Doctor On The Brain (15 page)

The dean yawned. ‘We’d better get some sleep, I suppose. You’re examining in surgery tomorrow, aren’t you?’

Sir Lancelot nodded.

‘It’s the finals of the Royal Society of Bleeders.’

‘At least that won’t be very exacting on the brain. I expect you’d care to borrow a pair of my pyjamas?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’d look like a hippopotamus in a zebra skin.’

When Sir Lancelot lay in the nude between Josephine’s sheets, he said, ‘Lionel…with Frankie…to be honest, now. Did you?’

‘To be honest, Lancelot, no.’

‘You don’t mind my asking?’

‘Not a bit.’ There was a pause. ‘And did you – to be perfectly honest?’

‘To be perfectly and absolutely honest – no.’

‘Remind me in the morning, Lancelot, to do a little work at some writing I have in my desk.’

‘And perhaps you’d remind me of some editing I must do on a literary effort in my own desk?’

‘Of course, Lancelot. Good night.’

‘Good night, Lionel.’

The dean switched out the light. For a long time he stared through the darkness at the ceiling, grappling with his troubles. But in a second Sir Lancelot was asleep and snoring, as usual.

Just before ten-thirty the following morning, the dean hurried in his bowler hat up the front steps of the wide granite entrance of the Old Bailey. He stood for a moment in the entrance-hall, looking confusedly at the barristers, policemen and, he supposed, criminals milling about. Then spotting a helmetless young constable sitting in a booth, he asked, ‘Mr Humphrey Fletcher-Boote, please?’ adding for full measure, ‘QC’.

‘I imagine you’d find him in the barristers’ robing room, sir.’

‘He said he’d come out here to collect me.’

‘Are you his client, sir?’

‘Oh, no,’ exclaimed the dean. ‘At least, not yet.’

‘Lionel, there you are! My dear, dear fellow! What an unexpected pleasure.’

The deep voice which with commendable fairness had boomed blackly of the misdeeds of criminals, or alternately mellifluously indicated their innocence, which had humbly submitted to the wisdom of judges or passionately stirred the wits of juries, came ringing across the busy hall. Mr Fletcher-Boote was a big, red-faced cheerful man, in bands, wig and gown, advancing with huge hand outstretched.

‘I hope you didn’t mind my telephoning you at home so early?’ the dean apologized.

‘Not a bit. Delighted I could fit you in this morning. By jove, you’re looking well.’

‘Thank you. Though I didn’t sleep a wink last night.’

The QC dug him hard in the ribs. ‘Can’t you doctors knock yourselves flat with drugs?’ He gave another dig. ‘Or do you simply count sheep like everyone else? How’s the family? How’s that clever young daughter of yours? She must be quite grown up now.’

‘Grown up!’ muttered the dean.

‘We really must get a little golf, some time. Though I’ve honestly hardly touched a club since our days at the university. What’s the bother?’ he asked, noticing the clock and coming briskly to business.

‘I wondered if I could cadge a little professional advice?’

‘In trouble, eh?’ The QC laughed heartily and dug the dean in the ribs again. ‘General Medical Council, I suppose? Being naughty with the ladies, eh, Lionel? Just like you used to be.’

‘It’s entirely theoretical.’ The dean looked deeply uncomfortable. ‘You see… I, well, I’m examining students today. For the qualifying examination of the Royal Society of Bleeders – it has an ancient right to bestow medical degrees, you may know.’

‘And it keeps a splendid cellar. I’ve dined there.’

‘Doubtless. I wanted to ask questions more unusual than the general run – I’m afraid the Bleeders candidates do turn up time and time again, poor fellows, and I fancy only pass in the end because they’ve answered everything we can possibly ask. You know the medico-legal line–’

‘Murder, rape and bestiality? All very interesting.’

‘Something a little more esoteric, I thought. Now there’s this girl–’

‘Which girl?’

‘Muriel.’

The QC frowned. ‘That’s the name of your daughter, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, she’s got nothing to do with it. Nothing whatever. But I thought I’d better call this girl something, instead of just calling her “this girl”. So I called her Muriel.’

‘I see.’

‘This girl – let’s call her Mary instead – she’s pregnant, you see.’

