Sausage Hall

by Christina James

  “Follow me,” said the nurse. She led him the short distance to a pair of doors. Close to the nurse’s station, they were situated at the opposite end of the corridor to the main ward. The nurse opened one of them carefully and held it for Tim as he entered the small room to which they led.

  “Your visitor, duckie,” said the nurse. “Doctor’s instructions are that he can stay five minutes, tops. I’ll be back to fetch him then. But you can kick him out before that if you want to!”

  She threw Tim a triumphant look as she swept out again.

  Juliet was lying back against the pillows, the head section of which had been raised so that she was almost in a sitting position. She was very pale and her normally springy dark curls clung limply to her forehead.

  “Juliet?” She raised her head a little more and attempted a lop-sided smile. Tim could now see that her right arm was wired to a drip. She was also attached to some kind of monitoring device. A cradle had been placed over her legs, the bedclothes forming a tent across it.

  “God, Juliet, you’ve scared us. I feel scared now, just looking at you.”

  Juliet managed a small gurgle of laughter.

  “You look pretty scary yourself.”

  “What? Oh, the get-up, you mean.”

  “Why are you wearing all that? The nurses haven’t been bothering with special clothes.”

  “It’s because Katrin...” Too late, Tim realised that he’d have to continue. “She’s pregnant,” he concluded. “We haven’t told anyone yet, so I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself.”

  “Oh, Tim, congratulations!” said Juliet. Despite her illness, she was making a valiant effort to sound enthusiastic. Nevertheless, Tim thought that she looked – how? Sad would be too definite a word to use: wistful, maybe. He frowned. He’d never have supposed that Juliet might have hankered after children. He thought that she was devoted to her career.

  “Thank you. But it’s you who I’m concerned about at the moment. Dr Butler tells me you think you were bitten by a rat when you went to Sutterton.”

  “Yes. It just came out of the laurel hedge. I barely had time to be startled before it lunged at my foot and then disappeared. I washed it in the stream there. Apparently, it was the worst thing I could have done!” She pulled a rueful face.

  “They’re not entirely sure that you have got this Weil’s disease yet, are they?”

  “No, but as good as. They’ll know for sure by lunchtime. I wouldn’t mind betting that they’re right, though. Since I’ve been taking the antibiotics, I’ve begun to feel a bit better, even though they make me feel slightly sick.”

  “I feel responsible, for sending you to Sutterton in the first place.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! It was my job. You could hardly have anticipated such a bizarre thing happening to me, anyway.”

  “That’s more or less what Dr Butler said. I’m quite impressed with Dr Butler. She seems to know what she’s talking about.”

  “Oh, she does!” said Juliet. “And she’s taken such good care of me while I’ve been here.”

  “I’m not so keen on her boss, though – Dr Wu. He seems a bit of a charlatan to me.”

  Juliet giggled softly.

  “It doesn’t surprise me that you haven’t taken to him. I think he’s all right, really. He’s allowed Dr Butler to take responsibility, even though she’s only a registrar.”

  “Some people might attribute that to laziness.”

  “And some might say that he’s just good at delegation!” Juliet’s dark eyes were snapping now. Tim was pleased to see that she was well enough to feel annoyed with him.

  “Point taken. Superintendent Thornton sends his regards, by the way.”

  “Thanks. No doubt he’s told you to find out exactly when he can expect me back at work.”

  “No . . . he . . .” Tim faltered. Juliet laughed again. “He is concerned about you,” Tim finished lamely.

  “I’m sure he is – as concerned as he is about his payroll and his crime quotas, at least. I’ve been told I won’t be back at work for about six weeks, but you can tell him that if I’m able to return earlier, I certainly will.”

  “You’re going to have to do as you’re told on this occasion,” said Tim as sternly as he could. “And Thornton’s going to have to part with some of his precious reserves and get some secondments.”

  “Is Ricky still the man on the ground in the de Vries case?”

