“Thank God you're here, Dr Scott,” his voice was barely audible.
I learned that the SS Koh-i-Noor was in the hands of the chief officer; this happened whenever the ship hit rough weather: like Lord Nelson, sea-sickness had plagued Horatio Butterworth all his working life.
“Don't worry, Captain Butterworth, we'll soon have you right as rain again,” I assured him heartily.
While the cabin steward watched anxiously, we unloaded our equipment onto the edge of the bed. Joanne Flinders applied the tourniquet to the upper arm, and swabbed the captain's ante-cubital fossa with some spirit; she spoke softly to him to distract his attention, while I took the loaded syringe from the tray, slipped the needle smoothly into the engorged vein, and slowly depressed the plunger. When I was finished, Joanne relaxed the tourniquet, pressed a gauze swab over the puncture mark for a couple of minutes to ensure haemostasis, deftly applied a sticking plaster, and rolled down the pyjama sleeve.
“This should do the trick ... Perhaps you could try and have a nap, now ... You'll feel much better when you wake up.” It sounded banal, even as I said it, but I don't suppose the captain noticed. He closed his eyes; his steward wiped his mouth with a towel.
“Tomasso will show you out,” whispered the patient, as we departed.
Next came the chief engineer, and then about a third of all the officers, in order of rank. We visited the senior surgeon, who had succumbed directly after the operation, and, of course, Sister Delaney. Ordinary ratings had to fend for themselves. Every now and again, we returned to the ship's hospital to replenish our tray.
When we had finished with the officers, we allowed ourselves a brief pause for tea and biscuits, before commencing on the passengers. We proceeded from cabin to cabin, starting in First Class with the staterooms on the upper decks, and slowly descending towards the bowels of the ship. The last we attended were those on assisted passages to Australia (“Ten pound passengers”), in large communal separate-sex dormitories well below the water-line. It was a harrowing sight: men and women lay half-dressed on their bunks, often in pools of vomit, retching, but unable to get away from the stench of the place.
Finally, at ten in the evening, we finished our ministrations, exhausted but ravenous. Joanne's small cabin was sited on D deck between the pharmacy and the hospital, next to the other sisters. She unlocked the door, and we entered.
“Care for a night-cap, Edwin?”
She slipped off her apron, undid the top button of her uniform, and stepped out of her shoes.
On the table was a tray. She removed the damp tea-towel covering it, to reveal several serving plates of sandwiches – smoked salmon, ham and tomato, chicken, and cucumber. She poured two generous slugs of gin and Angostura bitters, and we sat on the edge of her bunk consuming our feast. We discussed the Captain's sea-sickness, the pitiful condition of the patients on assisted passages, the operation. We debated whether to pop in to Minnie Applejack in the ward next door, before I turned in for the night, but Joanne felt it wasn't necessary. As my hunger subsided, and the gin began to take its effect, exhaustion swept over me.
Joanne took my plate and glass, placed them on the table. Her bare arms had come out of her sleeves; her uniform buttons were undone, and the dress had fallen to her waist; she placed my hand under her bra, and I could feel her heart galloping in her chest. Her breathing became faster; she moaned softly; her bra was off, and I was momentarily surprised at the generosity of her breasts for one so slight.
“Oh, Edwin,” she sighed.
Her areolae stood up like coins, the nipples became hard and erect. She took my head in her hands, and pulled my face down against her bosom. I was too tired to feel desire; all I felt towards Joanne at the moment was gratitude; there was relief and a modicum of satisfaction that I had got over a small hurdle in my rehabilitation.
It had been a considerable blow to my pride when she broke off our engagement. Barbara Clifton was a staff-nurse whose fair hair was shot with copper highlights; she had freckles, and her green eyes would gaze at me from under long lashes, her head tilted slightly to one side. I had always had a predilection for blondes, and I found her utterly enchanting. I had met her shortly after acquiring my Spitfire, and we had become engaged six months later. Unfortunately, I had had to study for my MRCP, which involved bashing the books , and attending tutorials at the end of the day. Though I passed the Membership exam, I was kept hard at work by Professor Pudding when I joined the Metabolic Unit – long hours, and not much free time. Barbara had craved excitement, enjoyment, entertainment. I had disappointed her; she had grown bored.
