The Flaxborough Crab f-6

by Colin Watson

  Malley leaned towards the deputy coroner’s ear.

  “Perhaps you’d like to hear the doctors first, sir, so that they can get away.”

  Dr Thompson agreed to the concession with prim nervousness. It was the first decision he had been called upon to make that afternoon, the first chance of trying out his voice. He thought it sounded squeaky and resolved to try for more sonority next time.

  At a sign from the sergeant, Dr Heineman bounced to his feet and took the oath in a cheery, mittel-European voice. He was a man of brisk and decided manner. His short hair stood up like a brush; it and his high, eloquent eyebrows gave him an air of being the bearer of encouraging tidings. He wore a smartly cut black jacket over a pale pink pleated shirt. His bow tie was of the jaunty, pre-fabricated kind. It was bright green.

  Dr Meadow absorbed these details with blank, slowly ranging eye. Then he slumped carefully in his chair and took a peep under the table. It confirmed his suspicion. The pathologist was wearing spats.

  “Doctor, you conducted a post-morten examination of the body of the deceased at Flaxborough General Hospital, I understand.” The deputy coroner tried not to look at the green tie.

  “Igsectly. Thet I hev done. Yes.” And off went Heineman on a rapid recital of his findings, most of which, if one were to judge by the eagerness of his tone and aspect, were eminently to his taste.

  The deceased, he said, was a well-nourished male person aged about sixty. There was some evidence of circulatory deterioration, but no more than was to be expected in a man of his age. All organs were in a comparatively sound condition, and he had been unable to detect by standard pathological techniques any significant degree of physical regression attributable to the age factor.

  He had been able to eliminate the possibility of intervention in the form of incision, ligature, toxin or concussion.

  The deceased had ingested between six and seven ounces of protein and carbohydrate, with traces of mineral compounds, not more than one hour previous to death. No part of the contents of his stomach was inconsistent with normal nutritional processes.

  The bone structure of the body appeared to be sound, apart from a healed fracture, many years old, of a bone in the left forearm.

  No natural teeth survived in either the lower or the upper jaw.

  He had observed a bruise, together with adjacent abrasion, minor in character, in the upper area of the left hip. There were several smaller bruises distributed over both legs. On the left shoulder was an abrasion, while on the right knee...

  “Correct me if I am wrong, doctor,” broke in the deputy coroner, made daring by boredom, “but I take it that what you are listing now are the body’s superficial injuries—the incidental injuries?”

  Heineman pretended to find the interruption incomprehensible. He turned upon Malley a look of sweetly helpful inquiry: it implied that the sergeant was Dr Thompson’s keeper and was trained to translate his utterances into rational language.

  Thompson frowned. “You do not suggest, do you, doctor, that the injuries you have been describing were contributory to this man’s death? That is all I am asking.”

  Heineman looked at the ceiling, then at Inspector Purbright. He gave Purbright a knowing smile, glanced back to his notes, and went on with the report as if no one else had spoken.

  He was now happily exploring the complex world of Winge’s cranium.

  Purbright understood singularly little of this part of the pathologist’s evidence, but as he listened and looked to see what others were making of it, two things became clear. Heineman had made some discovery by which he was genuinely intrigued. And Meadow—who up to then had affected absolute indifference—was paying careful attention to what Heineman was saying.

  Mr Scorpe, too, seemed gravely interested, but since that particular expression was habitual with him—it had been called his ‘working face’—Purbright could not be certain that he really found the matter significant.

  Dr Thompson offered no further interruption. Only when the pathologist had sat down, beaming his congratulations to the audience on their having enjoyed such a marvellous lecture, did he enquire, with malevolent ingenuousness, whether Dr Heineman was not in a position to suggest a cause of death.

  Heineman’s eyes popped with amused surprise.

  “Cows of dith? But drownink! What ilse?”

  “Thank you, doctor. You might have mentioned it earlier.”

  The deputy coroner wrote something on the sheet before him. He looked up.

  “Would anyone like to ask Dr Heineman any questions? Inspector?”

  Purbright shook his head.

  “Dr Meadow?”

  Meadow declined. Fastidiously.

  “Mr Scorpe—you represent the family of the deceased, I understand...”

  Scorpe bobbed his great solemn head. “If you please.”

  “Is there anything you would care to ask the witness?”

  Scorpe rose menacingly and re-arranged some of his books, like sandbags before a redoubt. “A couple of points, doctor, if you wouldn’t mind...”

  “Pliss!”

  Scorpe looked down at the carbon copy of Heineman’s report with which the helpful Malley had provided him.

  “You say that you found clear indications of a certain neurological condition known as Grosserbayer’s Syndrome.”

  Heineman nodded. He looked very affable.

  “This condition being, in the language of the layman, a disturbance of the brain...”

