Laugh Out Dead

by Rupert Harker

  “It is my frank experience,” said he, “that in cases of suicide by public transport, one will often wait for what feels like an eternity for such a case to arise, only to have several come along at once.”

  “Isn’t it always the way? Oh, I almost forgot; I managed to obtain Professor Gorshkov’s autopsy report.”

  Urban-Smith’s eyes lit up at the news. “Capital fellow. What does it show?”

  “I haven’t had time to read it yet,” I replied, “but I shall do so forthwith.”

  As I read, I quickly recognised that Urban-Smith’s instinct to review the autopsy report had been a sound one. The cause of death was not as simple as I had first believed.

  The report commenced in the usual fashion.

  ‘These are the findings of a post-mortem examination carried out at 10 a.m. on Tuesday, the 10th October 2006 on the body of Professor Trofim Gorshkov. Professor Gorshkov is reported to have collapsed suddenly after an epileptic fit on the evening of Friday, the 6th of this month.

  Summary of Clinical History.

  Professor Gorshkov was a fifty-five-year-old ex-smoker with type 2 diabetes and hypertension for which he was taking gliclazide, amlodipine and simvastatin. Shortly before his death, he was witnessed to demonstrate a sudden change in mood, exhibiting marked euphoria. Within a few seconds, he collapsed and entered a brief tonic-clonic phase before experiencing cardiac arrest. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation was attempted by onlookers, but he was pronounced dead upon arrival at hospital.

  There is no reported trauma or ingestion of illicit substances, though the deceased had consumed a moderate amount of alcohol during the evening, estimated to be between eight and twelve standard units.

  External Examination.

  The body is that of a male with short grey hair and beard. Length is 182 cm, weight is 84kg. There are electrode pads attached to the front of the chest and to each wrist and shin. There is an appendicectomy scar on the right lower abdomen. There are no tattoos, piercings or other scars or distinguishing features. Appearance is compatible with age.

  There are a few abrasions on the left arm and left side of back, consistent with minor injuries from a collapse. There are no significant external injuries.’

  From the neck downwards, the Professor’s autopsy had revealed little of note other than some swelling of the liver due to excess alcohol consumption and a moderate degree of smoking-related lung damage. Inside his head, however, was a very different matter.

  “This is fascinating,” said I. “The Professor has died as a result of acquiring many small areas of bleeding around the thalamus and hypothalamus, which are located between the cerebral hemispheres and the midbrain. This has interrupted the flow of cerebrospinal fluid and caused his brain to swell.”

  “In layman’s terms please, Rupert.” Urban-Smith requested. “Anatomy is not my forte.”

  “The brain,” I explained, “is cushioned and protected via the circulation of a clear fluid which flows through a system of channels and spaces. Blockage to this system leads to a rise in pressure and expansion of these spaces, eventually causing the brain to swell.

  “If the swelling is sufficiently severe, the lower portion of the brainstem may be forced downwards through the opening at the base of the skull, an event known as coning. Coning produces coma, seizures and death, and this is what has happened to Professor Gorshkov.

  “The autopsy report summary reads as follows:

  ‘This 55-year-old man died from multiple haemorrhages within the thalamus and hypothalamus, leading to a rapid elevation of intracranial pressure and resulting in tonsillar herniation through the foramen magnum (coning). There is no history or evidence of trauma, therefore the cause of death is recorded as

  1a - Cerebral haemorrhage due to

  1b - cerebrovascular disease due to

  1c – hypertension

  contributed to, but not caused by

  2 – diabetes mellitus, emphysema and alcoholic liver disease.’”

  “Does this confirm that he died from a series of strokes?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “It would appear to.”

  “Then why, dear Rupert, do I share Dr Grove’s sense of unease about this affair?” He stood and began to pace the room. “What was the nature of the phone call that came at the precise moment of Professor Gorshkov’s death? What was it that induced the doctor’s feelings of dread and trepidation? And finally, we have the matter of the burglary. Must we believe that these events are unconnected?”

