‘Of course I want you! But - ’
‘You keep it well hidden,’ said Chantale.
‘Look, I want you. But not when I’m at work.’
‘You wanted me when you were at work in Barcelona.’
‘Not when I was at work. I thought I might sort of fit it in. As a break.’
‘That’s not what you said.’
‘Briefly.’
‘You said forever. And talked me into coming back with you to London. Don’t you want me any more?’
‘Of course I want you. But not when I’m at work.’
‘I don’t often come to you when you’re at work. I don’t come to you in London, do I?’
‘No, and I should bloody hope not.’
‘It’s only when you work in interesting places. I want to share them with you.’
‘Yes, well, that’s very nice, and I would like to share them with you, too. But not when I’m working.’
‘But that’s the only chance we get to go away together!’
‘No, it’s not. I’ve suggested going on holiday together somewhere.’
‘Brighton.’
‘Well, that’s all I can afford. We’ve got to be realistic.’
‘Or ingenious,’ said Chantale. ‘All I am doing is being ingenious.’
‘Unscrupulous.’
‘Ingenious is the way I prefer to think of it. And it’s worked. I can slip along the corridor and - ’
But there’s many a slip between slip and lip.
‘I see you know each other,’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr.
‘Run into each other somewhere,’ muttered Seymour.
‘In Tangier, I think,’ said Chantale demurely.
‘In Tangier? Oh, how exciting! I wonder if you know, Mr Seymour, that Miss de Lissac hopes to start a branch of the Association in Tangier? We’re very thrilled about it. And of course, we would want to give her all the help we can. She will see a lot about our work while she’s here, and it will be particularly useful to study a branch in a place like Malta. I’m sure you will learn a great deal.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Seymour. ‘But - ’
But Mrs Wynne-Gurr had done with social niceties and moved back to business.
‘If you’ll just come over here, dear, I’ll give you the name and address of the people you’re going to stay with.’
‘Stay with? I’m not going to stay in the hotel?’
‘Well, no. Didn’t I make that clear? I’m going to farm you out to members of the local branch and let you stay with them. That way you will get to know the people of the island and form an idea, from the inside, of how this branch works. That should be especially valuable to you, Miss de Lissac, for it may be that the conditions you experience will be closer to those you will encounter in Tangier than, say, the ones you would experience in West Surrey.’
Chantale’s eye caught his as she departed; disconcerted, but not, on the whole, dissatisfied.
‘It may, of course, not be quite what you are used to.’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr, as they stopped in front of the door of the house. It was one of a row of identical small houses in a poor street not far from the harbour.
It was, in fact, exactly what Chantale was used to, for Seymour’s pay did not extend to anything better than rented rooms in the part of London’s dockland where his mother and grandparents still lived. Admittedly, coils of fog did not surround this house, as in East London they were likely to do, and at the end of the street there was a glimpse of blueness sparkling in the sun. But that, for Chantale, was an important improvement.
The door was opened by a small, homely lady full of bird-like energy, which was just as well in view of the large number of faces crowding behind her. Most of them belonged to children, small, brown-faced, dark-eyed and clearly hyperactive.
‘Mrs Ferreira?’
They were shown into the front parlour. It was already occupied by a boy and a girl, both about fourteen. There were pages of writing paper scattered all over the table and books all over the floor.
‘Rosalie,’ said Mrs Ferreira, to one of the little girls who had followed them into the room, ‘could you show the lady to her room?’
‘I’d better do it,’ said the girl already in the parlour. ‘My things are still spread about a bit.’
‘Have I taken your room?’ said Chantale.
‘That’s all right. It’s just that I’ve been working on a project and my stuff is everywhere.’
‘I’d better clear my things, too,’ said the boy apologetically. ‘I’ve got a project, too, and Sophia has been helping me with it.’
‘Isn’t this the holidays?’
‘The bastards are never off your back.’ said the girl.