“I've found someone else, Edwin ... More fun than you ... He drives an E-type Jaguar ...”
I was devastated. My self-esteem was shattered; I could hardly look the other staff on Metabolic in the eye. I had removed my belongings from her flat; luckily, I hadn't given up my own in Islington. I had gone to sea to forget.
I had been terrified of being dumped again. Though I didn't think I was yet ready for another serious liaison, Joanne represented a glimmer of hope for the future.
“You're a lovely girl, Joanne ... I just don't think I can ...”
Her hands were undressing me. The sheets felt cool ... I drifted off to sleep.
The sun poured into the cabin; the sea was calm; the storm had passed. I smelt coffee and toast. Joanne, fully dressed in her sister's uniform, sat on a chair regarding me, an enigmatic smile on her lips ...
Wednesday, 20th July: I was on F deck, on my way to an engineers' pour-out. In the distance I could hear the sound of music, “She Loves You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah ...” I turned a corner, and almost bumped into Christopher McFee; he appeared to be in heated conversation with a rather distinguished-looking middle aged man in a white linen suit and panama hat. Both were red in the face and scowling at each other. I was surprised as I had never seen Christopher lose his cool. The passenger murmured something under his breath, pointed his pipe at my friend, turned on his heel, and disappeared down the corridor.
“Stupid man,” muttered Christopher to himself. However, he quickly regained his equanimity.
“He's lost, down in the bowels of the ship,” he explained. “Seemed to blame me ... I ask you ... How can I be held responsible for him drifting down to F deck ... must have pressed the wrong button in the lift. I've just pointed him back to the lifts, but he seems to think that they should be better sign-posted, even on the crew decks ... You on your way to the party?”
He smiled at me, his face having by now lost its angry flush. He led the way.
The pour-out was hosted by Sandy Tripp, a hefty voluble second engineering officer. I counted at least twenty-five people, wedged into the small cabin. My new friends were present: Jamie Cameron, Davey Goodenough (pronounced “Goodenow”), Danny Stone; also a batch of junior engineers and deck officers whom I had not met before, or knew only casually. In addition, Sandy had invited four women – Joanne was there, together with two children's hostesses and an assistant purser, all in uniform.
Tripp and Goodenough had taken partners and were attempting a quick-step, but soon gave up, beaten by the crush. Not to be deterred, Danny staggered up to Joanne, and I watched with a mixture of jealousy and wry amusement as he invited her to dance. They took to the floor, but after he had trodden on her feet a few times in as many minutes, Joanne gently pushed him away, and made her way back to the group of girls. I watched, but made no move. The conditions were impossible for even the most basic dancing. A better opportunity would present itself in due course, if I was patient. The loud music rendered conversation all but pointless; so in the end, I joined the rest in the steady consumption of pink gins. By eleven o'clock, only the hard drinkers remained, and I reckoned I had done my bit on behalf of the medical department.
The corridors were empty, as I wended my way rather unsteadily back towards my quarters. All at once my comfortable euphoria evaporated. I felt a pricking between the shoulder-blades, and the short hairs at the back of my nec
k stood on end; I had the eerie sensation of being watched; the thought recurred that I was at the centre of a murder investigation, and at this very moment the killer was somewhere on board ...
It had been an enjoyable evening; Chris Platt, Andrew Steele and Kenneth Hewitt had held a house-warming party, after moving out of the students' hostel at the beginning of our second year at medical school. They now rented a dingy flat in Chicksand Street, mid-way between Aldgate East and Whitechapel, and a brisk twenty minutes walk from the London Hospital Medical College. It was past two in the morning, and the night had turned cold (it was after all late October), but I was still flushed from the beer, and buoyed by the recollection of the general merriment, my new-found friends, and my several witty barbs. I had acquitted myself well in my own eyes; I had been the last to leave.
