Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3)

by Felix Bruckner

  Friday, 15th July: “We have a passenger with a gashed cheek, Dr Scott ... Can you come over? He's bleeding like a pig ... I've got him in the treatment room.” Her voice sounded urgent.

  “I'm on my way, Sister ...” I replaced the receiver, pulled a jumper over my head, grabbed my Gladstone bag, and was headed down the deserted alleyway towards the hospital at the double. I glanced at my watch – 11.30 pm.

  Joanne Flinders gave me the flicker of a smile as I entered the small room. The patient lay semi-recumbent on the treatment couch, a blood-stained towel pressed to the left side of his face, his right eye regarding me malevolently. She handed me the slim file:

  “Mr John Smith, aged twenty-eight, from London, bound for the Antipodes ... Says he fell.”

  “Yus ... fell down the stairs, din't I ... cut mesself ...” His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a big man, and there was a strong waft of alcohol on his breath. Blood had leaked onto his shirt and down to the waist-band of his grubby white trousers.

  “Were you on your own, Mr ... er ...Smith?” I asked tentatively.

  There was a long pause; the steriliser boiled steadily in the background.

  “Yus ... a'course ...”

  “Hm, well lets have a look at you ...”

  The bleeding had subsided somewhat, but when I removed the towel, it resumed quite briskly. Mr Smith flinched; beneath the tan and the caked blood, his face was deathly pale. There was a deep irregular wound running from the left eye-brow, across the cheek bone to the angle of the mouth, omitting the eye, and narrowly missing the left upper lip. It looked like a bottle cut. I had sewn up numerous surgical incisions during my time as a thoracic house surgeon, and had seen many razor slashes as a medical student in the receiving room of the London Hospital, but my mind went back unerringly to my time at the Children's Hospital in Hackney Road ...

  My friend Bob and I sat in the saloon bar of the Castle Inn, opposite the hospital, sipping our pints of bitter, reflecting on the day's events ... An empty beer bottle rolled along the floor, and struck Bob gently on the ankle; he picked it up, righted it, and placed it to one side; we resumed our conversation ... Another bottle rolled along the floor, rapping Bob more forcibly on the ankle; glancing up, we saw a short disreputable-looking man with unkempt red hair and a filthy brown raincoat glowering at us. My friend flushed with anger, and drew himself up to his full height:

  “Do you mind leaving us alone, and playing with your damned beer bottles elsewhere?” he shouted belligerently.

  “Sure, Squire ... Anythin' you say ... Just a harmless bit o' fun,” replied the rat-faced little man in a slurred voice with a strong Irish accent. He gave an ironic salute, and turned back to his companion and his drink.

  The bar became crowded; the background noise increased; the piano played honky-tonk music: though it was out of tune, and some notes were cracked, nobody seemed to notice or to care.

  “My round ...” Bob gathered up our glasses, and weaved his way towards the bar; as he passed between the two Irishmen, they exchanged glances, and one pinioned his arms; in a single smooth action – as though frequently rehearsed – Rat-face picked up a bottle of stout from the bar, and struck my friend full in the face: the bottle shattered, and he drew it expertly from the eyebrow towards the mouth, extending and deepening the gash; the second man relaxed his grip, leaving Bob supine on the floor, bleeding profusely from the gash, his shirt stained a mixture of dark brown (by Guinness) and crimson (by blood). The music stopped; there was a stunned silence. The two men disappeared through a door to the public bar, while I staunched the bleeding with my handkerchief, and eventually helped Bob onto a chair, still groggy, still clutching the handkerchief to his cheek.

  “That was a 'orrible vicious act!” The fleshy barman was at our side, red in the face, perspiring profusely. “You a'right, Sir? You afta go to 'orspital wi' that ... Looks bad.”

  “It's okay: I'll take him to casualty at the Children's Hospital across the road; we're medical students there ... Should we report this to the police?”

  An apprehensive look flitted across his face:

  “Don't you worry, gen'lmen. I'll take care of it mesself.”

  As the tinkling of the piano resumed, and the buzz of conversation built up again, my friend slowly regained his composure.