‘Sophia!’ said Mrs Ferreira, shocked.
The boy was clearly a little shocked too. He hastily picked up some of the books.
‘Back in a moment,’ said the girl. She took Chantale upstairs into a tiny room most of which was filled with school books and girl’s clothes.
‘Rosalie has already moved her stuff out,’ said Sophia. ‘But that was just dresses and things.’
She opened the door of a wardrobe. ‘That end was hers and now it’s for you. I’ll clear the other end.’
‘It’s all right, I can squeeze in.’
‘Is it okay if I pile the books in a corner? There isn’t anywhere else for them to go.’
‘That’ll be fine. Just leave me some space around the edges.’
‘The bed’s the thing.’
‘It is.’
It looked as if there was just the one bed for the two girls. ‘Where will you be sleeping?’
‘Oh, around,’ said Sophia vaguely.
She quickly cleared the floor.
‘What’s your project on?’
‘The Victoria Lines. They’re a sort of defensive military fortification that goes across the island.’
She looked at Chantale. ‘Are you English? You don’t look English.’
‘I’m from Tangier. But living in England.’
‘I wouldn’t mind going to England,’ said the girl. ‘But first I’ve got to expel the British.’
‘From England?’
‘Malta. Get them out of here.’
‘Don’t you like them?’
‘Oh, I like them. But it’s the principle of the thing. Do you feel like that about the French? Being in Morocco, I mean?’
‘Torn,’ said Chantale. ‘You see, I’m half French.’
‘It must make it difficult. It’s difficult enough for us, depending on the British for what we do. Everyone here works for the British. Without them being here Malta would be nothing. Or so my grandfather says. He was in the British Navy. All my family work for the British in one way or another, in the docks, on the boats, in the hospital. But I say that’s a bad thing. It makes us too dependent.’
‘What does your grandfather say?’
‘He says that education is a bad thing, if it leads to dopey remarks like that!’
She laughed. ‘He’s all right, really. Just behind the times.’
‘I ought to go,’ said Felix, as they got back downstairs.
‘Oh, don’t go yet,’ said Mrs Ferreira. ‘I was just going to make tea. English tea,’ she said with emphasis.
Sophia made a face.
‘Sophia!’
‘They put milk in it. I’ll bet Miss de Lissac doesn’t put milk in her tea.’
‘Well, no,’ confessed Chantale.
‘I’ll make two pots. One, British-Maltese. The other, for the rest.’
‘Please don’t, just for my sake - ’ began Chantale.
‘What will you have, Felix?’ asked Sophia.
‘I don’t mind, really - ’
‘I’ll bet you do. Felix will have British.’
‘British-Maltese,’ said Felix, fighting back.
‘So will I.’ said Mrs Ferreira. ‘And so will Grandfather. And Sophia can join Miss de Lissac.’
‘Is there any cake?’ asked Sophia.
>
‘As a matter of fact, there is. Quaghaq tal-ghasel.’
‘You’ll like this,’ Sophia told Felix.
‘What was that name again?’ said Chantale.
‘Quaghaq tal-ghasel. It’s a Maltese speciality.’
‘Maltese? The name sounds - ’
‘Arabic, I know. Well, lots of things here are.’
‘It’s got treacle in,’ said Sophia.
‘Delicious!’ said Felix.
‘Another?’ said Mrs Ferreira some time later.
‘I ought to go,’ said Felix regretfully.
‘One more. Your mother won’t mind if she knows who you’re with.’
‘Well .. .’
When Felix did decide to go, Mrs Ferreira got up with him.
‘I have to go, too.’ she said. ‘I work at the hospital.’ she explained to Chantale. ‘In the dispensary. It always has to be manned, so we work a sort of shift system.’
‘Are you going to tell your mum that you’ve changed the title of your project, Felix?’ asked Sophia.
‘Well, um ...’ Felix fidgeted awkwardly. ‘Perhaps not immediately. When the time is ripe.’
