The Scent of Murder (19 page)

She took some calming breaths and concentrated on the view through the window. Rolling pastures dotted with sheep, damp wooded valleys and rushing streams rumbled by to a consoling rhythm. They crossed a brick bridge spanning a river she assumed to be the Ouse. She must pull herself together, forget the attempted rape, cast the humiliation aside and think only of poor Tristram.

‘I’m sorry, Matthew. I’ll explain everything later.’ She turned from the window, relieved to see his posture loosen with her apology. ‘Have the Fitzgibbons sent for the substitute doctor yet?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. But Florence acted on her own initiative in summoning you,’ Pike said, regarding her strangely.

Dody set her jaw and nodded, glancing at her medical bag and portmanteau, hoping she had brought with her the necessary drugs and equipment. It sounded as if Tristram had suffered some kind of spinal injury. He would be in spinal shock now and completely paralysed below the lesion due to the swelling of damaged tissues. Time alone would tell them the extent of the injuries — unless, of course, they were to the cervical spine.

In which case, he might be dead already.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dody telephoned the Hall from the station, ever conscious of Pike’s hovering behind the phone booth, his footsteps shuffling on the gritty waiting-room floor. Down the crackly line, the butler said he would arrange for someone to pick her up.

Uckfield was a thriving agricultural centre and the station waiting room was almost full. Pike pointed to a tea stand and offered to buy her a cup. She declined, wishing he would go on his way, but she had already wounded him once during their journey and had no wish to do so again.

He kissed her hand, took a step back and observed her through worried blue eyes.

‘Are you going to be all right?’

‘Of course.’

‘I have to liaise with the Uckfield police. I’ll be spending the night at the Green Witch again if you should …’ He faltered. ‘If you should need to talk to me.’

‘Thank you,’ she said abruptly.

He squeezed her hand and left the station on foot.

Dody moved closer to the window to look out for the Hall carriage. Raindrops fought their way down the window’s grime like tears down an urchin’s cheek. Behind her, a woman wearing last century’s fashions scolded a group of squabbling children. ‘This is the last time you come visiting your Aunty May with me, you little rascals. Just wait till I tell your father about your be’aviour.’

A group of men to her left roared with laughter, one scoffing at another for the price he was expecting for a much-prized sow. The men wore suits that sat uncomfortably across broad shoulders and wide girths, as if they were accustomed to looser clothing, and their faces were weathered to varying shades of brown and red. So different from your average Londoner, who tended to be pale and thin, and stooped with all kinds of skeletal deformities. Prosperous farmers aside, though, Dody knew that, for the underprivileged, life in the country came with its own hardships and could be just as devastating. She thought of the murdered girl. In the countryside it was also easier to bury your secrets.

No sign of the carriage yet. Then, to her horror, Sir Desmond’s Rolls pulled up outside the station. Dody’s breathing almost stopped as the motorcar’s owner stepped out.

Oh Lord, she could not possibly travel back to the Hall with him! She pretended she hadn’t seen him, and hurried from the waiting room and down the street, looking away from the station for a cab to hire. She found none, of course; this was not London. Then she saw Pike walking back from the police station, probably wanting to make sure she had been picked up.

In a panic, she flicked her gaze from the distant Pike to Sir Desmond, who had seen her and was standing at his motorcar with the front passenger door held open for her. He hadn’t even sent his chauffeur; he was collecting her personally. If she made a scene about getting into the car with him, Pike might guess the reason. Dody realised that she had no choice.

She nodded coldly to Sir Desmond before climbing into the front seat, her Gladstone bag on her knee in front of her like a protective shield as he shut the door and placed her portmanteau in the boot. She wasn’t sure what to expect. At best a silent and uncomfortable drive, at worst his pulling to a halt in a deserted spot outside Uckfield where he could attend to his unfinished business. While he was still busy with the boot, she snapped open her bag, grabbed a long pair of surgical scissors and slipped them into the pocket of her coat. To stop herself from trembling Dody kept a firm grip on the bag on her knee, drawing it into her body as a protective barrier. ‘He wouldn’t dare, he wouldn’t dare,’ her rational voice whispered over and over inside her head.

Disconcertingly, Sir Desmond treated her like an old friend, his salt-and-pepper curls bobbing while he drove and talked, acting as if nothing had happened in the tack room. He told her how brave Florence had been and how anxious everyone was about Tristram.