  I led him to casualty. By the time we got there, the bleeding had largely stopped; however, the scar was jagged and deep, and there was already some discolouration where the blow had struck. The casualty officer supervised me while I stitched up the wound.

  Two days later, we were back in the saloon bar of The Castle Inn, enjoying a drink before supper. Bob, though still somewhat subdued, was clearly much recovered; his face, however, was a battlefield: on his swollen left cheek was a large gauze dressing stuck down with adhesive plaster; from behind this spread the orange, green and purple of an extensive bruise. We sat at a corner table with our pints; it was early, and the place was quiet.

  After a while, two men entered the pub; they approached the bar, addressed a few words to the landlord, who nodded towards us; they came over, and, uninvited, sat down at our table. They were in their thirties, tall, thickset and muscular; they looked tough and formidable, with the scarred and dented faces of prize-fighters; however, their hair was fashionably cut, they wore smart three-piece pin-stripe suits; and in their huge fists they carried bowler hats and neatly rolled umbrellas. They appraised us slowly and deliberately; then the shorter of the two addressed my companion with elaborate courtesy:

  “I understand you was involved in a spot o' bovver the other day, Sir – at these premises. Very sorry to see you was hurt ... Could you tell us about it, Sir; describe what 'appened, like ...”

  Bob launched into a detailed account of the event, his description occasionally supplemented by me; the men cross-examined us minutely – they were especially interested in the speech and appearance of Bob's assailants; at last, after about an hour, they appeared satisfied.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. You've been most helpful.”

  “What happens next?” I asked.

  “Don't worry, Sir. We'll arrange a meeting ...”

  With that, they were on their feet, the door swung open, and they were gone ...

  It was Sunday, a little over a week later. After a leisurely breakfast we were leafing through the newspapers laid out on a side-table. We were due to return to the London Hospital on the next day: there was a feeling of festivity as well as nostalgia at the thought of departure. Bob had recovered fully from his experience, and his dressing had been removed; the bruising on his face had faded to a pale yellow; however, the pink zig-zag scar was still prominent, and lent him a piratical air.

  “I say, have a look at this, Edwin,” there was a tinge of excitement in his voice. “In the Hackney Herald:

  “Two men were found semi-conscious by the police early on Wednesday morning, on a bomb-site off the Hackney Road,” Bob read. “They had been badly beaten, and their faces slashed ... They have been identified as Fergus O'Toole and Sean Docherty, who had arrived recently from the Repulic of Ireland ...”

  “Sounds like your friends, Bob ...” There was just the hint of a smile in the Resident Medical Officer's voice. “It's a warning to 'Keep Off the Grass!' They were causing trouble on the Krays' patch, and no-one is allowed to do that, other than the Krays themselves. The polite gentlemen you met in The Castle after your 'accident' weren't the police as you had thought, they were the gang's enforcers.”

  John Smith had brought a whiff of the criminal East End to the SS Koh-i-Noor.

  I came down to earth: a bright theatre light shone into the patient's face. Joanne had laid up a sterile suturing trolley, and was scrubbed and about to glove up, in case I needed assistance. I donned a gown, scrubbed up myself and slipped on gloves, but didn't bother about mask or cap. I asked the patient to remove the blood-soaked towel, and Joanne continued to compress the wound with a handful of sterile swabs.

  I cl
eansed the cut with iodine, but didn't attempt to drape it with sterile towels: they were unlikely to stay in position, and would either obscure the field of vision or just drop off. Next I irrigated it with normal saline and checked with forceps that there were no glass fragments left in situ. I injected xylocaine 2% into the subcutaneous tissues through the jagged wound. There was adrenaline in the local anaesthetic solution which would help to reduce the bleeding. I fitted a curved bevelled needle into the needle holder, prodded the skin with its tip to check that the anaesthetic was effective, and started to stitch. Beneath my fingers I could feel Smith shivering, though I was reasonably sure he could feel no pain. His jaws clenched, and he gazed fixedly over my shoulder with his good eye. I inserted ten interrupted black silk sutures, working down from the eyebrow, tying and cutting each stitch as I went; Joanne exposed more and more of the field for me as I progressed. I checked that there was no gaping of the wound. The bleeding had stopped. I wiped off the iodine and the dried blood with a spirit swab. Satisfied, I let Joanne apply a dressing. It should heal well, I thought.