‘Don’t let Sophia talk you into anything, Felix,’ advised Mrs Ferreira.
‘Oh, no - ’
‘Nobody listens to me, anyway,’ said Sophia.
‘What is your project going to be about?’ asked Chantale.
‘Well, it was going to be on the Hospitaller Knights’ weaponry. But the Armouries are closed. And, anyway, Sophia says that the Knights were a bunch of thugs. She says I ought to do it on anti-weaponry of the time.’
‘Anti-weaponry?’ said Mrs Ferreira, puzzled.
‘Medicines,’ said Sophia. ‘The drugs they used to heal. Herbs and that sort of thing.’
‘Do we know about them?’ said Mrs Ferreira doubtfully.
‘There are lists.’ said Sophia. ‘Bound to be. Anyway, looking for them would be the point of the project.’
‘I thought, actually, of making it a bit wider than that,’ said Felix. ‘Anything they used to fight wounds and illness. Including things like hospitals. I was think of taking the Sacra Infermeria as an example.’
‘Well, that would be a very worthy thing to do, Felix.’ said Mrs Ferreira.
‘I hope they think that back at school,’ said Felix. ‘This will be the third time I’ve changed my project.’
When Seymour had landed in Malta the first thing he had done was, as was usual when you were seconded out, to report to his local superior. But who, in this case, was his superior? The Governor? Or the Navy? The hospital was, after all, a ship. Seymour consulted his bosses at Scotland Yard, who, after going all round the houses, advised him that since the request for his secondment had come from the Colonial Department, it was to them, in theory, that he should report. In practice this meant the Governor and it was to the Governor that Seymour went on that first morning.
The Governor was a jolly chap who shook his hand affably and made it plain that he wanted to know as little about the matter as possible. Seymour could see advantages in this. From the point of view of the Governor, he could safely be disowned if things went wrong. From Seymour’s point of view it gave him a free hand.
But what about the island’s police, he asked? What was to be his relationship to them? Presumably they were investigating the case already?
Indeed they were, said the Governor, and should be left to get on with it. The island was very sensitive about such things. Ought he not, then, to be liaising closely with them? Indeed he ought, but - not too closely. Keep them informed by all means but not in such a way as to make it seem that he was reporting to them. The Navy was very sensitive about things like that.
And the Navy, should they be kept informed, too? Heavens, yes, said the Governor.
It was all, really, he said, a question of relationships. To foster these he had arranged for Pickering, the island’s Chief of Police, British, to drop in for a drink before lunch.
Pickering dropped in and shook Seymour’s hand and said he was sure they would be able to work together. These murders, though, were a bit of a hot potato and had to be handled with deftness. Showing some of that deftness, he had, in fact, passed the matter on to an Inspector, with whom Seymour should liaise.
The Inspector was Lucca, the man he had been handed over to after lunch and who had taken him over to the hospital that first day. From him Seymour had obtained a real picture. The Navy was holding fast to the argument that the hospital was a ship and therefore not under the jurisdiction of the local police. They had, in fact, refused to allow the police into the hospital.
But, how, then - began Seymour.
How, indeed. The Inspector had been unable to interview anyone in the hospital.
‘But that’s - ’
The Inspector nodded.
‘Ridiculous,’ he said. All he had been able to do, he said, was focus on Herr Kiesewetter and what had happened to him and possibly to the balloon.
‘If the Navy will not lower its defences,’ he said theatrically, ‘perhaps we can fly over them.’
Perhaps; all the same, more traditional methods of investigation were likely to prove more fruitful and he was glad that Seymour had come.
Seymour was relieved. One of the things he had not wanted to do was antagonize the local police. He had assured Lucca that there would be genuine cooperation between them and that it was his intention that ‘keeping informed’ meant what it said. Everything he learned inside the hospital would be shared with Lucca.
