A Detective at Death's Door

by H. R. F. Keating

  So, if that’s the case with Rance, then I’ve nothing to worry about. Or ... or will I have a great deal to worry about?

  She shrugged.

  Nothing I can do. Just wait and see.

  What she did by way of waiting was, comically she felt, just what Rance had told her to do. She sat in idleness, flipping through a book, yet another Agatha Christie pulled at random from John’s packed shelves.

  She hardly paid attention to its unfolding story. Only when she suddenly realized that the title, The Pale Horse, was meant to send resonating through the alert reader the biblical quotation ‘Behold a pale horse and the name that sat on him was Death’ did she get up and try, not with success, to squeeze the paperback into its place in the shelves.

  Too much of death in Birchester under the ranging presence of the Poisoner.

  She dropped the book on the table beside her. Then with a renewed spurt of rage she thought of the way Rance had rejected hearing any details of the description she had extracted from Prodger of the man very likely to be the Poisoner.

  Of the man. The man. If the bastard had listened for one moment, the notion he had in his head that Bruce Grant had seen an old, witch-like woman putting aconitine into my Campari must have been at the very least put doubt in his mind. All right, what Prodger said was pretty thin. But he spoke clearly enough of a cap and, more, of a white moustache. And one day ...

  Right, she told herself, tomorrow I am going, come what may, to the Club. And this time I’m going to find Mrs Upchurch’s Jamieson and question and question him till either I’ve satisfied myself that no former master at St Aldred’s School was capable of writing Latin-filled moralizing letters to the Star, or that I have found a name that fits. And then ... then, with the Schoolmaster out of the way, I’ll be able to prove that the Poisoner never wrote those letters, that he is not seeking the blackmail sum of a million pounds, that he is not the absurd witch Bruce Grant tried to persuade us to go looking for. And that he is a danger still hovering over Birchester, the rider on the pale horse.

  The rider on the pale horse: she must have murmured the words aloud because Mrs Pickstock, emerging from the kitchen and, in her customary way, just poking her head round the door, said cheerfully, ‘Oh, you’ve been reading that one, not quite my favourite, but nice all the same. Though I do always think it is a bit creepy really.’

  She came waddling further in.

  ‘But you know,’ she said, ‘it did save a boy’s life once.’

  Harriet, still caught up in her train of thought, found herself believing for an instant that Mrs Pickstock must be saying that Twisted Wolfsbane had somehow saved Jakey Welland’s life as well as her own. Then, as she realized her mistake, a shiver of premonition ran through her.

  Jakey: has his life been saved? At St Oswald’s has Mr Hume Jones been able to work his magic once again? Did that ambulance even take Jakey to the right hospital?

  ‘Just a moment, Mrs Pickstock,’ she babbled out. ‘I — I’ve got to make a phone call, rather urgent.’

  John had put a card with the St Oswald’s number beside the phone in case of an emergency. With a trembling forefinger she jabbed it out.

  Jakey was, in hospital terminology, in a stable condition.

  It was all she could learn, and she lacked the forcefulness even to try to batter more out of the woman she had spoken to. But it was enough. Perhaps her fingers pushing down Jakey’s throat had given Mr Hume Jones and his team enough of a chance to begin their life-saving procedures.

  Sinking back into her chair with a sense of relief that brought the sweat up all over her body, she tried to think what it was Mrs Pickstock had been saying.

  Something about ... yes, The Pale Horse, the old paperback on the table here. She glanced down at it. God, what an awful cover, with that spidery white skeleton lying there like some sort of discarded plaything, instead of riding high, Death himself on his rearing pale horse.

  Yes, Mrs P had been saying something about saving a boy’s life. Made me think of little Jakey.

  ‘You were telling me something about this book, Mrs Pickstock? I’m sorry, I suddenly remembered I had to call the hospital.’