  “I’ve promised not to talk shop with you. But yes, he is. Why do you ask?”

  “He needs to keep an eye on Harry Briggs. I’m sure he’s not on the level. His wife’s OK – a bit naïve, and far too trusting of Harry – but I’m convinced that he’s up to something.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I went to their house to ask for Jackie. She was out doing one of her jobs – I caught up with her eventually – but Harry was at home on his own. He was cagey with me and as offhand as he thought he could get away with. I asked him to wait until I came back from talking to Jackie. I wanted to check his statement about the burglary. He said he’d be there for another hour before he went out to join his darts team, but when Jackie and I returned to the house forty-five minutes later he’d already gone.”

  “Perhaps he just doesn’t like coppers.”

  “Perhaps. But I think that there’s more to it than that. I don’t know if Ricky checked him out, to see if he’s got a criminal record . . .”

  “Dr Butler said not to talk about work,” said the nurse, bustling in. “I’m afraid it’s time for you to go now, in any case, DI Yates. Perhaps you’d like to call and see if it’s convenient for you to come again tomorrow?”

  “But . . .”

  “No buts. Juliet needs to take some more pills now, and then she needs to rest. Perhaps you might manage some soup later, love. What do you think? If you’d wait outside, DI Yates, I’ll be with you in a minute,” she added, turning her bulky rear towards him as she bent to plump up Juliet’s pillows.

  “Goodbye, Tim,” Juliet said, smiling at him over the nurse’s shoulder. “Thank you so much for coming. You really have cheered me up.”

  Twenty-Five

  Tim was woken several times in the night by Katrin as she got up hurriedly to go to the bathroom. As dawn was breaking, she finally managed to fall asleep. He was worried enough to work from home until she awoke at around 10.00 a.m. Eventually, she emerged from the bedroom, pale and shivery. Her creamy skin had taken on a greenish tinge and there were purple shadows under her eyes.

  “I’ve called Holbeach and told them you’re not well,” Tim said. “I’ll make you something to drink and then, if you don’t need me, I’m going to have to go.” He moved across the room to embrace her. “I wanted to check you were OK before I left.”

  Katrin allowed herself to be embraced, but she stiffened nevertheless. Noticing it, Tim released her so that he could meet her eye.

  “Is something wrong? Apart from feeling unwell, of course?”

  “You know that I don’t want to tell anyone just yet that I’m pregnant. If I start taking days off, they’ll begin to put two and two together pretty quickly.”

  “Don’t worry. I told them you’ve got summer ’flu and that you’ve had a very disturbed night. It’s the truth, more or less. Besides, you’re much more likely to be able to keep it a secret if you take a few days off now. From my recollection of those two pantomime dames in your office, they’d be willing to pin anything on to the first symptoms of pregnancy: a broken arm, toothache or cholera would all do the job equally well. You can bet they’ve been observing you closely for months.”

  Katrin laughed in spite of herself.

  “OK, I’ll stay here today, on condition that you agree that I may do some more work on Florence Hoyle’s journal. But I’m not promising to take several days off. Unless I feel really dreadful
tomorrow, I shall be back at my desk again.”

  “Well, take it easy. But do some more work on the journal if you feel up to it. You’ll probably feel better if you’ve got something to do. Besides, I’m looking forward to hearing what you make of it.”

  “Don’t raise your hopes too high. So far, although I agree with you that Florence’s relationship with both her husband and her mother-in-law is a bit odd, I can’t find anything to link any of them to your skeletons – except, perhaps, the periodic appearance of a mysterious Mr Rhodes in their lives, who I think may be the famous Cecil Rhodes.”

  Tim whistled.

  “You mean the Victorian colonialist?”

  “Yes. But don’t jump to any conclusions yet. I have no proof that it is that Rhodes that Florence speaks of. I need to establish that it was possible for the Cecil Rhodes to have visited Lincolnshire at the dates that she specifies and even then I’d need to find a concrete link between him and Frederick Jacobs before I could be convinced. And even then, I’d still need to find a reason for them to have abducted black women and brought them to Sutterton to kill them.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences, as you know. One thing that is sure is that Cecil Rhodes must have come into contact with plenty of black women in his time.”