‘Ah! A condition with almost limitless medicolegal possibilities – either after, or immediately before, its initiation.’

‘Quite. Well, Muriel. That is, Mary. This girl. She’s pregnant. By a man.’

‘That would be hardly astounding.’

‘No. Of course not. I meant, by this man, whom she knows.’

‘Some girls don’t know, of course. Dance halls in the provinces,’ he added with a professional appreciation. ‘How confused they can get in the dark afterwards.’

‘But Muriel knows. This girl knows.’

‘That’s Mary?’

‘She knows who did it.’

‘She wants a bastardy order?’

‘Not a bit. He’s perfectly prepared to marry her.’

‘Stout fellow.’

‘But she doesn’t want to marry him.’

‘That’s not unknown. After all, one may enjoyably sip a good port, but feel disinclined to lay down a whole cellarful.’

‘She wants to marry somebody else.’

‘The same girl?’

‘Yes. Muriel. I mean, the pregnant girl.’

‘Someone had better tell the other fellow pretty damn quick he’s buying her in foal.’

‘He knows.’

‘And he’s still prepared to marry her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bloody fool.’

‘He sleeps among the garbage.’

‘So I should imagine. But you’re making this story rather complicated for your exam candidates, aren’t you?’

‘What I’m trying to get down to, is simply this. Who is the father of the child?’

‘The man who rodgered her, of course.’

‘But who would legally be its father if the girl married the second chap?’

‘The second chap.’

‘But what about the first chap? Wouldn’t he come into it?’

‘The law always assumes any child born to a married couple is theirs. A bit hard on the husband sometimes, quite possibly. But you must agree it’s a nice and tidy arrangement.’

‘But–’ The dean wagged a finger. ‘Surely the girl wouldn’t be allowed to marry the
second
chap if she was pregnant by the
first
chap? It would be…’ He searched his mind for legal terms. ‘Consanguinity.’

‘That’s nothing whatever to do with it.’ Mr Fletcher-Boote looked offended at this assumption of legal knowledge. ‘They could be married in Canterbury Cathedral by the Archbishop. It would be perfectly in order, as long as they could pay for the choir.’

‘That strikes me as being utterly ridiculous.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.
Caveat emptor
, and so on. It’s a man’s own fault if he buys a pig in a poke. Or should I say a poked pig?’ He laughed loudly, digging the dean in the ribs again. ‘Of course, such a marriage would be voidable. It could be annulled by the courts, if certain conditions were observed, such as instituting the nullity proceedings within a year of the ceremony.’

‘In that case, the marriage would be a marriage which never was?’ asked the dean hopefully.

‘Exactly. Void
ab initio
.’

‘That might be a ray of hope.’

‘Though of course, if the second chap – the chap who sleeps with the garbage – knew the girl was preggers when he went ahead and married her…well, that’s the end of it. Unless he can show he was ignorant of the facts at the time, the marriage simply has to stand.’

The dean bit the rim of his bowler thoughtfully. ‘But Andy is not at all ignorant of the facts.’

‘Who’s Andy?’

‘Oh, no one…so I can’t stop it? I mean – in this purely theoretical case – the marriage can go ahead? It can’t even be disallowed afterwards?’

‘I’d advise the couple to seek a divorce later, if they want to. Divorce has been made so simple and convenient one feels quite ashamed at pocketing the fees sometimes. Now I must go, Lionel. I am defending a financial gentleman, whose talents I fear are shortly to be lost to the City of London for some considerable time.’

The dean hurried away, looking anxiously at his watch. He should have been at St Swithin’s, but he had telephoned his registrar to take his ward-round. He had strong views on shirkers but the crisis of a lifetime excused anything – even drinking brandy in the bedroom.

The others were waiting for him in the downstairs room at No 2 Lazar Row. Muriel was still reading the
Lancet
. Edgar Sharpewhistle was glaring silently at Andy, who with his eyes shut and his hands clasped seemed to be meditating. Josephine was sitting with a collander, shelling peas for lunch. None of them seemed to have spoken for some time.