‘Your sister showed some quick thinking, getting that Scotland Yard fellow to bring you back,’ he said. ‘The police can be useful at times. The substitute doctor is away, attending a family funeral or somesuch, so it’s just as well we have you. My wife and Mrs Hutton are doing a sterling job, but they really do need the advice of a professional.’

They arrived at the Hall in no time, the footman opening the front door for them before they had alighted from the motorcar. Dody grabbed her Gladstone bag before he could assist her, but followed his directions up the main staircase to the Hall’s second floor, two steps at a time.

She met Lady Fitzgibbon on the landing. Her Ladyship took Dody’s hands in hers and told her how grateful she was for her return. Her Ladyship’s eyes were ringed with red. Dody prayed that she would be able to help.

Lady Fitzgibbon showed Dody into Tristram’s bedroom. Florence left her position by the four-poster bed and ran to Dody, flinging herself into her arms. After hugging Florence briefly, Dody moved to the patient’s bedside.

Tristram’s eyes were closed and his breathing was ragged. He was dressed in a nightshirt, the bed sheets pulled up to his chest. Dody felt his forehead and found it warm and damp.

‘Tristram, can you hear me?’ she asked.

Tristram moaned without opening his eyes.

‘Has he been like this since the accident?’ Dody whispered, uncertain how much her patient could hear.

‘No,’ Florence said, wringing her hands. ‘For a while he was quite lucid.’

‘Complaining of pain?’

‘Not really, just said he felt strange; couldn’t feel his legs or his arms. Oh, Dody, is he going to be all right?’

‘It’s hard to tell at this stage, I’m afraid.’

Dody rolled back the sheets and exposed Tristram’s pale legs. She ran her fingernail down the sole of one of his feet. The foot arched instead of curling, the toes splaying upwards. Not a good sign.

‘Look, he’s responding!’ Florence cried out in delight.

Dody did not have the heart to tell her the truth. ‘I need someone to help me turn him over,’ she said instead.

‘I’ll help.’ Florence moved to Dody’s side.

‘No, Florence.’ For once Lady Fitzgibbon sounded assertive.

‘But Lady—’

‘It is not decent for you to help.’

‘Wait downstairs, please, Florence,’ Dody said. ‘It is a question of emotion. I will call you back when I have finished my examination.’ Dody spoke with deliberate calm, her own emotions hidden by her well-cultivated professional exterior.

She could see how her sister was struggling to hold herself together: the biting of her lower lip, her pallor. Poor Florence. It was anyone’s guess how she herself would have reacted if ordered to leave Pike’s sickbed.

‘And send someone for Mrs Hutton, please, Florence,’ Dody added. To Lady Fitzgibbon she said, ‘We will need at least three people to move him safely.’

Florence nodded bravely and tiptoed from the room.

Dody found a towel, rolled it, and gently positioned it around Tristram’s neck like a soft collar, securing it in place with a crepe bandage. When Mrs Hutton arrived to help, Dody showed both women how to support Tristram’s back and neck respectively.

‘I don’t like to move him, but it is essential that I examine his spine,’ Dody said.

They carefully rolled him onto his side. Dody pulled up his nightshirt and with her finger traced the line of Tristram’s back from neck to buttocks. At once she noticed a faint pattern of diagonal scars, criss-crossing down his back and continuing down the backs of his legs.

‘Do you know what caused these?’ Dody asked.

Lady Fitzgibbon placed a pair of pince-nez on the end of her nose and peered where Dody pointed.

Mrs Hutton gasped.

‘My goodness!’ exclaimed Lady Fitzgibbon. ‘What could they possibly be? It almost looks as if someone has savagely beaten him.’

‘The scar tissue indicates that whatever it was happened a long time ago,’ Dody said.

‘Tristram did have an unpleasant start in life. My sister adopted him when he was three. These scars must be the result of some kind of harsh treatment when he was very little. I assure you my sister and brother-in-law were never such disciplinarians.’

Interesting, Dody thought, but that piece of information must be put aside for the time being. At the moment she was concerned only with his recent injuries. The area around his shoulder and neck was a vivid display of pink and purple bruising. With the pads of her fingers, she gently pressed the oedematous tissue.