He had hoped to thrash out some of these difficulties with the Commander in charge of the hospital on his first visit but the Commander had been away. His duties included oversight of the medical side of those ships currently in harbour and he was away in pursuit of those. In his absence Seymour had talked to the hospital’s Registrar, Ormskirk.
Ormskirk was friendly enough. Yes, he agreed, things had reached an impasse, and he hoped that Seymour’s arrival would help to unblock it. It was plainly unacceptable that no progress should be made on solving the murders and he could quite see that the Prime Minister had had to fire a few rockets up people’s backsides. But there was another issue, too, which affected him as Registrar, responsible for the general running of the hospital, particularly. Charges had been made against the staff of the hospital, serious charges, which had badly affected morale, and until they were answered the work in the hospital generally would suffer.
He was quite sure that the charges were unjustified. He hadn’t been here long himself, having been posted from Colombo only the year before, but he had been very impressed when he had arrived by the general standards of the staff and particularly the nurses. ‘A lively, competent lot,’ he said, who knew what they were doing. Which was not what he had to say about Mrs Wynne-Gurr.
How they had allowed that witch to get in here, and now with a supporting cast of harpies, he could not understand. It had not been his doing. A hospital was a busy, hardworking, complex place and the one thing you did not want was people coming in and getting in the way and putting people’s backs up. He was all in favour of the patients having visitors or of the doctors entertaining colleagues from abroad but you couldn’t have just anybody coming in. And certainly not an old busybody asking daft questions! It had all been running perfectly smoothly before she arrived, he said in aggrieved tones; as if she had somehow brought the murders with her.
The upshot had been, he said, to put the hospital on the defensive. What with the police and the press and the politicians ...! Fortress Birgu, he said, that was what it felt like now. That was what she had turned the place into. No doubt he had noticed that, on coming in.
He certainly had, said Seymour. And it was a great pity when people were giving of their best in not always easy circumstances. But, look, things would get better only when they had found out who had committed the murders. All this daft talk would be stilled and the hospital could get back to normal.
So it could, agreed the R
egistrar, brightening.
And he, Seymour, would do his very best to bring that happy state about. In fact, could he start now? A little look round, perhaps? And he would try not to get in the way or put people’s backs up. But it was best to get on with it. The sooner it was over and done with, the better.
The Registrar concurred absolutely: so Seymour had his entree and had been able to make a start.
He still felt, however, that he needed to clear things with the senior officer in charge and so an appointment was made for the afternoon of the day after next.
When he got to the hospital he found that he was rather early and so he dropped in on the nurses in their cubbyhole. He found Melinda talking to a little old, gnome-like man whom he realized he had seen before.
‘You should be thinking about getting home, Dr Malia.’ she was saying.
The doctor looked at his watch.
‘Good heavens! Is that the time?’ he said. ‘How time flies when you get old!’
‘Have you been here all day?’
He looked at his watch again.
‘I suppose I have been,’ he said, surprised.
‘And eaten nothing all day?’
‘I had some breakfast. I think.’
‘I’ll bet you didn’t. You’d better come in and have a cup of tea with us. And a biscuit.’
‘I don’t want to be a bother - ’
‘You’re not. We’re making a pot anyway.’
‘Ah, but you’ve been on your feet all morning.’
‘So have you.’
‘Yes, but - ’
‘What is it you used to tell us? Don’t go too long without getting something inside you!’
‘It’s the sugar. You need the sugar.’
‘And so do you.’
She shepherded him into the nurses’ room.
‘This is Mr Seymour. No, he’s not a new doctor. He’s a policeman.’
‘A policeman?’
Dr Malia looked puzzled. Then his face cleared.
‘Oh, I know,’ he said. ‘It must be to do with those poor people. Have you got anywhere yet?’ he asked Seymour.
‘I’ve only just started, really.’
‘Yes. And it must all be very strange to you, coming out from England.’
A Dead Man in Malta Page 6