  “Please return in eight days to have your stitches out, Mr Smith.”

  Saturday, 16th July: At our first landfall since Aden, after a further four days at sea, the SS Koh-i-Noor was once again anchored offshore, because the port was not deep enough to accommodate the giant liner. As the ship's launch approached Colombo's harbour, the smell of land was powerful and evocative – a sweet smell of rotting vegetation and spices – and the heat and humidity hit me.

  Now, after a cursory passage through customs, I joined the passengers on the shore excursion, and we ascended the steep slopes towards the centre of Colombo; soon I was streaming with sweat. After a while, I sensed a presence beside me: Joanne Flinders looked cool in a straw hat with pink ribbon and wide brim, dark glasses, white cotton skirt, and light pink blouse.

  “Hello, Edwin ...”

  “Hello ...”

  We continued up the hill, her shoulder occasionally brushing mine, lingering at the many tiny shops and jewellery stalls, dazzled by the treasure trove of rings, bracelets, necklaces – even tiaras! There were objects worked in gold and silver; we examined gems and gem-stones: emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds, pearls, garnets, jade – some as big as my fist. Prices ranged from twenty to twenty thousand pounds.

  “You wish to buy? Ruby ring for wife – fifty pounds ... I reduce to twenty-five for you ...”

  I felt myself blushing; beside me, Joanne smiled ... The elderly shopkeeper in soiled robes hovered. I was tempted – but resisted, and we moved away.

  Waiting for us in the centre of town was a dilapidated coach; however, this looked positively luxurious, when compared with the other transport which crowded the Colombo highways: ancient London buses, ox-carts, vans, vintage cars, cycle-rickshaws. The town heaved with pedestrians, who competed with the vehicles for the narrow streets. As it wandered casually through the melee, a hump-backed cow, ribs sticking through its skin, was treated universally with care, courtesy and forbearance. Our coach passed a shabby, peeling picture-house (“The Kinema”) of distinctly British Art Deco architectural design, but with huge posters of exotic, impossibly beautiful Indian ladies in flowing brightly-coloured saris. I felt Joanne's thigh pressing softly against mine, yet we sat in silence, our eyes glued to the window.

  Outside the town, we stopped to view a Buddhist temple, and then the red-tiled colonnaded stadium which commemorated Ceylon's Independence. Here, as we took our obligatory photos, we were besieged by a band of small brown boys, all trying to sell their wooden figurines. After refusing several of the more aggressive vendors, I relented: the tiny shy urchin, with the ragged shirt but engaging smile, appeared no more than six years old.

  “You must always bargain,” I had been advised. “Otherwise they won't be satisfied with the transaction ...”

  He had shown me five beautifully carved ebony elephants, ranging from three to eight inches in height, for which he asked just ten pounds sterling.

  “Five pounds,” I offered.

  “Good ...” He wrapped them in tissue paper and placed them gently in a carrier bag, which he had extracted from the big box beside him. He grinned happily, picked up his box, and ran off ...

  My stomach was telling me it was time for lunch, when our coach drew into the empty car park of the Mount Lavinia Hotel, a grand white-stucco edifice of the Colonial Era.

  The ceiling fan kept the spacious dining-room pleasantly cool. Beyond the open French windows, the stone terraces were shaded by trees. I could hear the gentle lapping of waves on the nearby beach. A tantalising aroma of spices emanated from the kitchens, as waiters in starched white turbans and jackets showed us to our tables – long damask ivory cloths, silver cutlery, heavy crystal glasses – and then hovered at attention while we made our choices.

  I did justice to a large helping of Chicken Vindaloo, pilau rice, vegetable curry and several parathas, washed down with chilled local beer. (I took care to avoid fresh fruit and vegetables, ice-cream, ice cubes and water, as tap-water even in these lavish surroundings was deemed to be hazardous.) Though I continually wiped my streaming nose, I found the food delicious, a far cry from the sanitised curry and Bombay Duck on board ship.