  “I agree; but why would he have brought them to Spalding, to the country house of an obscure English landowner?”

  “Ask me another.”

  “There’s no point in asking you! But I will try to get to the bottom of it. Let me finish reading the journal first. Then I’ll find out more about Cecil Rhodes and see if he had any specific links with Lincolnshire.”

  “Perfect!” said Tim, kissing her first on the lips, then on the forehead. “I can’t wait to hear more. Let me know if you find out anything significant before the end of the day. But do take it easy. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” said Katrin, smiling as vivaciously as she could manage. She was beginning to feel queasy again and was quite anxious for Tim to leave so that she could make dry toast before she took a shower. She was glad that he’d already forgotten his offer to make her a drink. She waved to him from the window as he set off in the BMW, then headed for the kitchen.

  An hour later, having eaten two slices of toast, drunk some weak tea and taken a quick shower, she was seated at the kitchen table, once again immersed in the journal. Certain passages had struck her as quite poignant and she wondered if they’d been constructed as artlessly as at first appeared. There was one entry in particular that she’d read over several times. It appeared to chronicle the conception of Gordon Jacobs, Florence and Frederick’s only child, which was not only in itself a strange thing for someone who was striving to be a lady to have written about towards the end of Queen Victoria’s reign, but also suggested that Florence’s sexual relations with her husband occurred so infrequently that she was able to pinpoint the date. This in turn led Katrin to suspect that the journal entry had been written retrospectively. Once again, Lucinda Jacobs seemed to have played a leading part. The entry was dated July 1896, almost four years after Florence and Frederick had married.

  Frederick has been very melancholy for some weeks. I’ve tried to cheer him up and divert him in all sorts of ways, even learning to play chess, though not well. He’s taken to sleeping in the blue room, because he says he has no wish to disturb me. Before I retired last night, I asked him if there was anything that he wanted. He repeated that there was nothing, and that I should go to bed. Mamma was still in the drawing-room, looking very displeased. I asked if she felt well, and she said yes, quite, and bid me goodnight. She rose to kiss me and called me a dear child, I think to reassure me that she wasn’t cross with me.

  While I was washing my face I heard raised voices coming up the stairs. I think that Mamma was being angry with Frederick, but she was speaking in a low, rapid voice and I couldn’t hear the words. Frederick bellowed something back at her once or twice. It’s not a very polite word to use, but it’s the best I can think of: he was really shouting.

  They were quieter after a while. I heard Frederick say goodnight to Mamma as I was getting into bed. I sat up in bed for a few moments, and was about to blow out the candle and lie down when there was a light tap at the door and Frederick came in. He said that he had changed his mind about wanting company for the night and asked if he could stay. Of course I said yes.

  In the same ink Florence had written above this entry My dear son, Gordon Cecil George Jacobs, was born on 23rd April 1897.

  Had Florence added this note for herself, or for posterity, and if so who had she expected might read it? And what of the boy’s names? Either Florence or Frederick had probably chosen George because their son was born on St George’s Day. Was Cecil Frederick’s choice? And was there anything significant about the child’s first name, other than that, presumably, they had liked it?

  The next entry was of yet more interest. It was dated 10th September 1896.

  I have been quite unwell, so I have written nothing for some time. I’m beginning to feel better now. It is as Mamma had supposed all along: I am with child. She is very happy about the baby. Even Frederick seems quite pleased, though I know he finds my condition hard to cope with. He says that he hates to see me suffer, but although he is too gentlemanly to say so, I sense that he is affronted by my nausea and by my increasing plumpness. He used to say how much he admired my boyish figure.