  “Of the cintral neerwus system,” Heineman corrected, one finger raised.

  “If you please. A disturbance of the central nervous system. Thank you.” Mr Scorpe swept off his great spectacles. “And could you tell us, doctor, what are the special characteristics shown by a person suffering from this, ah...” On went the spectacles again, but just long enough to consult notes. “...this, ah, Grosserbayer’s Syndrome?”

  Dr Heineman bowed. “Of course!” He prepared to make a count of his fingers. “One—he will hev drobbles controllink the belence...”

  “Trouble controlling his balance, yes.”

  “...particularly in moments of striss or enkziety. At such times. You see? Two—very probably he will hev parapsychotic re-ektions to sixual stimuli. Three—a well-ricogniced sympton of Grosserbayerism is the patient’s euphoric, I could even say halucinaaaatory, estimaaaation of his own physical potintial.”

  Mr Scorpe silently digested this for some seconds before attempting a translation.

  “In other words, doctor, the unfortunate man not only would lack what we sometimes call moral control, but would have an exaggerated idea of his own vitality?”

  “Igsectly! But igsectly!”

  “So might it not be fair to say that a man suffering from this, ah, most distressing condition would be less, far less, responsible for his actions than if he was not thus afflicted?”

  “Ye-e-es, I might egree with thet—within certain limits, you unterstend...”

  Scorpe’s spectacles swung upwards to scythe off any qualifications that might have been on their way.

  “If you please. Now, doctor, one more question only. Are the symptoms of Grosserbayer’s Syndrome sufficiently obvious and well-defined for the condition to be diagnosed without undue difficulty?”

  The pathologist grinned indulgently at such lawyerly innocence.

  “My dear sir! A men sufferink Grosserbayerism is es obwiaus es...a dronken policeman—if the inspector will pardon the igsprission. Even the most incompetent—but yes!—incompetent general prectice fellow could not fail to see it.”

  “If you please.” Mr Scorpe sat down. He looked well satisfied.

  Purbright wondered if Malley had not slightly underestimated the intentions of the Winge family. Their solicitor certainly was here to put what whitewash he could on the late alderman. But not only that, surely. He was looking for a scapegoat. It was not in the tradition of the Winges to suffer the results of their own actions if someone else could be made to pay.

/>   The deputy coroner indicated to Dr Heineman that he was now free to leave. He did so in high humour and with almost athletic dispatch.

  “And now, Dr Meadow: you also have other matters to attend to, I dare say. You are under no obligation to offer evidence unless you think it will help the inquiry. Do you wish to be sworn?”

  Dr Meadow, looking round dubiously, was caught in the iron regard of Widow Winge. He shrugged and accepted the testament from Sergeant Malley.

  The deputy coroner began his questions. He felt rather proud of having overcome his initial nervousness and was even playing with the pleasant idea of making Meadow look a fool.

  “How long had Mr Winge been a patient of yours, doctor?”

  “Oh, many years. Perhaps twenty or more.”

  “You are, in fact, the family physician?”

  “That is so.”

  “Had you, in general, considered him a fairly healthy man?”

  “With minor exceptions, yes.”

  “Right up to the time of his death?”

  “He exhibited no symptoms of serious illness.”

  “How serious, Dr Meadow, would you consider the condition defined by the last witness as the Grosserbayer Syndrome?”

  “That would depend on context.”

  “Very well—in the context of Mr Winge, then.”

  “I am not convinced that it would be proper to divulge findings arrived at in the privacy of a consulting room.”

  “You have heard of the Grosserbayer Syndrome, doctor?”

  “I think I may say that I am as familiar with the condition as you are, doctor.”

  “In that case, I need not ask you if you pursued the appropriate medical regimen.”

  “You need not.”

  “Did Mr Winge lately complain specifically of having difficulty in keeping his balance?”

  “As I have indicated already, I am not prepared to divulge professional confidences.”

  “As you wish, doctor. May I put this to you, then? Were you surprised to hear Dr Heineman refer to the symptom of imbalance in connection with Mr Winge’s complaint?”

  “I should be surprised by nothing Dr Heineman saw fit to propound. Whether I agreed with it or not is quite another matter.”

  “There is one further question which it is my duty to ask you, Dr Meadow. Was Mr Winge undergoing—to your knowledge—any form of medication at the time of his death?”

  “He was.”

  “Of what kind?”

  “I am not prepared to say.”

  The deputy coroner regarded him narrowly. “I could press this matter, you know, doctor.”

  Meadow said nothing.

  The deputy coroner looked at Purbright, who shook his head, and then at Mr Scorpe.

  Scorpe lumbered portentously to his feet and glared through his spectacles at a corner of the ceiling as though he had just discovered there the fugitive conscience of Dr Meadow.

  “You have, ah, told the court...” he began, slowly.

