Pestilence (6 page)

In the brief glimpse that Saracen had got of the man he had taken in that he looked prosperous, neatly clipped hair, immaculate suit and a deep tan that said he had recently been abroad. But one thing had made a bigger impression than anything else; it was the look in his eyes. Saracen recognised it as despair. He slowed his pace as he wrestled with his conscience over whether or not he should interfere. The fact that the man was sitting near to the edge of a cliff decided the issue. He turned and started to walk back to the gazebo. As he walked he unfastened his wrist watch and slipped it into his pocket.

“Excuse me, I wonder if you can tell me the time?” said Saracen.

The man turned his wrist and replied, “It’s twelve thirty.”

“Thank you,” said Saracen, desperately trying to think of a way of continuing the conversation. “You didn’t get that tan in this country, I’ll bet,” he smiled.

The man looked up and seemed to pause for a long time before saying, “I’ve lived in Africa for twenty years.”

“Really? That is interesting,” said Saracen, taking the man’s reply as a cue to sit down. “So you are back here on holiday then?”

“My wife and I came back here to retire.”

“It’s a nice place,” said Saracen.

The man did not reply.

Saracen took the plunge. He said softly, “Something is troubling you. I know it’s none of my business but, for what it’s worth, I’m a doctor. Can I help?”

The man looked up sharply at the word Doctor and snorted, “Doctor! I need doctors like I need smallpox!”

Despite the sentiment Saracen was glad to see that he had kindled some spark in the man. “I’m sorry.” he said, “You’ve had some kind of bad experience?”

“Bad experience? Myra is dead for Christ’s sake!” The man broke down and started sobbing silently as he covered his face with his hands.

Saracen put his hand on the man’s shoulder but did not say anything and, in a few moments the man had recovered his composure. He blew his nose and said, “I’m sorry, that was unforgivable. Please accept my apologies.” He dabbed hurriedly at his eyes with a large handkerchief.

“There’s nothing to apologise for,” replied Saracen. “I’m going to have lunch down at the Ship Inn. Join me?”

The man hesitated then agreed. He stood up and held out his hand. “I’m Timothy Archer.”

“James Saracen.”

The two men walked down the winding cliff path making small talk about the weather until they reached the Inn that nestled at the foot of the cliff at the east end of the town. A model of a three-masted schooner was fixed to the wall above a doorway that was so low that they both had to duck their heads to enter. They stepped into the warm, calm air of the bar and immediately became aware of the wind burn on their faces.

“What’ll it be gentlemen?” asked the landlord.

Saracen ordered whisky and turned to his companion. “And…”

Archer looked along the gantry and asked, “Do you have Jack Daniels?”

“Should do.” The landlord ran his finger through the air from left to right. “Yes, there we go.” He kicked a small foot stool along the floor and stood on it to reach up to a very dusty bottle and bring it down with a grunt.

They picked up their drinks and Saracen picked up a menu from the bar counter and took it with them to a table where they could look out at the sea. After a few minutes a girl, summoned up by the landlord, came across to the table to take their order and wrote it down on her pad with a very blunt pencil.

Saracen waited until Archer had finished most of his drink before suggesting that he might like to talk about what was troubling him.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I’m in no hurry,” said Saracen. “How about you?”

Archer threw back what was left of his drink and looked to the landlord. He stabbed two fingers at the empty glasses on the table without saying anything.

Saracen noted the gesture. Archer had been in Africa a long time and it showed. The landlord brought over the drinks and Archer began to speak.

“Twenty years ago Myra, my wife, and I sold up here and went to live in Rhodesia…Zimbabwe as-it-now-is.”

Saracen noticed the edge in Archer’s voice.

“It was a big step for us. We had known each other since we were kids and neither of us had ever been abroad before, not even on holiday. We had both grown up here in Skelmore but we wanted more out of life than forty years in the mill and a two up two down in Station Road.

Africa was a big adventure but it worked out for us. We became successful and had everything we wanted except kids but that didn’t matter too much. We had each other and that was enough. Then, one night last year, I confessed to Myra that I still missed the old country. Would you believe it? I actually missed Skelmore. And do you know? Myra said that she felt exactly the same!” Archer smiled as he recalled the moment and took a sip of his drink before continuing. “Well, we laughed and we laughed then Myra said, why don’t we go back? We were both getting on a bit. We could sell the farm and retire, buy a little place back in Skelmore or down here in Gerham. We could visit all our old haunts and pretend that we were kids again.

At first I baulked at the idea, for selling the farm was not going to be easy and, with things being the way they were, there was no way that we were going to get what it was really worth. But Myra pointed out that that really didn’t matter as long as we got enough to buy our place back here and had enough to live on. So that is what we did. We wrote to an estate agent in Skelmore and asked him about houses in the area and, to our amazement, he wrote back saying that new houses and flats were springing up all over the place, something about a new Japanese company opening up here.”

Saracen nodded.

“He sent us some builder’s brochures and we decided on one of the new flats on Palmer’s Green. Myra came over two weeks ahead of me to get things ready and I stayed on to tidy up the loose ends.” Archer paused as if composing himself for what he had to say next. “When I got here last Tuesday a neighbour told me that Myra had been taken to hospital.”

“Which one?” asked Saracen.

“The neighbour said Skelmore General but when I got there they told me that she wasn’t there, she must have been taken to the County Hospital. I went immediately to the County but they said that Myra wasn’t there either. I was at my wits’ end; I didn’t know what to do.”

“I can imagine. What did you do?”

“I went back to the General and told them what the people at the County Hospital had said. Eventually they apologised for the mix up, as they called it, and admitted that Myra had been brought to the General. She had died shortly after admission.” Archer wrung his hands as he stared at the table in front of him.