  “I did not say that they were unconnected,” said I, “but they do not detract from my conviction that the death was a natural one. It is, for example, entirely possible that the stress of the burglary had caused an increase in the Professor’s alcohol intake, in turn leading to a worsening of his diabetic control, a rise in blood pressure and derangement of triglyceride levels. It is perfectly feasible that these changes would prove sufficient to precipitate an acute vascular event, such as a heart attack or stroke.”

  Urban-Smith threw himself back into his armchair. “I don’t like it, Rupert. I feel that we are overlooking something fundamental to this case.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “We must have data. I think we should pay a visit to the Professor’s widow and see what she can add. We need to take a look at his laboratory and his research and try to establish a motive for the burglary.” He reached for his mobile telephone. “I shall contact Dr Grove and ask if he can arrange meetings with Mrs Gorshkov and the Dean of the Professor’s faculty.”

  “What is the relevance of seeing ghosts?” I asked.

  He looked at me bemused. “Pardon?”

  “You asked Dr Grove if he had ever seen a ghost. You seemed to place great significance to his affirmation.”

  “Ah,” said Urban-Smith as the penny dropped, “indeed I do, for it would appear that Dr Grove is what is known as a sensitive.”

  “A sensitive?” I was unfamiliar with the term.

  “That’s right, Rupert. There are those among us who are able to detect the presence of energies and stimuli of which the majority are oblivious. I believe that Dr Grove’s reported sense of foreboding was a barometer of some anomalous atmospheric or psychic phenomenon.”

  I scoffed at the suggestion. “Dr Grove is not a sensitive. He’s a neurotic! For heaven’s sake, the man is wetter than a herring’s chequebook.”

  “Don’t be too hasty, Rupert. There may be more to him than a brittle spleen. After all, psychic sensitivity is not an uncommon attribute.”

  “Are you a sensitive, Fairfax?”

  “Not in the least. I have the sensitivity of a house brick.”

  The mantel clock struck eight, and I rose sharply.

  “I am sorry to have to cut this conversation short, but I must away to my club. The floorshow starts in less than an hour.”

  “Of which club are you a member, Rupert?”

  “The Blue Belvoir on The Spawn. Do you care to join me?”

  “Not for me, thank you, Rupert. Unlike you, I still value both my liver and my eyesight.”

  *

  I spent a couple of very jolly hours at The Blue Belvoir Club, where I made the acquaintance of several vivacious young ladies and exchanged stimulating conversation with my peers, yet my libations did not convey their usual satisfaction for I was troubled by Urban-Smith’s trepidation.

  I returned to Chuffnell Mews just before midnight, but sleep did not come easily, and when it did, my dreams were fervent with visions of Dr Grove gyrating about a polished steel pole, swinging his spleen about his head while middle-aged revellers tucked pound notes into his garters. I awoke at dawn with a disturbing combination of wry amusement and morbid horror and dared not go back to sleep.

  ◆◆◆

  4. A BEAUTIFUL WIDOW

  Tuesday 24th October

  St Clifford’s Hospital was established in 1812 by Percival Clifford, a wealthy philanthropist who had made his fortune from the publication of exotic lithographs. The
hospital was originally intended to treat victims of athlete’s foot and scurvy, a combination known as scruffle, but as scruffle became a disease of times past, the hospital expanded and its reputation as a great centre of healing grew with it. Now St Clifford’s shines as a beacon of exemplary practice in the heart of the capital.

  The lower-basement houses the London Metropolitan Forensic Pathology Unit where I was engaged as Senior Teaching Fellow. My time was divided between the mortuary where I performed autopsies and studied histological specimens, my office where I prepared my reports, and the courts, be they Crown or Coroner’s, where I acted as expert witness when the occasion called for such.

  Tuesday morning found me at my desk, searching the interweb for any information about thalamic micro-haemorrhage. It transpires that the finding is commonly associated with strokes, high blood pressure, old age and smoking, and it could certainly cause the pattern of collapse that Professor Gorshkov had suffered.