  Mamma says that Fredrick should be taking better care of me, and that I need sea air. She has booked The Grand Hotel in Brighton for all of us. We are to leave on Monday. I am quite excited, as I have seldom seen the sea. Frederick has agreed to escort us, although he says that he may not remain for the whole week. Mr Rhodes is in London and they have business there. Mamma says that London is not far from Brighton if Frederick takes the train, or that Mr Rhodes could stir himself to visit Frederick at The Grand. Frederick says that unfortunately some of the business needs him to be in Lincolnshire, and that he may have to return to Laurieston in our absence. I can tell that Mamma is extremely annoyed about this, though she has said nothing out loud. I am a little upset that Frederick always puts Mr Rhodes first, but even more that he and Mamma seem always these days to be at odds with each other. To be fair to Frederick, at the moment I would not be good company if he were to spend every day with me; I’m no longer sickly, but I’m still weak and tired.

  Katrin felt a sudden wave of nausea sweep over her. She just made it to the bathroom. The intensity of these bouts of vomiting was beginning to frighten her now. Afterwards she returned to the kitchen table and tried to take up the journal again, but was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. Angry with herself for succumbing, she knew that she was able to do nothing but lie down and rest. She returned to the bedroom and huddled under the quilt. She was asleep within seconds.

  Twenty-Six

  I knew that Joanna would not want to see me at the airport; equally, I knew that I had to be there to meet her. I was waiting for her at Gatwick early in the morning, exactly as the two plods had come to meet me. I have no idea what their feelings were as they hung around waiting for my delayed flight: boredom, possibly, irritation or just a weary déja vu sense of wanting to get on with it? Of one thing I am certain: they could not have been dreading their encounter with me as much as I was dreading mine with Joanna.

  I’ve not had much time to think over the past three days, but what few minutes there have been have been devoted to her. I’ve had to face up to my cowardice, for I’m forced now to admit to myself that I dread seeing Joanna in extremis. My departure for the UK was, of course, inevitable and not of my own choosing, but I cannot deny that I left St Lucia gladly and not without a sense of relief. Joanna as she is now is not the woman that I married. I shall be loyal to her as long as she lives, but I can’t deny that I no longer love her. The most terrible thing about a lingering death is that it claims the mind long before its ravages have exhausted t
he body. If she’d been cut down by a flash of lightning or crushed by a bus, the agony would have been so much easier to bear. As it is, I’m forced to keep on struggling with a hollowed-out shell, an angry cypher. Joanna as she is now seems to be beyond much feeling or sensitivity: she is a living corpse.

  So I’m standing now at the barrier, once again jostling with the excited cretins who are frantically welcoming home relatives to whom they rarely speak for the rest of the year, watching for my frail and vengeful wife to appear. I’m a little concerned that already half a dozen or so first class passengers have sprinted through to the exit, most to be welcomed, not by embarrassing relatives, but by the more restrained greetings of the corporate employees or hire car chauffeurs who lead them discreetly away, taking charge of their luggage as they go. I know that Joanna can be quite awkward about our wealth – she makes a parade of never having forgotten her farm-labourer roots – but surely even she would not dream of travelling economy in her condition? I continue to watch and wait, and resolve to ask an airline official for help if she isn’t with the next tranche of arrivals.

  A wheelchair comes round the corner, pushed by a blonde stewardess, handsomely discreet in the dark-blue uniform worn by British Airways staff. She is striking and at first my attention is drawn to her expertly made-up face and blonde coiffure. Then I notice that her charge is gesturing quite agitatedly. I look more closely and see a face grimacing with anger. The woman in the wheelchair is gaunt, almost skeletal, but she, too, is elegant in her way. Her hair has been professionally styled into a smooth chignon. She wears a cream linen trouser suit with a black silk shirt. Of course I see at once that it is Joanna, horribly changed during the brief five days since I left her, yet still retaining the distinctive bearing of my wife and some of the vestiges of her former beauty.

  The stewardess has evidently now been told who I am. She passes through the barrier and halts beside me.