Their road was shrouded in yellow fog, and I walked in a closed world; I could just make out the street name – Greatorix Street – as I turned right; the lights cast a feeble glow, and I imagined the gas lamps of the Victorian era, at the time when Jack the Ripper roamed these very streets. Once again, we were in the midst of a spree of senseless, seemingly random murders: “RETURN OF JACK THE RIPPER – KILLER STALKS THE STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL” sang the Daily Mail; “WHITECHAPEL SLASHER BRINGS PANIC TO EAST LONDON” shrieked the Daily Mirror. (However, when I had eventually come face to face with him, I found that he resembled more Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man, whose hood and plaster cast were exhibited in our medical school pathology museum.)
Now my footfalls echoed on the cobbles, and I strained to hear if other footsteps were following; I stopped suddenly in my tracks – total silence; I turned around – no-one, only wisps of fog. Nevertheless, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing erect, and my heart beat like a sledge-hammer in my chest. I resumed my walk, increasing the pace; I crossed Old Montague Street, and continued my journey, still painfully aware of my vulnerability, frightened of the emptiness of the streets, yet fearful of seeing another being, or even a shadow of another being. At last, after a hundred yards, I emerged onto the Whitechapel Road, visibility much improved by the brighter lights, yet still totally deserted – nothing moved, the silence was eerie. I felt the thumping of my heart diminishing, and I breathed a sigh of relief, as I turned left towards the hospital and the haven of the students' hostel beyond.
I was almost half-way there ...
I lay awake, watching a patch of moonlight reflected onto the ceiling. I kept thinking about Joanne, and comparing her in my mind with Barbara, whom I had loved to distraction, and who had dumped me without a second thought in favour of a better catch. Barbara was beautiful, extrovert, craved excitement, loved fast cars. If we had married, she would always have been unpredictable: there would always have been the risk of her leaving me.
Joanne was equally lovely, though in a quieter way, the sort of beauty that creeps up on you, catches you unaware. She was efficient, self-possessed, undemonstrative; towards her patients she was kind and compassionate. I felt her presence reassuring, as though I had known her for years. Yet beneath that calm exterior hid a passionate nature. My mind kept returning to last night, when we had returned to her cabin after the gruelling sea-sickness round, of watching her undress, of the feel of my face against her wonderfully soft cool bosom, of her hands undressing me expertly; and next morning, the Mona Lisa smile on her face – was there a hint of triumph? I regretted that I had been unable to react, that I had been too exhausted, that I had been unconscious during the night, and could remember nothing. I hoped I would be given another chance; I vowed that I would not squander it!
I reviewed the two other women in my life: Hazel Hart, my first girl-friend, also blonde, had been taken from me by Rory Harrison; auburn-haired Jill Pritchard, my soul-mate, my love throughout my medical school days, had been taken from me by leukaemia.
After repeated emotional batterings, I may at last have found stability and calm in my relationships. I was aware of the strong physical attraction I now felt towards Joanne. Here was someone I could easily grow to love; here was someone I might want to stay with. I drifted off to sleep, lulled by the soothing movement of the ship.
Friday, 22nd July: We were back in blue uniforms. Outside it was sunny and smooth, but with a nip in the air – this was, after all, Australian winter.
The previous day, I had completed the vaccination of the entire crew for smallpox.
Today was passenger and crew inspection, and it was murder: single-handed, I had to look at seventeen hundred people! I stood on deck, and examined their exposed foreheads and forearms, as they filed past me, searching for the tell-tale papules and vesicles of smallpox. I started with the Tourist Class passengers at a quarter to eight in the morning; after a brief tea-break, I moved on to the First Class passengers; after a further break, I dealt with all the officers and crew. I was required by the Australian Immigration Authorities to certify the ship free of smallpox before anyone would be allowed ashore, when we docked on the next day. The senior surgeon had delegated the whole exercise to me; he himself took no part in the proceedings.
The entire rigmarole lasted just over four hours; by the end, my head was spinning, and I felt I was contracting smallpox myself ...
I hadn't slept well the night before, and was tired the whole the day. I went to bed early.
Chapter Five
Australia, 23rd July to 3rd August 1966
Saturday, 23rd July: We arrived in Freemantle Harbour at eight in the morning, but I didn't get up until nine. I had done my bit for immigration into Australia; Charlie Hardcastle would have to deal with the paperwork and the Port Authorities today.