The dean strode in, taking off his hat with a flourish. ‘Well, I have taken advice, as I promised. Legal advice. The very best advice. Mr Fletcher-Boote, a most eminent QC. I was privileged to be given a consultation at short notice. I put the facts to him. I think I may say that I did so cogently, lucidly, with neither elaboration nor emotion–’

‘Can I marry Andy or can’t I?’ asked Muriel impatiently.

‘Yes.’

Andy opened his eyes. ‘Bless him, bless him. Bless you, sir. Bless us all.’

Muriel grabbed his arm and kissed him.

‘Here, where do I come into this?’ Sharpewhistle looked crosser than ever.

‘Please be quiet, Edgar,’ said the dean severely. ‘The legal position is perfectly clear. You can marry Andy, Muriel, despite your…er, condition caught from Edgar. So far so good. I shall, however, disown you.’

‘Lionel, you are old-fashioned. Children aren’t chattels any more,’ murmured Josephine. ‘Ugh, maggots.’

‘They may take my views how they like, my dear. They have invoked my displeasure. Doubtless that gives pain only to myself, not to Muriel. I think she is mad to marry this…this mystic dishwasher. Though I suppose if it
had
been illegal,’ he added, ruefully, glancing at Sharpewhistle, ‘we shouldn’t be all that better off, back at square one.’

‘I don’t think I like that remark,’ said Sharpewhistle.

‘Please don’t keep interrupting. I have suffered enough this morning already. To be quite frank, I should be happier at Muriel marrying you, Andy. She obviously loves you – I presume, possibly too generously, she’s old enough and sensible enough to know her own feelings. And you are…er, quite tall, and I suppose personable–’

Sharpewhistle jumped up. ‘I don’t care for your tone–’

‘Shut up. I am simply ashamed, bitterly ashamed, that she has decided to do so in such bizarre, indeed perverted, circumstances. Moreover, you are a hopeless drifter, a wastrel–’

‘Sir. Bless you. May I say I am starting a regular job on Monday, to support my bride?’

‘
Head
dishwasher, I presume?’

‘No, sir. Research into the molecular structure of non-ferrous metals at temperatures approaching absolute zero.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Andy got a double first,’ Muriel explained. ‘At Cambridge.’

‘Where…where are you going to do all this, may I ask?’ The dean looked even more bemused.

‘In the research laboratories of Megaelectronics Limited, sir. My father is a director.’

‘Well, of course this is completely different,’ said the dean, rubbing his hands briskly.

‘Here – !’ said Sharpewhistle.

‘Oh, do shut up.’

‘I had rejected society, sir. But Muriel insists I cohere again. And I think she is right. With her personality behind me–’

‘But of course, there’s still this bloody baby,’ muttered the dean.

‘Oh, Father.’ Muriel had been standing biting her knuckle. ‘Excuse me a minute, will you? I must fetch something from my room.’

‘Morning, George.’ In his black jacket and striped trousers, rubbing his hands expectantly, Sir Lancelot came briskly through some specially arranged white cloth screens at one end of Virtue Ward in St Swithin’s. ‘Sorry I’m late. Had to spend a couple of hours this morning packing an ancient female relative back to Somerset. Gone now, thank God.’

‘They can be a bore, these old dears.’ His fellow examiner was from High Cross Hospital, a silver-haired surgeon in a dark suit and a lilac waistcoat with brass buttons. He put down his copy of The Angling Times. ‘Been on the river much this season?’

‘Out there a couple of days ago.’ Sir Lancelot sat at the small table covered with a green baize cloth, on which were set some folders, a pewter inkwell with a steel-nibbed pen, a brass clock, a small pewter bowl with one odd, squared-off side, a bell to be struck by the palm of the hand, as once summoned the landlord in sleepy country pubs, and several large bottles containing pickled human organs attacked with flamboyant if implicitly mystifying disease. ‘Caught a ten-pound rainbow.’

‘No!’

‘Nothing to it, really,’ Sir Lancelot continued modestly. ‘I’d had my eye on him for some time. Rather tricky cast, admittedly, under a low bridge. Had to play him for almost an hour before popping him in the net. But no real trouble.’

‘I must congratulate you, Lancelot. That must be the record weight, or damn near it.’