  ‘Yes. Well, dear, I wonder Hubby never mentioned this to you. There was this little boy, you see, a foreigner of some kind, not that I’ve anything against foreigners, and his very rich parents had brought him over here when he was on the point of death from a mystery illness. Only even our doctors couldn’t think at first what the cause of it was. But in the ward, one of those private ones you know, there was this nurse keeping an eye on the boy, and while she was sitting there she was reading just this book, The Pale Horse. And suddenly she realized the words in front of her at that very moment were a description of the exact symptoms the little boy had, and Dame Agatha had said just what the poison was that caused them. Of course, she told the doctors at once, and they soon enough put everything right. Come to think about it, it was just like the way it was with Hubby reading Hoisted Wolfsbane and saving you, wasn’t it? I always say dear Dame Agatha is one of the best writers ever.’

  Picking her way through that verbal jungle, Harriet could only reply, ‘Yes, you’re quite right, Mrs Pickstock.’

  But, she thought, in the book there must have been another one at death’s door. Like Jakey. Like me.

  *

  Harriet had aimed to leave the house next day by quarter to ten so as to get to the gardens at the Majestic Club as soon as she was likely to find old Mr Jamieson at work. She had put on the little tub chair the night before the outfit she had chosen, which she felt made her look like someone who could be an acquaintance of difficult Mrs Upchurch: a light tweed jacket and skirt in a shade of pale grey. It had been in her wardrobe for years, seldom worn.

  An unexpected telephone call changed her plans.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Martens?’

  ‘Yes?’

  What is this? Detective Superintendent Martens is meant to be slowly recovering from an almost-fatal poisoning. No one, bar close friends, should be ringing me up. And I’m damned if I recognize this voice.

  ‘Miss Martens, I’m the almoner at St Oswald’s Hospital with special responsibility for child patients.’

  Jakey, she thought at once.

  Has he ... ? Not dead? Surely not dead. When yesterday they told me he was in a stable condition.

  ‘Yes? Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Oh, no need to worry, Miss Martens.’

  Bloody woman. Why can’t she just say what she’s got to say?

  ‘So how can I help you?’

  She let the steely edge show in her voice.

  ‘It’s just this, Miss Martens. Little Jacob Welland is a lot better today. He’s really making an unexpectedly rapid recovery. Mr Hume Jones worked wonders when he was brought in. And nothing will satisfy Jacob today but saying thank you to the lady who called the ambulance for him and, as he’s convinced, saved his life. He’s a bright little mite, you know.’

  ‘He wasn’t exactly in a condition to show any brightness when I saw him.’

  ‘No, I suppose he wasn’t, little thing. But he’s bright as a button this morning.’

  If he’s as well as she’s implying, the thought came abruptly to Harriet, I might be able to get a better description from him of the man who offered him that poisoned can of Coke, a far fuller one perhaps than the few vague details old Prodger was prepared to give me. I could even learn enough to make a positive identification.

  ‘I suppose I might be able to come and see him,’ she said cautiously. ‘Should I bring something more in his line than flowers?’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. Perhaps you should bring him some sweets. Nothing difficult to swallow, of course, and nothing too rich.’

  It’ll not be exactly a bribe, she thought. But ... but something to encourage talk. A lot of informative talk, if it’s to be had.

  Her heart began to beat noticeably faster.

  Calm down, calm
down.

  ‘I could come this morning,’ she said. ‘As soon as he’s ready for me really.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss Martens. That’s just what we had in mind. It will settle little Jacob splendidly, though of course you should be careful not to over-excite him.’

  All right, I will be. I will be. But I’ll talk to him for as long as it’s necessary, and I won’t let any Nurse Bhattacharya or anyone of that sort tell me to leave off.

  ‘So when shall we see you, Miss Martens?’

  ‘In ... in about half an hour, if that’s all right.’

  ‘That will be perfect. Jacob is so eager to see you.’

  *

  Jakey, as it turned out, was occupying the very same room at St Oswald’s that Harriet had had herself. She found him propped up on pillows, looking almost well, if with cheeks more flushed than they might have been.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said as Nurse Bhattacharya, none other, opened the door. ‘Yeah, that’s the one. The one what poked her fingers down me froat.’

