Doctors Wear Scarlet

by Raven, Simon

  There was a low hum, like that of bees on a summer day, which gradually grew and grew, until it was as though some gigantic piece of machinery, having started very gently, was now gathering all its terrible powers to rend the Hall apart.

  Walter sat with his smile frozen on to his cheeks. The Provost looked straight in front of him, his head sagging between his shoulders. Marc, beside me, was twitching like a marionette. From somewhere away in the Hall I heard Piers’ voice calling out, “That’s enough, Richard. Leave us to drink in peace.” But whether Richard heard him or not, he paid him no attention. No longer calm, but swaying and staggering on the dais, he started to speak once more.

  “But that is not all,” he shouted. “Guard your souls, yes. But there is more you must do before you are truly free. You must make the other – the enemies that threaten – give up their souls to you. For how can you be free if the enemy still watches you? And if you have not tested your freedom by the exercise of your strength? How can you–” He caught at his throat and made a choking sound. He staggered a pace or two forward and nearly fell off the dais. Once again he tried to speak, but he had barely opened his mouth when Penelope’s high, stern voice rang across the Hall – “Help him,” she called, “for God’s sake help him. Can’t you see that he’s ill?”

  And almost before I had had time to understand who was speaking or what she was saying her big bony figure, clad in its black and unbecoming evening dress, was thrusting up one of the aisles toward the dais. Not until Penelope had reached Richard, and was already helping him towards a small side door which led out of the Hall, did anyone else move. Then, as if released from a spell, scores of men scraped back their chairs and made to go to her assistance.

  “Too late,” she called. “You should have helped him earlier. He’s mine now. All of you leave him to me.”

  And with that she and Richard disappeared through the side door which a tactful servant was holding open; and silence, blank and utter, descended upon the Feast.

  “So what now?” I said.

  Shortly after Penelope and Richard had left the Hall, the Provost had risen to bring the Feast to an end. Looking bleakly in front of him he reminded gentlemen that certain Fellows, among them Doctor Goodrich and Mr Honeydew, would now be dispensing the customary hospitality in their rooms. He suggested that gentlemen in their first year went first to Doctor Goodrich and only later to Mr Honeydew or the others, that gentlemen in their second year…and so on. He then uttered the curt Latin phrase, half grace and half dismissed, which concluded the Michaelmas Feast for 1957.

  “So what now?”

  Marc, Tyrrel and myself had been joined, outside the Hall, by Piers. We were all standing by the entrance to the Senior Common Room: Piers drunk and defiant, Tyrrel poised and silent, Marc still twittering and twitching as he had done during Richard’s speech.

  “And so what now?” I said.

  “For Christ’s sake stop saying that, Anthony,” said Piers, and then belched very loudly.

  “Manners, dear,” said Marc automatically. And then to me, “You well may ask. But since I must go to my rooms in any case to entertain the students, I suggest you all come too. There will be nourishing whisky.”

  We started slowly towards Marc’s rooms.

  “You don’t think we should look for them?”

  “No,” said Tyrrel; “Miss Goodrich is the only person who has shown any ability to cope. She’d best be left to carry on.”

  “No buts,” said Piers thickly. “Whatever he’s done, we can’t mend it now. So let Penelope have her little evening. Let her be mummy or nanny if she wants to. Perhaps she’ll try and drag the poor sod into bed.”

  He laughed coarsely, staggered and bounced back off a wall.

  “No nourishing whisky for you,” Marc said.

  When we reached his room, some ten or twelve undergraduates were already there, talking in low, excited tones but falling silent as soon as we entered. At first things were sticky. But Marc busied himself with beer and whisky, more undergraduates joined us, and gradually we began to pick up the bits of the broken evening. Tyrrel, I noticed, had a knack of getting on with young men, and was soon surrounded by a small and attentive group. I spoke with a young don whom I knew slightly, trying to be polite while he told me with enthusiasm everything that was wrong with my magazine. Piers disappeared and then came back again.

  “I’ve been to Walter’s room,” he told me. “He’s bluffing it out very well. Telling people how Richard has only just recovered from a nervous breakdown due to overwork. He was very good with HRH. If he’s not careful Richard will get knighted for the evening’s work.”

  Piers disappeared again; and shortly afterwards Tyrrel and I left Marc and went on to Walter. Here the proceedings were unexpectedly jolly. HRH, palpably drunk, was lolling against the mantel explaining to the Herr Doktor how keen he had been on science at Dartmouth. The Scandinavian Ambassador, rather red round the cheekbones, was talking to the bald sociologist about State Brothels; while a biochemist from King’s was explaining, in a very loud voice and to no one in particular, that a creature called the basking shark emitted four and a half gallons of seminal fluid every time it had an orgasm.

  “Goot, Highness, goot,” said the Herr Doktor with a trapped look.