‘It was quite a substantial fish.’

‘You’re having it stuffed, of course?’

‘Unfortunately it has been eaten by cats.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘They belonged to my housekeeper. My former housekeeper.’

‘But what a disaster.’

‘The worst of its kind, I should say, since John Stuart Mill’s parlourmaid lit the fire with the manuscript of Carlyle’s
French Revolution
. But one must rise above it.’ He hitched up his trouser-creases briskly. ‘Now to work. I asked out-patients to send me up a fibroadenoma of the breast. That shouldn’t strain the mentality of even the Bleeders candidates.’

‘I always rather like examining for the Bleeders,’ the other surgeon said fondly. ‘So much more intimate than those awful massed battles between students and examiners for the university degree.’

‘I suppose the Bleeders are a useful safety-net, for those who grasp somewhat weakly the trapezes swinging dizzily through the higher atmosphere of medicine,’ Sir Lancelot observed philosophically. ‘Though it isn’t half so intimate as in the days when they held it in Bleeders Hall and provided free beer to refresh the flagging candidates.’

‘I find they always make excellent doctors, when they finally
do
pass. And after all, the Worshipful Company established its right to examine apprentices only through bleeding our Monarchy for several centuries.’

‘Yes, and nearly exsanguinating our nobility into the bargain.’ Sir Lancelot picked up the lopsided pewter dish. ‘Odd how these bleeding bowls turn up in antique shops. One sometimes sees them filled with violets in tasteful homes.’

The ward sister put her head round the screen. ‘There’s a young lady come up to see you, Sir Lancelot.’

‘That’ll be the fibroadenoma. Pop her behind a screen, sister, and tell her to take her things off. Say that I shall want to have a look at her breasts.’

‘Very good, Sir Lancelot.’

‘And send in the first candidate.’

A tall, fair, red-faced man with a large moustache, approaching middle age, in a tweed suit and with a jaunty air, took the chair opposite. ‘Ah, Mr Pottle. Delighted to see you again. It is always pleasant with this examination, we and the students coming to know each other so well over the years. Tenth time, isn’t it?’

‘Twelfth, Sir Lancelot,’

‘Very well, Mr Pottle. You are woken in the middle of the night. It’s the police. They whisk you in their car to a luxurious flat in Mayfair. There you see a glamorous model lying on the carpet, starkers. You diagnose barbiturate poison. What treatment do you give?’

‘Hot coffee and blankets, sir.’

‘She’s unconscious, you fool.’

‘Hot coffee and blankets per rectum, sir.’

Sir Lancelot passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Very well. What are the signs of phosphorus poisoning?’

‘I say, “Luminous motions, sir,” and you say, “A mere flash in the pan, my boy.” We all know that hoary old one puts you in a good mood, sir. But if I may say so, I’m getting rather tired of it.’

Sir Lancelot grunted. ‘Possibly you’re right. Come and have a look at this patient over here. Yes, sister, what is it?’ he added testily.

‘It’s that young woman, Sir Lancelot. She’s refusing to take her bra off.’

‘Really, some people are impossible these days. Always standing on their dignity. How does she expect me to help her if she doesn’t let the dog see the rabbit? Tell her I’ve felt more tits than she’s had hot dinners.’

‘Very well, Sir Lancelot.’

Lying in his pyjamas on an examination couch behind another pair of screens was Mr Winterflood, the technician from the clinical pathology laboratory. ‘Good morning, Sir Lancelot,’ he began eagerly. ‘Delighted to be of assistance again. By displaying my wares, as you might say.’

‘Morning, Winterflood. And don’t let me hear you flogging your diagnosis to the candidates.’

‘Sir Lancelot! I’d never do a thing like that.’

‘I heard you’d reduced the price from five quid to three quid-fifty. I’m very cheered. It shows the candidates must be getting cleverer.’ He turned to the middle-aged student. ‘Just take a look at this fellow, then come and tell me what you find. He’s enjoying a day’s holiday from the hospital staff, so he knows all the answers. By the way, I happen to know that you, Mr Pottle, and everyone else are aware that Winterflood is the one with the enlarged spleen. But he has lots of other things as well, and under local rules this morning spleens don’t count.’