  I also found several articles on laughter as a presentation of a stroke. I was interested to learn that, although rare, the phenomenon is well documented and was first described in 1903 by M.C Fere, (not to be confused with MC Hammer) who dubbed it, ‘fou rire prodromique.’

  This seemed to neatly tie up any loose ends. Clearly, Professor Gorshkov had suffered an acute stroke manifesting itself in the rare pattern known as fou rire prodromique. Most probably, the stress of recent events had led to an increase in alcohol intake and blood pressure, producing a derangement in metabolic function and culminating in the fatal event.

  The rest of the day passed without complication. I performed three autopsies; two casualties of heart disease and one of lung cancer. All three were promptly dismantled and reassembled, and all my reports dictated by four o’clock, enabling me to leave work early and take a leisurely and scenic walk home. I ambled down Pike Street and Fawn Street, up the Spawn, and then across Bilbury Square, where I stopped at a coffee shop to indulge in a cream bun and a fatty latte.

  I joined Urban-Smith at teatime, and we sat in the kitchen, enjoying a delicious fish supper while Mrs Denford fussed about, clucking and tidying around us.

  “Dr Grove has arranged for us to visit the widow Gorshkov tonight at seven-thirty,” Urban-Smith informed me.

  “On what pretext?”

  “No pretext. He has told her the truth; that he is concerned there may be more to the death than meets the eye.”

  “Surely the poor woman has suffered enough?” I proceeded to illuminate Urban-Smith regarding the fruits of my morning’s labours.

  “Fou rire prodromique, you say?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I confirmed. “So you see, there really seems little reason to trouble her.”

  “Nonetheless,” insisted Urban-Smith, “I would like to inspect the late Professor’s telephone, if she still has it, and ask whether she shared Dr Grove’s awareness of an impending vicissitude.”

  *

  We journeyed by taxi, venturing south of the river to Balham in the company of a Polish driver who seemed to be composed of equal parts factory chimney and kamikaze pilot. Miraculously, we survived the journey, and just before half past seven we were deposited, traumatised but unharmed, at the Gorshkovs’ house, a large, pre-war semi-detached at the end of a cul-de-sac.

  The driveway was flanked by a paved footpath on one side and a slim flowerbed on the other, with a hedge to delineate the boundary of the property. We traversed the path and knocked at the door, which was answered by a slender woman in her late forties.

  My word, what a woman! Lustrous brown hair, sparsely stippled with silver, flowed about her shoulders, and I was mesmerised by her full lips and dark eyes. She wore a pair of cream twill trousers and a tight-fitting, blue sweater with a scoop neck displaying her small but appealing cleavage. Her tan-leather, open-toed sandals were a belated homage to the pan-European heatwave that had dominated drawing room conversation all summer, and as I admired her shapely ankles, I noticed that her toenails, like her fingernails, had been painted pink.

  Ulyana Gorshkov greeted us with a faint smile and firm handshake and ushered us through the hall and into the sitting room. The room was minimally furnished with two leather sofas, a large, flat-screen television, and a low coffee table. The walls were lined with patterned wallpaper, and the floor was of laminate composite overlaid by a plush, red and green rug. At the far end, a set of double doors led to the darkened dining room.

  Urban-Smith and I sat upon one sofa, and Mrs Gorshkov upon the other. She offered us beverages, which we declined, and she came straight to it.

  “Herman asked me to speak with you, Mr Urban-Smith, but I confess that I really cannot understand the purpose of your visit. My husband is dead and gone from a stroke which I witnessed as did dozens of others. There can be no mystery or suspicion.” Her voice was soft, feminine and heavily accented.

  “Mystery?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “Oh, yes. I am aware of your reputation and field of expertise. You deal in the occult and mysterious, solving riddles and puzzles that have thwarted all others. While I am flattered by your attentions, they seem wholly unsuited to the situation.”

  “Would it offend you if I were to ask about your husband?”

  “Not in the least. I am proud of my husband and all he has achieved.”

  “It is regrettable,” said Urban-Smith, “that I never had the opportunity to speak to him in person. Can you tell us a little of his research?”

