle of running water. Here the mayor halted us; and then went on alone to the village to see what news he should find.

  We took Richard from his mule and laid him on his back in the evening sun. He had been unconscious much of the way, and then, having awakened some ten miles from the end, he had been in great pain from his terrible journey; but his present relief gave him heart.

  “Where are we going?” he said.

  “Home. To England.”

  “And Chriseis? Where is Chriseis?”

  “She will not trouble you now.”

  He frowned slightly.

  “She has left me then?”

  “You will not see her again.”

  “And Roddy?”

  “Roddy is dead.”

  Two large tears welled over on to Richard’s cheeks, then ran down his cheek bones to the ground.

  “Roddy was always kind. And so was Chriseis. And now Roddy is dead and Chriseis has gone.”

  It did not seem to occur to him to ask for further details, to attempt any logical assessment of what had happened.

  “So kind,” he murmured, “the one dead, the other gone.”

  Piers looked into my eyes and said nothing.

  About an hour later the mayor returned.

  “There is word from over the mountains,” he said. “Any time now the police will come from Heraclion, searching for your friend and the woman. They do not know of you. But when they come, you must all be gone.”

  “Where? How?”

  “Stay here and rest. Tonight I will come for you. There will be a boat to take you to the coast of Italy. You have money?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must pay five thousand drachmas to the captain. He will put you down where he best can. Then you must see to yourselves.”

  “We can do that… What will you tell the police?”

  The mayor shrugged.

  “That your friend and his woman went to the mountains. Let them go there if they wish. They will not find the woman.”

  “Major Longbow?”

  “A pile of stones. There are many such in the mountains. They will not notice this one.”

  “You have our gratitude, Mr Mayor.”

  He bowed stiffly.

  “Rest now,” he said. “I will come later.”

  Late that night we were led to the beach and taken off in a dinghy to a medium-sized motor launch. Once again no one would touch Richard, so that Piers and I had to drag him up from the dinghy to the launch. The stars in the sky were very bright; nearly as bright as they had seemed to me that night on the mountain, in the calm before the storm.

  Part Three

  The Michaelmas Feast

  XI

  “And what happened then?” said Inspector John Tyrrel. The September sun crept slyly into his office in the Charing Cross Road: the flies played on his desk, and periodically Tyrrel thrashed at them with his ruler, causing them to rise in turmoil amid little clouds of whirling dust. I had reached England, with Richard and Piers, late the previous evening; in the morning I had telephoned Tyrrel for an appointment; and now, late in the September afternoon, I had told him all that had happened up to the time of our leaving Crete.

  “So what happened then?” he said.

  “We got to Italy with little enough trouble,” I told him, “and also with little enough luggage. However, we had plenty of money. I had come very well supplied from the start, and Richard turned out to have a letter of credit still on him. So the minute we landed I walked fifteen miles to a discreetly distant village and took a taxi of sorts to come back and pick up the other two – Richard, as you may imagine, being still very weak. We then drove straight to Brindisi to catch the train for Rome. The taxi driver thought we were rather odd, but a
journey like that was a real field day for him, so he asked us no questions and thereafter, I dare say, kept his mouth shut in case of trouble with the police. Anyway, nobody bothered us either then or later.

  “Once in Rome, we bought ourselves some kit, and I wrote to Athens to tell them to send all our stuff back to London. As for Richard’s, God knows what had happened to that, and you’ll understand from what I’ve still got to tell you that Richard himself gave us no help in finding out. Lucky enough, I suppose, that he still had his Passport and that letter of credit… Anyway, from Rome we took him to Orvieto, which is a nice, peaceful place for convalescents, and there we stayed three weeks, by the end of which he was more or less recovered. On to Florence, where it was damnably hot and seething with a hell brew of Germans; on to Venice to collect the car; and then very gently towards home, through the lakes, over the Alps, and so through Switzerland and France. A very nice holiday indeed – if only poor Roddy had been there to share it… But I suppose,” I added futilely, “his leave would have been over pretty soon in any case.”

  “What have you done about Major Longbow?” said Tyrrel. “Have you told anyone yet?”

  “I wrote to his Brigadier and said that Roddy had been accidentally killed in the Cretan mountains. Implied it happened while we were climbing. I also did my best with the same story in a letter to his parents. When I got home last night there was a somewhat dignified letter from his father, thanking me for my trouble, and a great packet from the War Office. Why was Roddy in Crete when he said he was going to Italy? Was I aware that Army Officers were forbidden in Greek territory? Where was the Death Certificate or Cretan equivalent? They seem to think that I personally arranged the whole thing expressly to annoy them. They’re getting ready to be very awkward.”

  “Send the whole bag of tricks to me,” said Tyrrel, “we can deal with the War House. Provided the parents don’t kick up a fuss.”

  “I don’t think they will,” I said. “They’re old-fashioned people and they know me as Roddy’s friend. They trust me. And as his father said in his letter, a man like Roddy could hardly be expected to live for ever.”