  Harriet grinned.

  ‘Hope I didn’t hurt too much.’

  ‘Nah. Saved me life, didn’t yer? That’s what Mr Jones said anyhow. An’ fanks very much.’

  Savouring the Mister Jones, ferociously hyphenless, Harriet produced the box of soft fruit-shaped sweets she had managed to buy when she stopped her taxi on the way.

  ‘The doctor I saw downstairs,’ she said, ‘told me these would be okay for you. But only one at a time, mind, and a big gap between each. So — A dart of inspiration. ‘No guzzling, not in the way you guzzled that Coke the man gave you.’

  Right, she said to herself, pleased with her stratagem, now to see how much he remembers about what happened then.

  Christ, though, will I have stirred up terrible memories? That prissy almoner with her warning about not over-exciting him. All right, classical fusser there, if I’m not mistaken. Yet ... yet what if I do cause a relapse, and ... ?

  But she was saved from the possible consequences.

  ‘That what happened then?’ Jakey asked, his voice much less bright. ‘I been trying to fink.’

  ‘And you haven’t remembered anything?’ Harriet asked, tom between her desire to know more and fellow feeling for another who had suffered as she had. ‘Anything at all about it?’

  ‘Nah. Nuffink.’

  Nuffink. Then my whole clever little plan’s up in smoke.

  ‘Yeah,’ little Jakey was going on. ‘I told that Mr Jones about that, an’ he said it’s what happens most of the time when you’ve had that sort of accident. Well, that’s what he gave out, if he wasn’t telling a whopper.’

  Yes, Harriet thought, Mr Hume No-hypen is more than capable of telling a whopper, if it suits him. Look at the way he tried to keep me here as his prize patient. You’re a sharp little devil, Jakey Welland. Even if you can’t be any help to me.

  ‘Yeah, it was a major accident what I had,’ Jakey continued, reflectively. ‘Major. An’ what about you, Miss? You were poisoned jus’ like me, weren’t yer?’

  ‘Yes, I was poisoned just like you, although I think I got it rather worse. And, yes, I can’t remember much about it, even now.’

  ‘Don’t yer worry,’ Jakey said. ‘It’ll all come back one day. Least, that’s what old Jonesey says.’

  Harriet decided this piece of juvenile philosophy gave her the opportunity to leave. Jakey had given her his fanks, and there had been, as it turned out, nothing more to learn from him about the man in the cap with a white moustache. So, with a final ‘Right, get well soon, you little wretch,’ she set off back home.

  *

  For a moment in the taxi she had toyed with the thought of saying once again that she would go directly to the Majestic Club.

  But, no. No, I need a bit of a rest. A bit of time to nerve myself up. Enough to be able to see again that recliner beside the pool, the stout little table beside it on which there had stood a tall glass of bubbles-sailing, cherry-red Campari soda.

  Yes, a little time.

  There flashed across her mind then the still living feel of John’s fingers probing and probing, in just the way she had had to put her own down Jakey’s froat. And then once again there came that momentary inner sight of something black and white.

  What ... ? What the devil does that mean? Why? Why do I see it time after time? It must surely be something originating from those few minutes while I was dropping off to sleep on that recliner. But what? What?

  Will everything, as Jakey kindly said to me, all come back one day? And what will I learn then?

  The taxi drew up in front of the house. And this time she not only succeeded in paying the fare unasked but managed to open the front door without having to stand there and work out that a latch-key and the mortise were needed. In the sitting-room she found the copy of The Pale Horse lying where she had left it and, feeling now no need for any anodyne mental comfort, she put it without difficulty into its proper place in its jam-packed shelf. Next to Hoisted Wolfsbane.

