A Dead Man in Malta (2 page)

‘Was?’

‘But that was ten years ago. Or perhaps more. He’s been retired for some time.’

‘You get out of touch.’

‘It’s not so much that. He doesn’t practise much now.’

‘No?’

‘No. It’s just that he’s a bit, well, eccentric these days.’

‘He thinks there’s going to be a war,’ put in Felix excitedly.

‘War?’

‘And that Malta’s going to be very important in it.’

‘Well, that’s hardly likely, is it?’ said his father.

‘From the point of view of hospitals. He thinks there are going to be lots and lots of casualties all round the Mediterranean and that they’ll be brought here for nursing and there’ll be nowhere to put them.’

‘Well, there are quite a lot of suppositions in all that, Felix—’

‘I am afraid your son is right, though, Dr Wynne-Gurr,’ said the Inspector. ‘That
is
what Dr Malia thinks.’

‘And he’s making a list of possible places that could be used,’ said Felix.

The Inspector nodded gloomily. ‘He is.’

‘Well,’ said Dr Wynne-Gurr, ‘there’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose.’

The Inspector looked doubtful.

‘Is there?’

‘It’s got a bit out of hand,’ said the Inspector. ‘He goes round everywhere making his bloody list, asking silly questions and taking up busy people’s time. People get fed up with it. He came to the Police Headquarters the other day and nosed around, getting in everybody’s way.’

‘“There’s too much space here for the work you do,” he said. Well, of course plenty of people agreed with him. People are always ready to criticize the police. And, it is

true, we do have a lot of people just pushing bits of paper to and fro. But—‘“You’ll have to get out when the war comes,” he said.

‘“And
you’ll
have to get out right now!” said the Chief, as mad as hell.

‘Well, then he went to the Co-Cathedral. You been there? Well, you ought to go. It’s a wonderful place. What with all those chapels of the langues. Amazing! So they tell me. I don’t often go myself, though my wife says I should. Anyway, he went there and looked around.

‘“There’s a lot of space here,” he said, “which could be put to better use.”

‘Well, you know what doctors are. Bloody infidels, the lot of them. Oh, saving your presence, Doctor! Anyway, it got the Church in an uproar. And half the island. They went to the Governor about it. But, of course, he’s got other things on his plate just at the moment. This business at the hospital, for instance. So he didn’t pay much attention.

‘But there you have it. The old fellow’s a bit cracked these days. He’s got a bee in his bonnet and goes round making himself a nuisance. There’s no harm in him, really. It’s just that he’s a pain in the ass. Saving your presence, madam!’

‘He doesn’t sound quite the sort of person you should be talking to, Felix,’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr.

Felix closed his lips and reserved his position.

They went down to the water together, the Wynne-Gurrs and Seymour and the Inspector, and took a water-taxi, or
dghajsa
, as Seymour was learning to call them, to the Senglea side. Down at water level, and closer to the warships, they looked enormous and very threatening. Seymour wondered if there could be anything in what that cracked doctor had said about a war being just around the corner. Sitting there in the sunshine in the open boat it was hard to believe it.

At Bighi they parted, the Wynne-Gurrs going in one direction, the Inspector taking Seymour in another. He led him to a small room in the hospital in which three doctors were sitting. Two of them were British, the third, Maltese. ‘And let me correct, right away, an impression you may have gained,’ said one of the British doctors: ‘our nurses here are first class.’

The other British doctor nodded.

‘First class,’ he confirmed. ‘Compare well with any I’ve seen in London. Or Portsmouth, for that matter. Cot deaths, for Christ’s sake! This is a naval hospital not a bloody maternity one!’

‘Yet we do have to face it,’ said the Maltese doctor quietly: ‘there’s something that needs explaining. They shouldn’t have died.’

‘It does happen, Eduardo.’

‘I know. But usually there’s some explanation.’

‘Well, there is here.’

‘Three?’ said the Maltese doctor. ‘We haven’t had a single death of that sort in the past two years. But we’ve had three! In not much more than a month.’

‘Yes, but … respiratory failure!’