From my cabin, I could see the customs sheds, warehouses and cranes of the port, and the rail tracks with a few stationary goods wagons. In the near distance, shimmering in the morning sunlight, was the small town of Perth – reputed by my ship-board friends to be the most desirable place of residence in the whole of Australia. On my breakfast tray lay a postcard with an English stamp. Apart from the usual greetings from my parents, there was a message in Jane's neat script:
“Dear Eddie, I met a boy at a girl-friend's party. He's ever so good looking. I'll tell you all about him when you get back! Love, Jane.”
Jane was twelve years younger than I, and thought of me more as a second father than a brother. When she was three she called me “Daddy”, before transmuting this to “Addie”, and finally “Eddie”. (Apart from Rory Harrison, she was the only one to call me by that name.) She was a well-formed child with her mother's light brown hair and hazel eyes; she had a wonderfully sunny disposition, and I loved her.
We strolled together on Clapham Common with our Kerry Blue bitch, Lucky, whose long blue-black coat fell over her eyes, having the effect of blinkers on a horse. When I let her off the lead, she darted away around the Church of the Holy Trinity, and instantly lost herself in the crowd of Sunday morning walkers. After a decent interval, I whistled, and she pricked up her ears; she dashed towards the sound, her legs a blur of movement; she overshot, and her momentum slowed as she searched for us, uncertainly; I whistled again. Finally she spotted me, her tail wagged madly as she came to a stop in front of me, the picture of unadulterated joy; she rolled over, ecstatic as I rubbed her tummy. Finally, she was on her feet again, and darting away as fast as her little legs could carry her.
“Tell me about Super-Jane ...”
We had resumed our walk.
“Very well. Once upon a time, Super-Jane was flying high in the sky, high above the houses of London. As she flew, she scanned the streets below with her X-ray vision, searching for crooks. Suddenly she spied Black Jake and his gang, busy robbing a bank. Super-Jane dived into the attack ...”
Jane's eyes were shining. Her tiny plump hand held tight to my index finger, as I repeated the tale for the umpteenth time, leaving out nothing, adding nothing: the robbery, Black Jake's gang with their pistols and sub-machine guns, bullet-proof Super-Jane saving Chief Inspector Lestrade of Sco
tland Yard (abstracted piece-meal from my early exploration of the Sherlock Holmes stories), the roof-top chase of Black Jake.
“Once Super-Jane, and Chief Inspector Lestrade and his men had rounded up all of Black Jake's gang, they locked them up in jail ...”
We had taken our ritual path to the pond where the children sailed their model yachts; for a short time we watched the vessels criss-cross and collide (while I finished the story), before retracing our steps. Now we rounded Holy Trinity Church, left the Common, passed the orange-brick public library, and headed for home; Lucky was back on her leash, and Jane was still gripping my index finger tightly.
After breakfast, I was interviewed (at a trestle table before the customs sheds) by a uniformed constable and a man in plain clothes, who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Smollet, a rotund tanned figure with a merry smile and a relaxed manner. Though they appeared casual, they kept me for over two hours, sweating increasingly in the cold Australian air.
“You've been most helpful, Sir?” Smollet confided in his broad Australian accent, when we had finished. “I'll report my findings directly to New Scotland Yard in the UK?”
The SS Koh-i-Noor remained in port for three days. During this time, all the passengers and crew were questioned by the police, and anyone wanting to go ashore was fingerprinted. Graham Parkin, in his body bag, was flown back to England for a post-mortem and full forensic tests.
An atmosphere of gloom hung over the ship; I remained on board throughout our stay, and was relieved when we finally cast off late in the afternoon of the third day.
Tuesday, 26th July: This day found us crossing the Great Australian Bight, with its reputation for choppy seas. Sure enough, we encountered rough weather on our first day out. My muscles ached and I felt drowsy and depressed. It was not just the weather: I appeared to have caught a mild dose of (Australian) 'flu, but not severe enough to stop me working, as Charlie Hardcastle pointed out more than once.
Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3) Page 6