  “Mr Scorpe...”

  It was the deputy coroner speaking.

  “Mr Scorpe, I do not have to remind you, of course, that while you are entitled to ask the witness questions, those questions must be simple requests for relevant information. You must not cross-examine. This is not a court of law.”

  “If you please.” Scorpe bowed with exaggerated humility, then stood for a while nibbling the sidepieces of his occular ordnance.

  Suddenly he directed at Meadow a broad, conciliatory smile.

  “You have always enjoyed, doctor, have you not, the full confidence and warm appreciation of the Winge family?”

  Meadow tried not to look surprised. “Why, yes, I believe that to be so.”

  “And in treating my late client, whose death we all deplore, you invariably employed the full extent of your professional knowledge and skill...” Aloft went Mr Scorpe’s glasses to forestall reply. “No, no, doctor—I require no confirmation. That was a statement, not a question. A statement of known fact.” Mr Scorpe glanced sternly at the deputy coroner, then smiled once more upon Dr Meadow.

  “Would you not agree, doctor,” he went on, “that the family of my late client has offered no objection at any time to the course of treatment you saw fit to prescribe for Alderman Winge?”

  “No objection. Not at any time, Mr Scorpe.”

  “Of course not!” Scorpe again treated the deputy coroner to a glance of contempt. Dr Thompson scowled back, then ostentatiously consulted his watch.

  A piece of paper had appeared in Mr Scorpe’s hand. He resumed his fond contemplation of Dr Meadow.

  “They did not object—they had, indeed, no known reason to object—to your prescribing a substance named”—Scorpe peered at the paper—“beta-aminotetrylglutarimide?”

  There was a moment’s silence, perhaps in tribute to Mr Scorpe’s feat of pronunciation, then Dr Meadow said carefully:

  “I am not in the habit of consulting my patients’ relatives, but, as you rightly say, there was no reason why they should have objected. Laymen have no business either to approve or disapprove the prescription of drugs. They know nothing about them.”

  “The medical profession, on the other hand, knows all about them?”

  “I personally make no claim to omniscience.”

  “Not in regard to, ah...beta-aminotetrylglutarimide?”

  “It is a carefully tested and widely approved preparation.”

  “How carefully tested, doctor?”

  For the first time, Dr Meadow’s bearing of dignified condescension showed signs of disturbance. He turned to the deputy coroner.

  “I really cannot submit to this line of questioning on medical matters by a lay advocate. It is most improper.”

  Dr Thompson, who had been enjoying the exchange between Meadow and Scorpe, made a non-committal pout.

  “If Mr Scorpe,” added Dr Meadow, “is intent upon attaching sinister significance to every pill and powder taken by a man who has had the misfortune to fall into a reservoir, I suggest he looks into his late client’s devotion to self-medication.”

  The solicitor made a gesture of huge reasonableness.

  “By all means, doctor. Provided, of course, I am so invited by the learned coroner.”

  Dr Thompson frowned. The description smacked of irony—but so did all descriptions in the mouth of the impossible Mr Scorpe.

  “What had you in mind, doctor?” he asked, quietly.

  “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Winge indulged in quack remedies. I advised against them, naturally, but he tended to be headstrong in these matters.”

  “Quack remedies?”

  “Yes. Herbs—that sort of thing. His latest addiction, if I am not mistaken, was to something he called ‘Samson’s Salad’. He obtained supplies of it by mail order. Looked like compost.”

  Purbright heard behind him a hoarse, indignant whispering. He looked round. Old Mrs Crunkinghorn was protesting about something or other to her neighbour, Fireman Hackett.

  “May we have quiet, please!” commanded the deputy coroner, feeling by now thoroughly authoritative and ready to slap an odd witness or two into gaol for contempt if he got half a chance.

  The disturbance died. Dr Thompson returned his attention to Dr Meadow.

  “ ‘Samson’s Salad’, did you say, doctor? How very odd. Still, it is scarcely within the scope of this inquiry to speculate on the hypothetical effects of some hearsay vegetable. If Mr Scorpe has exhausted his catechism, I don’t think we need detain you any longer from your practice.”

  Taking great care to look neither grateful nor relieved, Dr Meadow strolled casually from the court.

  “And now, perhaps we should hear what Miss Bertha Pollock can tell us. Will you kindly call Miss Pollock, sergeant.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dead by misadventure. A poor sort of end for a member of fifteen committees. And yet precisely the same verdict would have been recorded on a famous explorer who had tumbled off a mountain peak. Not dea
th by adventure. Perhaps that would sound too much like approval. No—misadventure.

  Inspector Purbright, a few minutes early for an interview the next day with the Chief Constable, beguiled the time by thinking up as many as he could of Alderman Winge’s distinguished precursors. General Gordon...Casabianca...Custer... Donald Campbell...Shelley...