  “Throughout much of his career, Trofim experimented with the use of low-frequency resonators to augment cancer radiotherapy. More recently, he had been using similar techniques to target specific areas of the brain in order to ease symptoms of phobia and anxiety.”

  “Had he made much progress?” I enquired.

  “Oh yes. Studies in rats had proved most encouraging.” The briefest of smiles crossed Ulyana Gorshkov’s beautiful face. “There was even talk of nomination for a Nobel Prize.” She sighed deeply. “It grieves me that he did not survive to taste the fruits of his labours.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “He yearned to find a cure for his own condition. Trofim was a lifelong sufferer of papamorsuphobia.”

  “A fear of being bitten by the Pope?”

  “That’s right. Rosaries would bring him out in a cold sweat.”

  “How did you and Trofim meet?” asked Urban-Smith.

  Ulyana Gorshkov smiled once more, and the room brightened with her radiance.

  “We met in the summer of 1978. I was studying geology at the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology. My thesis was an investigation of the effects of earth tremors on the structural integrity of Moscow bedrock. Trofim was working in the department of Molecular and Biological Physics, and I learned that he had developed a low-frequency molecular resonator, the first of its kind. I wanted to borrow it for my simulations.

  “We had so much in common, and we were engaged within a few months. When Trofim’s work took him to Munchkingrad, I followed. We married in 1980, and in 1982 our daughter, Irina, was born.

  “The early 1990s were a time of terrible uncertainty in Russia. Professionals, especially teachers, were emigrating in large numbers, and so we decided to move to England where we could offer our daughter a more stable environment. Trofim had no difficulty in securing a post, and we have been here ever since.

  “I can honestly say that our life together has been one of great joy, although this last year had been extremely trying for Trofim.”

  “In what way?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “Just before Easter, his mother was diagnosed with cancer. She worsened rapidly and died only a few weeks ago. Then there was the burglary, of course. Did Herman tell you about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The theft hit Trofim hard. He lost so much of his research. Along with the loss of his mother, I suspect this is what precipitated his stroke.” Ulyana Gorshkov’s eyes welled with tears, and her lip trembled with strong emotion. “My only consolation
is that, after all he had suffered this year, he had been able to relax and enjoy himself for a short while on that final night.”

  I handed Mrs Gorshkov a paper handkerchief, and we sat in silence until she had regained her composure.

  “It had been a wonderful evening,” she continued, “full of joy and laughter. Trofim was telling his favourite story, the one about his Uncle Anton and the inflatable llama. He was demonstrating how Uncle Anton’s trousers had caught fire for the second time, when he spilt wine on his shirt. We all implored him to finish his tale, but he insisted on changing immediately and hurried away to our bedroom. He was only gone for a few minutes, but no sooner had he returned than his phone rang.”

  “Can you remember the ringtone?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “It was Koslovsky’s Polonaises, Trofim’s favourite. He lifted the phone to his ear and said hello, and then that awful laughter started. It was nothing like his usual laughter. It was the laughter of a madman, of a lunatic.” Mrs Gorshkov dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “He fell to the floor in a fit and never recovered.”

  “What became of his telephone?”

  “His telephone?” Mrs Gorshkov pondered briefly. “I gave it to my daughter. Hers had been stolen.”

  Urban-Smith nodded. “I see. Mrs Gorshkov, before your husband collapsed, were you aware of any unusual sensations? Any palpitations, nausea or anxiety?”

  “No. I had felt fine all evening.”

  “Then I think we have taken up enough of your valuable time.” Urban-Smith reached into his pocket and produced a business card. “Here is my number. Please ring me if I can be of assistance in this matter.”

  “Thank you, Mr Urban-Smith, but only my daughter and my Saviour can walk this path with me.”

  There was nothing more to be said, and so Urban-Smith and I bade Ulyana Gorshkov farewell and took our leave. Hailing a taxi on the Balham High Road, we were rather unnerved to be collected by the same incautious cabman.