The Maltese doctor turned to Seymour. ‘You may not be aware of medical conventions, Mr Seymour. “Respiratory failure” is a medical certificate convention. You put it down because everybody understands it and accepts it. There is no further argument, which is a handy thing from a doctor’s point of view. And it is not untrue, because it is what happens when you die. You stop breathing. But it is not, of course, what causes death. That is always due to some other medical factor. But you may not want to put it down. Or, of course, you may not know. As in these cases. The problem here is that there is
no
other medical factor.’

‘Shock?’ suggested one of the other doctors tentatively.

‘People don’t usually die of shock. One has to allow for it, of course. I thought I’d better allow for it in the case of that German. I was the doctor who examined him when he was admitted, and I looked particularly for symptoms of shock.
I
would certainly have been showing them if it had been me. Going down into the water from a great height. But I couldn’t find any. I thought, though, that there could be delayed symptoms so I kept him in for observation. The nurses were told to keep an eye open for them. But they said there were none. Nor, I have to say, were there symptoms of anything else. I was puzzled, but about the respiratory failure there was no doubt, so I put that down on the certificate.’

‘Anything in his previous history?’ asked Seymour. ‘So far as you know?’

The doctor shook his head.

‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘and, actually, we do know his history. His doctor wrote to us. He’s a German doctor, very thorough, and he had been keeping an eye on him because of the ballooning. He was interested in possible effects, of altitude, for instance. He had examined him both before and after ascent on a number of occasions. He said there was nothing to indicate a possibility of respiratory failure.’ The story was much the same in the cases of the other two. Here they had the medical records and again there was nothing to indicate possible respiratory failure.

Nor anything else. In each case, the doctor had been surprised when the patient had died. Each had been puzzled. Each, lacking other explanation, had put respiratory failure on the certificate. And that, after all, was what—the doctors were sure of this at least—the men had died from. But what had brought about the respiratory failure, the doctors could not say.

‘I know this is unfortunate—’ said one of the doctors unhappily.

‘But did you not ask yourselves …?’ said Seymour. ‘When there were three?’

‘Of course we did!’ snapped one of the doctors.

‘Not at first,’ said the other British doctor. ‘I mean, there was nothing to suggest that we should. They were in different parts of the hospital. The cases were quite different. You tend to think in individual terms—’

‘It was only when the third case came along—’

‘We went back over our notes. And over each other’s notes. Even then—’

‘We might not have thought there was anything amiss. I mean, deaths do happen in hospitals. And clusters of deaths are statistically quite normal.’

‘It was the fact that it was a German, I suppose.’

‘And the ballooning. It made it all so much more conspicuous.’

‘And that damned woman!’

‘One thing we can say definitely,’ said one of the doctors, ‘is that this has absolutely nothing to do with cot deaths!’

‘Absolutely nothing!’

‘Or nursing practices,’ said one of the British doctors.

‘But if not …?’ said Seymour.

The Maltese doctor nodded.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You have to treat this as a possible case of murder.’

‘For God’s sake!’ expostulated the doctor, as they stepped out into the corridor.

The man going past looked up in mild surprise.

‘Dr Bartlett?’ he said.

‘Malia, what are you doing here?’

‘I’ve worked here for fifty-eight years,’ said the man, his tone suggesting, again, surprise at the question.

‘But you don’t work here now!’

‘No,’ agreed the man mildly. Then he stopped. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you could say this
is
work.’

‘What is?’

‘Checking on the accommodation.’

‘Look, Malia, I know your theory. But you can’t go round putting people’s backs up!’

‘I certainly wouldn’t wish to do that!’ said Dr Malia.

‘Well, it annoys people, you know.’

‘I’m sorry about that. I try not to get in the way.’

‘Well, maybe, but—It’s just that you’re always creeping around.’

‘I don’t want to disturb anybody. That’s why I go around quietly.’

The Maltese doctor laughed.

‘You always did go around quietly, Mathias,’ he said.

‘Did I? I wasn’t aware of that.’

‘It used to frighten the nurses.’

‘Oh, surely not!’

‘Until they got to know you, and then they didn’t mind.’ Malia looked perturbed.

‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to frighten them,’ he said.

‘Perhaps frighten is the wrong word. Disconcert, perhaps. I think you sometimes disconcerted them.’