  The meal was over. I was replete. I leant back in my chair, eyes half-closed, as Joanne's perfume – was it apple blossom? – wafted over me. I gazed out at the palm trees on the beach, swaying in the light breeze. I felt happy and at peace. England, the medical rat-race and Barbara Clifton all seemed very far away. Soon, our coach would be returning us to the bustle of Colombo. However, for the moment, this was bliss.

  The conversation buzzed around me, as I presided at my table in the Koh-i-Noor's First Class dining-room, that evening. The Tournedos Rossini was perfectly done, the Gevrey Chambertin (1961) superb, but my palate was jaded, and I merely picked at the meal.

  “Look what I bought in Colombo this morning.”

  I doubted whether Mrs Harkwood-Smythe had recognised me in my “civvies” during our excursion. She held out her wrist for all to see, displaying an exquisite ruby and gold bracelet.

  “He wanted ten thousand pounds for it, but I beat him down to a thousand ...”

  Chapter Four

  Indian Ocean, 17th to 22nd July 1966

  Sunday, 17th July: The SS Koh-i-Noor was ploughing through roughening seas, again out of sight of land. Monsoon clouds intermittently blotted out the sun; but the weather remained hot and humid. Today we were crossing the Equator. Passengers around both the First and Tourist Class swimming pools witnessed the exotic (and somewhat frightening) procession of King Neptune, in long white beard, seaweed robes, crown and trident, accompanied by his entourage of pirates, skeletons and monsters of the deep; youngsters who had never crossed before were initiated in the ceremony of Crossing the Line by ducking them in the pool (the smaller ones being subjected to only a light splashing). There was much juvenile excitement throughout the ship, squeals of innocent delight mingling with the much rarer wails of apprehension. A children's hostess, most fetching as a mermaid in white bikini and giant fish tail, was being pushed around in a wheel-chair to supervise the event, and ensure that the smaller children were not treated too boisterously.

  As I watched from the ship's rail, a nine-year old boy in swimming trunks had a bucket of water poured over him; he squealed with delight. Suddenly, I felt myself seized, carried the ten feet to the edge of the pool, and hurled in. Although this was indeed my first crossing of the equator, I had not expected to be a victim of the ceremony. There were cheers, shrieks of laughter and applause: the audience thought that this had been pre-arranged. Personally, I was not sure whether to laugh or cry. I just stood in the shallows, speechless, my garb dripping wet.

  Back in my cabin, I changed into a dry uniform. By next morning, Constanzio had sponged and pressed my white jacket and trousers, sent the rest of my clothes to the laundry, and dried and blancoed my shoes. My uniform cap had emerged unscathed!

&nbs
p; The event went down in the folk-lore of the Koh-i-Noor.

  Monday, 18th July: Still curious, I knocked on the cabin door.

  “Come in,” came the shrill voice. Graham Parkin, the first radio officer, rose from his bunk. He was in shirt sleeves, his braces around his waist, and his shoes lying untidily on the floor. I noticed a hole in his right sock, with his big toe peeping out. A tattoo of a mermaid was just visible on his left fore-arm, where his sleeve was partly rolled up.

  The cabin was about the same size as mine, but with a full-sized window through which I could see billowing storm clouds and a sea lashed by the rising wind. The central ceiling light had been switched on against the gloom. There was a decent day-room section, with a settee and two padded easy chairs in green leather, a desk and an upright chair. On the walls hung a girlie calendar, and framed pictures of a fishing scene and warships at sea. A couple of dog-eared paper-back books lay on a coffee-table; there was an open cocktail cabinet with a built in light and mirror, in which I noted a decent selection of spirits and liqueurs.

  “Thanks for coming, doc. Have a drink ...” He gave a nervous giggle, and I could see that he was sweating profusely.

  The previous day, he had approached me rather furtively on the observation deck; he had cajoled me to visit him in his cabin, but to tell no-one. Intrigued, I had agreed. (Under normal circumstances, I would have expected him to attend one of my crew surgeries.)