  “State Brothels is just the job,” said the Scandinavian Ambassador. “But as yet we do not have. The old ones talk and the young ones burn. ‘Let them marry,’ say the old ones. ‘Let them die and rest their chins in their coffins,’ say the young ones. And so there is done nothing.” He sat down rather suddenly.

  “Four and a half gallons, chums,” said the biochemist from King’s. “Just imagine. It must take at least ten minutes. An orgasm lasting ten minutes.”

  “Goot, Highness, goot.”

  “Nothing, nothing done,” said the Ambassador in deep despair.

  “Bet your orgasms never even last ten seconds.”

  “…A most interwesting expewiment with a magnet…”

  “I wish I was a basking shark.”

  “Goot, Highness.”

  “…basking and basking, and then – hey presto – another four and a half gallons.”

  “…hung the magnet from the woof…”

  “…basking and basking in the sun.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Anthony. Come with me. NOW.”

  Tyrrel and I followed Piers.

  “The oak was sported,” Piers mumbled. “I climbed up and looked through the window…a joke, you see…surprise them… Oh God, oh Christ…”

  “How will we get in?”

  “Marc will meet us there. With the master key. They’ll give it to a Fellow.”

  We went up Richard’s staircase. Outside the sported oak we halted to wait for Marc. “What shall we find?”

  But Piers was blubbering into the wall. From time to time he retched; a mixture of snot and bile dripped heavily to the floor at his feet. Then we heard Marc. He came straight up the stairs and without a word thrust in the key and swung back the sported oak.

  “Through the first room. The bedroom.”

  The outer room was dimly lit by a reading lamp on a desk. Tyrrel went first. He banged with both fists on the bedroom door and then hurled it open. For a moment he stood quite still, looking in. Then – “Stop it,” he screamed.

  Coming up behind him, I saw him step over to the bed. The bedside lamp was on and everything was quite clear. Richard and Penelope were lying together, fully dressed, on the bed. Penelope’s eyes were open and she was looking straight up at the ceiling. She did not move, she scarcely seemed to breathe; while Richard Fountain, his face wedged into her throat, his cheeks, his shoulders, his whole body heaving with his effort, drank away her blood.

  “Stop it,” yelled Tyrrel again.

  He seized Richard by his heaving shoulders and flung him on to the floor. Penelope lay where she was, unmoved. Richard got to his feet and turned his blood-stained face snarling towards us.

  “You see?” h
e said. “She nearly destroyed me. Now it is my turn. I must use my knowledge to preserve my freedom: drain the life of others before they drain mine. You understand?”

  “I think, Richard, you had better come with us,” said Piers, from whom all traces of drunkenness had now vanished.

  “And leave my adoring Chriseis? Come, Piers.”

  “And what is all this?” said a bewildered but still fruity voice.

  Walter loomed in the doorway behind us.

  “This is your son,” said Richard, “who has been embracing your daughter Chriseis… Your daughter Penelope… It is all one. Ravishing her, you might say, before she could ravish him.”

  Walter made a loose and hopeless gesture.

  “I don’t understand you,” he said.

  “It’s very simple. You want to steal my life, and you will use your daughter to help you. But I have moved first. By…embracing Penelope, I have established my power over her. I tried to tell you all tonight, but I couldn’t finish. The free man, Walter, must take the souls of his enemies.”

  “What can you mean? Penelope loves you. She will give you her life, her soul. There is no need to take.”

  “He has already done so,” said Piers standing upright. “Penelope is dead.”

  “Dead?” whispered Richard fiercely. “How could she be? This is the first–”

  “–She’s dead, Richard. You had best come to your daughter, Doctor Goodrich.”

  “Chriseis…dead…” Richard mumbled to himself…“ Penelope… Chriseis…dead.”

  Walter lurched forward and bent down over Penelope. He ripped away her dress and felt for her heart. He seized her wrist and sought for a pulse. He gave a great moan of despair and swung round on Richard.

  “For the love of God,” he cried, “what have you done? Raped her? Beaten her? Speak up, boy. What have you done to my Penelope?”

  “He has drunk her blood,” said Piers, and went into the outer room.

  For the first time Walter seemed to begin to understand. He looked at Richard’s blood-smeared mouth and he looked back at the ugly gash on Penelope’s throat. Then understanding gave place to renewed bewilderment. Walter’s eyes stared away into space and his voice became a croak.

  “You… My Richard.… You did that?”

  “Chriseis,” muttered Richard, “Chriseis.”

  Walter seemed to sink towards the floor. Tyrrel caught hold of him and sat him in a chair. Then his head lolled forward, and huge, glistening tears poured over his cheeks and dripped on to his knees.

  “Richard… Penelope… My children.”

  Richard was standing, silent and sullen, in a corner of the room. Piers, returning from the outer room, went up to him with a full tumbler.

  “Drink this, Richard,” he said; “whatever is to happen, you must sleep now.”

  Richard seemed not to hear him, but he took the glass and put it to his lips.

  “Drink it all, Richard,” said Piers softly.

  “What–?” I began.