‘Oh, Lord,’ she whispered, dropping her guard.

‘Is it serious, Doctor?’ Lady Fitzgibbon whispered.

Dody could only nod. She had in front of her a severely injured young man for whom there was little she could do. But how to tell Florence? And his family? She brought her fingertips to her temples and pressed, using the pain to help her focus.

With the help of the other women, Dody rolled Tristram onto his back once more. ‘Lady Fitzgibbon,’ she said, ‘please be so kind as to fetch my sister and your husband.’ She did not have the strength to break the news more than once.

When Her Ladyship had left the room, Dody palpated Tristram’s abdomen, feeling at once how distended his bladder was. That would have to be dealt with, and soon. She pulled down his nightshirt, ensuring there would be no uncomfortable bunching, and smoothed the bedding across his legs. He was sweating profusely from his upper body but his lower half remained as cold as ice.

There was a tap at the door. Florence and the Fitzgibbons gingerly entered. Dody moved towards her sister and slipped an arm around her waist.

‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he, Dody?’ Florence asked, imploring Dody for comfort she could not provide.

‘What’s wrong with him, then?’ Sir Desmond barked.

Dody took a breath and broke the news as gently as she could. ‘It saddens me to inform you all that Mr Slater has suffered a break in the region of his lower neck.’ Florence gasped and leaned into Dody. Lady Fitzgibbon sank into a nearby chair. ‘I cannot be certain of the extent of the damage until the swelling subsides.’

Sir Desmond straightened his posture and thrust out his chest. ‘How long will that take?’

‘Several weeks—’

‘If he survives, you mean.’

Dody nodded, hoping Tristram was unaware of the conversation.

‘And he’ll remain paralysed?’

‘I can’t tell to what extent yet, Sir Desmond. It all depends on how stable the fracture is and how much damage has been done to the spinal cord.’ Dody turned to the mistress of the house. ‘In the meantime he will require full-time nursing.’

‘We can do that, can’t we, Lady Fitzgibbon?’ Florence said eagerly.

‘Yes, my dear. Between you, me and Mrs Hutton, I’m sure something can be arranged. We might also be able to find a private nurse.’

Dody could not bear to dash their hopes by telling them that she did not think their proposed nursing roster would need to be implemented for very long. She suggested a routine of tepid sponges to keep his temperature down, and plenty of fluids by mouth during moments of consciousness.

Florence sat on a chair by the window, apparently engrossed in the beaded trim of her gown, though Dody had no doubt her sister was absorbing every word of her instructions.

At the mention of bladder and bowel care, Sir Desmond swore under his breath and left the room.

From her Gladstone, Dody removed a bottle of the late Doctor Ringer’s solution, a length of rubber tubing and a metal needle. She handed the equipment to Lady Fitzgibbon to hold while she instructed Mrs Hutton in the application of a tourniquet around Tristram’s arm. Into the engorged vein Dody inserted the needle, attached to the primed rubber tubing, and then she instructed Mrs Hutton to undo the tourniquet. The bottle of Ringer’s was tied to the bedpost and the flow adjusted by a stopcock. Dody was uncomfortable with the intravenous technique of fluid administration: there was a danger of overloading the patient if the fluid ran too fast, or worse, harmful pathogens could be introduced that might cause death. Yet in this case she had little choice but to proceed. She would only give Tristram the one dose of fluids, and that she would monitor herself.

When Dody finally emerged from the sickroom, the butler informed her that Sir Desmond required her in his study. Tristram’s plight had put her own into perspective, and it was with only a small degree of trepidation that she approached Sir Desmond’s desk. He was sipping spirits from a crystal glass, an unstopped decanter by his side, but rose as she entered his room, glass in hand. How strange that after all he had done to her he should still show her such courtesy; how ingrained his manners must be, she thought with amazement.

She refused the drink he offered, as well as the seat.

He slumped back into his chair. ‘All right, Doctor, we’re alone now. You don’t need to beat around the bush with me. I think we know each other too well for that, don’t you?’

Dody looked him in the eye. ‘Better than I would ever have wished, Sir Desmond.’

‘That’s as may be, but the past is to remain in the past. I will spare no expense for Tristram’s treatment. Tell me anything you require and I will get it for you. Would you like me to organise a bed for you in the boy’s room?’