“What did your wife die of Mr Archer?” asked Saracen softly.

“They said that she had had a heart attack. I can’t understand it; Myra was always as strong as a horse. She’d never had a day’s illness in her life.”

“It can happen like that,” said Saracen.

“But it was all so cold and callous as if Myra was some vagrant they had found dead on a parking lot. They wouldn’t even let me see her.”

Saracen was puzzled but very much aware that Archer was on the verge of breaking down again. “Did they give you a reason why not?” he asked gently.

“They said that an autopsy had been carried out on Myra and it would not be ‘appropriate’ for me to view the body. They said that they hadn’t realised that she had had a husband or indeed any relations and had arranged for her body to be cremated.” Archer’s voice fell to a whisper as he said, “But I managed to stop them doing that. Part of our reason for coming back to Skelmore was that we bath wanted to be buried in St Clement’s churchyard when the time came. We had gone to Sunday school there when we were kids and we were married there. I managed to fix that yesterday for Myra.”

Saracen nodded but was still puzzled. If the woman had died of a heart attack the post mortem would have been confined to the thorax. The site of incision could easily have been concealed and the body displayed in the viewing area of the mortuary chapel. Why had Archer been treated so shabbily? Had it really been too much trouble for someone to arrange for him to see his wife? “Who did you speak to at the General?” he asked Archer.

“Dr Garden, I think he said his name was.”

“Garten,” corrected Saracen.

Yes, that was it. You know him then?”

“I work in Dr Garten’s unit at the General,” replied Saracen.

“I see.” said Archer quietly. Saracen remained silent, letting Archer come to terms with the information.

It suddenly occurred to Archer that Saracen might actually have seen his wife at the hospital. He was anxious to find out.

“I’m afraid not,” said Saracen, conscious of the disappointment he was causing. “It must have been my night off.”

“She was admitted on Monday the twelfth.”

Saracen confirmed that he was not on duty on Monday night.

Archer face fell and he said, “I know it probably sounds silly but I just want to speak to someone who might have seen her since she got here, someone who might have spoken to her. Twenty three years married and I end up standing in an office being handed a plastic bag with some of her things in it…they even asked me to sign a chit…” Archer put his hand over his face and held his fingers lightly against his eye-lids for a moment.

Saracen was aware of the landlord’s curiosity. The man was wondering what was going on. Saracen spread his fingers silently in a gesture that said that everything was all right. He could not help but appraise the situation professionally. Archer, he concluded, was not the type to respond to platitudes about time being a great healer and the like so he came straight to the point and said, “Mr Archer you need some help.”

“Pills you mean,” answered Archer with scorn in his voice.

“Yes pills,” said Saracen flatly. “There is nothing noble in going through agony unnecessarily. Your wife is dead and feeling the way you do is not going to bring her back. What you need is a breathing space before you start getting your life in order. Medication can help.” Saracen had made his gamble with a firm, almost bullying approach. He waited for Archer’s response, not at all confident of the outcome.

Archer capitulated. “I suppose you are right,” he conceded.

“Good. Have you registered with a doctor since your arrival?” asked Saracen.

Archer replied that he had not and Saracen told him how to go about it then he wrote down the phone numbers of his flat and the A&E unit at the hospital before saying, “If you have any trouble or even if you just want someone to talk to, call me.”

Archer accepted the beer mat that Saracen had written the information on and slipped it into his pocket. “Doctor I don’t know how to begin to thank you. Up there on the cliff I was seriously thinking of…”

“I think I know what you were considering,” said Saracen.

“At least let me pay for lunch,” said Archer.

Saracen agreed.

Saracen tried to rescue what was left of the day with a slow walk round the harbour but thoughts of Archer remained uppermost in his mind as he found a smooth stone to sit on near the mooring wall. He found it hard to believe that Nigel Garten would have treated a dead patient’s relative in such an off-hand way for being charming to strangers was one of his fortes as it was with many shallow people. Perhaps Archer’s account of what had happened had been distorted by grief or, even more likely perhaps, the truth of the matter might lie somewhere in the middle.

It was sometimes difficult for a doctor, however well meaning, to adopt the proper degree of sensitivity or concern over the death of someone he or she had scarcely known, or in the case of a ‘dead on arrival’ someone they had not known at all. People expected too much. He didn’t blame them; he understood.

When he got home Saracen decided to return to duty on the following morning and telephoned Nigel Garten to tell him so. The news was greeted enthusiastically by Garten who wondered perhaps if Saracen

‘could possibly’ take over his period of duty with Chenhui Tang as he had been called to an all day meeting of the Skelmore Development Committee at the Council Chambers. Saracen bit his lip and agreed. Involvement with the Development Committee was rapidly becoming the jewel in Garten’s crown of excuses for avoiding work. This would be the third all day meeting he had attended in the past month.

Saracen sensed political ambition awakening in Garten and thought the man well qualified. All front and no substance. He was the right age and held the right status in the community to present well in the political arena. The more usual background of business success was provided, in Garten’s case by his father-in-law, Matthew Glendale, a wealthy and prominent local builder. It was a connection that had cost Garten dear for, for Mildred Glendale, Garten’s wife, had achieved uniqueness in Saracen’s mind as the most unpleasant woman he had ever met. Tremaine, on meeting her, had summed her up succinctly with the comment, ‘sensitivity of a dead pig, manners of a live one.” Saracen might have argued with the ethics of such a remark but not the accuracy. From time to time Saracen had wondered if Garten might have been different had he not married the malicious Mildred but he concluded not. To be so lazy and parasitic demanded congenital short-comings not just acquired ones.