‘Because I was so quiet?’

‘You used to suddenly appear from nowhere.’

‘Perhaps they were busy, so they didn’t notice me.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Perhaps I should cough a little as I go around,’ said Dr Malia, considering. ‘Or sing. Just to let them know.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much,’ said the Maltese doctor. ‘But, you know, Mathias, it can come as a bit of a surprise to come across you unexpectedly at all hours of the day or night.’

‘I don’t sleep that well these nights. You often don’t when you get old.’

‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get up, Mathias. But perhaps you shouldn’t go around places like the hospital when you do.’

‘I would have thought that was just the sort of place I
could
go around. It’s a bit of a timeless place, the hospital. People are always going around. Even in the night. But I will bear in mind what you say.’

‘It might make people feel happier. But, Mathias, how are you keeping in general? Apart from sleeplessness?’

‘Oh, pretty well, thank you. I feel as fit as I’ve ever been. The important thing is to keep active.’

‘Yes, I’m sure. But—it does depend a little on what you keep active doing.’

‘Yes. You must keep active mentally as well as physically. I always try to do that. That’s why the work I’m doing is just right.’

‘The survey you’re making?’

‘Yes. It’s physical as well as mental. I try to inspect everything in person, you see. A trained eye can tell at once if accommodation is suitable.’

‘Ye-e-s.’

‘And there’s a social point, too. What I’m doing could prove very important if a war comes.’

‘
If
it comes.’

Dr Malia laughed. ‘And if it doesn’t, people will just say I’m a silly old fool.’

‘Well, you said it,’ muttered Dr Bartlett under his breath. ‘But, Malia,’ said the other doctor, ‘what I can’t understand is what you’re doing
here
. I mean, this is the one place, surely, that you don’t need to come. It
is
a hospital already!’

‘Of course! You’re quite right. I don’t really need to come here. But, you know, I’ve always wondered if the configuration of the wards is quite right. I’m sure it could be improved. I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I think I’ve worked out a configuration which would allow us to take in more patients. In fact, I’ve drawn up some plans. Would you like to—?’

‘Thank you. Yes. I’d love to see them. Perhaps another time?’

‘And I’ve got some other suggestions. We could switch round some of the units, for example. If we put Ophthalmology—’

‘Oh, no!’ groaned Dr Bartlett.

‘It sounds very interesting,’ said the Maltese doctor, deftly shepherding Dr Malia away. ‘Certainly, the ideas need airing. We’ll have to find a suitable time.’

‘You see what I mean?’ said the Inspector.

They took a
dghajsa
back to Valletta and climbed up again to the Upper Barraca Gardens. The main part of the town was on the plateau—the top of a great promontory—and from the Gardens it spread out before them. They went across to the Triq ir-Repubblika, the main street, at one end of which was the City Gate. A delicious aroma spread up all around him. The Inspector saw him sniffing.

‘
Mquaret
,’ he said.

The aroma came from small carts carrying shallow, bubbling oil fryers on which vendors were cooking little diamond-shaped pastry cakes filled with dates and flavoured with aniseed. It was the latter which gave the distinctive smell.

‘A favourite here,’ explained the Inspector.

‘
Mquaret
,’ repeated Seymour.

‘And also you must try
kannoli
. And
kwarezimal
. And
quaghaq tal-ghasel
. It’s a sort of sweet pastry made with dark treacle, semolina and candied peel.’

‘Sounds—’

‘—delicious,’ said the Inspector. ‘My wife says I have a sweet tooth. “If I do, so does everyone else!” I say.’

‘
Mquaret
,’ said Seymour again. And
kwarezimal
. And
quaghaq tal-ghasel
.

What sort of language was this?

‘Malti,’ said the Inspector with pride.

Maltese. But around him everyone was speaking not Malti but English. The doctors in the hospital had spoken English, and so had the porters and the nurses. They had spoken it naturally, as if it was their own language.

‘Well, it is,’ said the Inspector. ‘And also Malti,’ he laughed.

The shop signs were in English. The beer was English. The post boxes were the traditional English red ones. If you had been transported here by magic carpet overnight, when you woke up in the morning you would not have known you were not in England.