Sir Lancelot went back to the table and slapped his palm on the bell. A thin, delicate-looking young man in a stylish blue suit appeared. Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘Take a seat, please. I don’t fancy we’ve ever met, have we?’

‘I can’t recall as much, sir.’

‘Name?’

‘Chisley, sir.’

‘And you are from?’

‘I’m a London man, sir.’

‘From the London, eh? What would you do if you came into my study one evening and found me howling on the hearth-rug with a pain in my belly?’

‘I should send for a doctor, sir.’

Sir Lancelot glared. ‘Don’t give me any insolence, please.’ He pushed across a cylindrical jar. ‘What’s that?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t the vaguest idea, sir.’

‘It’s a tape worm.’

‘Ugh!’

‘You don’t seem to have prepared yourself very well, Mr Chisley. I’m surprised at that, in a candidate from the London Hospital.’

‘I’m not from any hospital, sir. I was sent by the domestic agency.’

A young, pretty blonde girl burst through the screens. ‘Which one’s Sir Lancelot Spratt?’ she demanded furiously. ‘You with the beard? I’ve a damn good mind to report you to the Ministry. And the police. I’m a
cordon bleu
, not a concubine.’

Sir Lancelot jumped up. Another pair of screens flew apart and the dean burst in, followed by Josephine. ‘Lancelot – Winterflood. Where is he? We’ve been searching all the labs. Ah! He’s behind there–’

‘Dean! This is an examination, not a roughhouse–’

‘Winterflood–’ The dean elbowed the startled Mr Pottle aside. ‘Last Monday, did you or did you not do a pregnancy test on a specimen of my daughter’s urine?’

‘I am not at liberty to discuss my patients–’

‘Don’t try that rubbish. Answer yes or no, or you’re more redundant than a eunuch’s jock-strap.’

‘Lionel!’ cried Josephine.

‘Yes, sir. I did.’

‘And was it or was it not positive?’

‘Positive, sir.’

The dean banged his forehead with his fist. ‘To think! That I credited my daughter with enough sense, as a St Swithin’s student, to know if she was pregnant or not. And she based her diagnosis on one bloody urine test! She must be out of her head.’

‘But it was certainly positive, sir,’ said Winterflood defensively. ‘I repeated it twice. In the young lady’s very presence.’

‘Well, she isn’t pregnant. She was a few days late, that’s all. As you might expect in a girl of somewhat tense disposition, like her mother.’

‘Well, that should clear the air a bit,’ put in Sir Lancelot over the dean’s shoulder.

‘Mr Winterflood,’ asked Josephine calmly. ‘Did you last Monday test another specimen? One that, for various reasons, it was thought best not to bring to the notice of the professor?’

Winterflood looked from one to the other. ‘I did.’

‘And was it positive or negative?’

‘Negative.’ He shifted anxiously on the couch. ‘I thought that reasonable, in view of the patient’s…well, age.’

‘And I agree, Mr Winterflood. I thought myself the symptoms were due to the onset of the menopause. But I’m afraid you did rather muddle the specimens up – even with the same name on the two labels.’

‘What on earth is everyone talking about?’ demanded the dean crossly.

‘Oh, Lionel! We’re going to have another little one.’

‘Cor,’ muttered the dean.

‘It all fits in,’ said Josephine radiantly. ‘It was the night of the May ball – after your lovely champagne party, Lancelot.’

The dean wagged a finger. ‘Lancelot! It’s all your responsibility.’

‘It isn’t, old cock. But thanks for the flattery.’

‘I feel faint,’ said the dean.

‘Sister! Bring a glass of water.’

‘I’m so happy,’ said Josephine, ‘that I feel quite woozy myself.’

‘Sister! Two glasses of water.’

‘Here, what about my exam?’ asked Mr Pottle.

‘You’ve passed.’

‘I might say, I did not come here to be shown tapeworms,’ said the man from the agency. ‘You’re all dead kinky if you ask me.’

‘I want my travelling expenses,’ added the girl. ‘Breasts, indeed!’

‘George,’ said Sir Lancelot calmly to the other examiner. ‘Would you be a pal and sort all this out? I think I’m going fishing.’