  Tyrrel seized my arm and shook his head.

  “All of it, Richard,” said Piers: “then you will sleep.” Once again Tyrrel took hold of my arm, indicating, with a jerk of his head, that I should go into the other room. As I went Marc followed me; a few moments later Tyrrel also came, supporting Walter, and helped the old man on to the sofa. Then he went back, closed the bedroom door, and sat down next to Walter on the sofa.

  For ten minutes we waited, hearing nothing and saying nothing. Then Piers came slowly out of the bedroom and halted in front of Tyrrel.

  “He is asleep now,” Piers said, “and the taint sleeps with him.”

  XV

  On the morning of November 1, 1957, Inspector John Tyrrel presented himself before the Provost of Lancaster College. He was accompanied by a certain Doctor Holmstrom, sometime Fellow of King’s College and a man of much curious learning, whom he had summoned from London in the early hours of the morning. Having proved his own office and Doctor Holmstrom’s credentials, Inspector Tyrrel then told the Provost of the strange course of events which had led to the deaths of, among others, Miss Penelope Goodrich and Richard Fountain, Fellow of the College. The story was borne out in part by Doctor Walter Goodrich and Mr Marc Honeydew, both of whom were Fellows under the Provost; and borne out in full by Major Anthony Seymour, a respected past member of the College. Doctor Holmstrom confirmed that he had been from time to time consulted and informed in detail of what had passed up to the night of the final tragedy; and he asserted the inherent plausibility of the circumstances described. It was then represented to the Provost that one of his undergraduates, Mr Piers Clarence, was technically guilty of the murder of Richard Fountain; but that this young man had in reality done nothing but his duty to the living ruin of a well loved friend.

  The following exchange then took place.

  Provost: As I understand you, Inspector, the respective causes of death were loss of blood and an overdose of a sleeping draught compounded mainly of Codeine Phosphate.

  Tyrrel: That is correct, sir.

  Provost: And a qualified physician – we have several in the College – could with good conscience make out certificates to that effect?

  Tyrrel: He could.

  Provost: Very well. Now, you are aware that Lancaster College, as a Royal Foundation, has privileges which extend well beyond such matters as feasting? That I myself, as Provost, am empowered to act as Coroner in respect of all deaths which occur within the College Gate? I should add that this privilege is not as recondite as it may seem. The Provost of King’s has very similar powers, though as far as I know they have not been used since the last century. But if this conception is unfamiliar to you, perhaps you would care to examine the Charter?

  Tyrrel: Your word is quite sufficient, Mr Provost.

  Provost: Thank you sir. Now again: if I am not mistaken, whatever your official responsibilities may be, you share the opinion held by these gentlemen here as to the morality of this whole affair: – That in the first place Richard Fountain was not, and has not been for some months, properly responsible for his actions; and that in the second place Mr Clarence, by taking Fountain’s life, was committing an act of mercy and even of piety rather than one of murder.

  Tyrrel: I accept this view, sir.

  Provost: So that it is the interest of justice that the matter should now rest?

  Tyrrel: Of justice, but not of the Law. Whatever my personal opinions and affections, Mr Provost, I should not disguise from you that, in Law, we have a murder to consider.

  Provost: I am only concerned with justice, Inspector Tyrrel. I am too old to interest myself in the requirements of that unfamiliar science, the Law. On the other hand I have been studying justice, in one sense or another, all my life. Let us therefore reason together, and think what it is meet and fitting that men of liberal understanding should do in these circumstances. Hand Piers Clarence over to the Law? Is this the reward of loyalty, the prize of love? The act of tolerant and humane men? In this College I am chosen to act for the Law; and I say that here it shall follow the reasoned dictates of the mind and the charity of the heart. It is on this assumption that I, with the authority vested in me by our Founder, shall give judgement. But before I do so, I should tell you all that I feel myself morally bound, if any of you wish it, to waive my privilege and give the matter into the hands of outside authority. Do you then undertake to accept my judgement? Because once it is given, it must be final: any further appeal, any reference to those outside, could alter nothing except the esteem in which my office is held. And so, if you think it preferable that we summon outsiders to investigate and pronounce, then you must say so here and now. You must, as my true friends, advise me of your will… Doctor Goodrich?

  Goodrich: Penelope is dead and Richard is dead. Any judgment is equally valid, equally irrelevant. Let the Provost judge.

  Provost: Mr Honeydew?

  Honeydew: We do not need strangers to mix in our affairs. Let the Provost judge.

>   Provost: Doctor Holmstrom?

  Holmstrom: I have given what advice I could. Now I shall forget all this – save possibly as an anonymous and academic example. So for my part, let the Provost judge.

  Provost: Major Seymour?

  Seymour: The Provost is an honourable man. Let the Provost judge.

  Provost: And you, Inspector Tyrrel?

  Tyrrel: I protected Richard Fountain in his life and can only wish that he may rest in his death. Let the Provost judge.