  She ate the lunch Mrs Pickstock had brought her from Organics ‘R Go, the Four-bean and Ginger soup, which she now found perfectly palatable, and the soft brown, grains-dotted organic roll. Then at last she felt ready to go to see what she thought of, with a touch of wry amusement, as the scene of the crime. To where not only had the Poisoner committed his first offence, but where, too, old Mr Jamieson, once groundsman at St Aldred’s School, might very well be able to identify for her the Schoolmaster, writer of those farrago letters to the Star claiming to be the Poisoner. She rang for a taxi — not yet ready to drive herself again — and endured the long wait for it in happy patience.

  This time, she found with increasing satisfaction she had no need to call a halt on the way and say, untruthfully, that she wanted a walk. Which, she reflected, was just as well, since a seeping rain had begun to fall once more.

  The taxi came to a halt. Still sitting inside in view of the rain and her lack of any protection from it, she paid the fare, tipped to a nicety and got out.

  But then, the moment she walked through the Club gates, disaster.

  She came to a blank and total halt.

  I — I can’t walk. I’m frozen into a statue. Locked rigid.

  She felt her heart begin to beat crushingly. Cold established itself in all her body, from the soles of her feet to her very scalp. A feeling of nausea swelled within her.

  Before long, her breath was coming faster and faster, ever more shallowly. She gasped and gasped. Soon it felt as though at any moment it would be impossible to breathe at all.

  She fought against it. But it was too much for her.

  Christ, I’m going to die. Death’s door.

  Christ, the Poisoner’s won. Now. Now, after so long.

  And it was that dimmest of thoughts that brought her back from it.

  I’m not going to let him. He’s not going to win. I am going to win.

  Gradually her locked frame relaxed. She found she was breathing almost regularly again. Her heartbeats had slowed, the crushing feeling was rapidly leaving her.

  She still felt nauseous and she was still cold to shivering point. But she knew she had beaten off the calamity that had seemed to threaten her very life.

  No, Poisoner, you didn’t win. You didn’t win over me, any more than you won over bouncy little Jakey. Yes, the thought of this place, where you tried to send me to death, did put me into a state of wild panic. But that’s what it was. That’s all it was. A panic attack. Just a more severe panic attack than the one that happened to me on the way to see Mrs Dora Long, who was not after all my witch-like murderer.

  *

  Still a little shaky, Harriet managed to set off again into the Club grounds. She came to the as yet undrained pool, its blue water pock-marked by the droplets of the steadily descending rain, a few yellow leaves floating here and there on its surface. And at the sight of the wooden recliner in the very same position it had been in August with its table there beside it, she experienced not the least tremor o
f unease.

  So that’s where it happened, she thought. As if, a schoolgirl on a tour of the Tower of London, she had been informed by some loudly reciting Beefeater in red and gold skirted uniform that this was the spot where Anne Boleyn had had her head chopped off.

  She took one last look and moved on.

  At this early hour of the afternoon in the middle of the working week the grounds were wholly deserted. Careless of the by now thoroughly wettened state of her tweed jacket, she went here and there hoping to see an ancient gardener at work. In her mind’s eye she actually had him dressed in corduroys tied round with straw at the knees and with a piece of sodden sacking across his bent shoulders.

  But nowhere was there any such figure, or any other more likely figure. She began to feel a mounting sense of anger. Wasn’t it the man’s duty to be at work here somewhere? Who did he think he was to take a day off when, first thing, it hadn’t even been raining? When someone urgently wanted a word with him?

  Then, as she strode on, head down, the rain-heavy branch of an ornamental cherry tree brushed straight into her face. She cursed it. And cursed again the hard-to-find Mr Jamieson.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it, I’m going to have to give up. I’m going home. To take off this horrible old suit and get myself dry and warm.

  But, no.

  No, she thought, dabbing with a damp sleeve at the heavy raindrops on her face, I’m here to find that man if he’s anywhere to be found. To find him and learn from him the names and characters of every single member of the teaching staff at St Aldred’s School at the time the man I call the Schoolmaster was likely to be here.