The Black Seraphim (16 page)

“Can’t we do something for him?” said Grey in tones of distress.

“Yes,” said James. “We can.” He was trying to remember the lessons which had been drummed into him at medical school. Don’t panic. Take time to note the symptoms. The right remedy given after thought is better than the wrong remedy given in haste.

The two things which had to be controlled were the convulsions which had now started, alternate contraction and relaxation, deep and frightening, and the abdominal pain. He took an old service sheet off the table and scribbled on it two words: “Diazepam” and “Dibenzyline”. He said to Masters, “There’s a telephone in the Cathedral office. Get hold of Dr McHarg and ask him to bring the things I’ve written down there, or something similar. You won’t have to spell it out. He’ll know what’s wanted. Hurry.” Masters sped off.

After that there was nothing to do but wait. The tremors had now become persistent, and when he got a hand to the Archdeacon’s wrist, he could feel that the pulse was rapid and irregular, like an engine which had lost its governing mechanism and was racing and faulting at the same time.

Outside, the service was proceeding on its appointed way. Once Grey, who was holding on to himself with an effort, said, “Shouldn’t I clear some of this up? It’s not pleasant.”

James said, “No. Leave it.”

“They’ll be coming in here after the service.”

“No one must come in here. They’ll have to use the robing room. Is there a key to this door?”

“I could get one.”

“Then get it now. I think that’s the last hymn starting.”

Grey seemed glad to escape. He arrived back at the same time as Dr McHarg, who came in carrying a small bag. He said, “I got your message. No Dibenzyline, but I’ve got some Diparcol which might help.”

Then he looked at the Archdeacon, who was slumped forward in his chair, put a finger under his jawbone and said, “Too late, I’m afraid.”

James said, “I think the service is ending. Could you and Grey explain to them what has happened? I’ll stay here. You’d better lock the door behind you.”

He sounded so flat and tired that McHarg looked at him curiously. He said, “Not your fault, my boy. You did what you could. We’d better get on with it.”

When they had gone, James moved a chair across to the window, opened it wide and sat staring at the grass in the centre of the cloisters, drawing in gulps of air and feeling his own heart steady down.

He thought, “If I was a proper doctor and not just a sucking pathologist, I wouldn’t let a thing like that worry me.”

Through the open window he could hear the organ voluntary which closed the service. This was no soft invitation to prayer. This was a pagan chant, a chant of triumph. Bass-bourdon and diapason were rioting together. The tuba and the trompette militaire were an army on the march, a triumphant army returning home bearing its spoils with it; while high over all, the flutes and the horns skittered and squealed in infernal glee.

“’For the pestilence that walketh in darkness,’” said James to himself. “’For the sickness that destroyeth in the noonday.’”

The room was clean and bleak and cold. The smell of formaldehyde battled with the smell of corruption. Dr Brian Barkworth, in his white butcher’s overall, was giving a final edge to a knife, using a small oilstone which he kept in his top pocket.

“A hearty eater, I should guess,” he said, glancing down at the body of the Archdeacon on the slab in front of him with as little interest as a butcher would have looked at a side of beef.

“I believe so,” said James shortly. In the absence of Dr Barkworth’s regular assistant, he had volunteered to act as note taker and had already decided that he disliked the doctor. This was nothing to do with his attitude toward the dead, which was professional and to be expected. His dislike was instinctive and probably quite unfair.

Dr Barkworth made the first incisions with practiced speed, exchanged the knife for a saw and started to cut away the rib cage.

“Can you tell me,” he said, “had he been in contact with anyone down here lately?”

James thought about it. He said, “I think I was told that he had been visiting in the port area. It was part of his pastoral duty.”

“Ye-e-s. I thought he might have been.”

Dr Barkworth had worked one of the lungs free and was holding it in his hand.

“A beautiful colour. You can see that he spent most of
his
life in nice clean country vicarages. I had a docker in here not long ago. His lungs were so black with coal dust I wondered how he managed to breathe at all. Ah! I thought as much. Look there.”

He poked a rubber-covered finger into the lung. “And there. Just what I was expecting. Massive edema.”

The fluid in the lung tissue was apparent to the naked eye.

“I don’t think we have to look very much further.” The satisfaction in Dr Barkworth’s voice was apparent. It was clear that he had made his diagnosis before he started the autopsy.

“I suppose,” said James deferentially, “that we ought to have some of the other organs.”

“That’s just like you youngsters from the London hospitals. You want to prove everything three times over. When there’s a clear case, why blur the edges?”

“Professional caution, I suppose,” said James apologetically. He didn’t feel like apologising, but realised that he was in no position to command.

“I suppose you’ll be suggesting next that we open the skull and take a look at his brain.”

James would indeed have liked to suggest it, but saw that it was going to be counterproductive. He said, with a smile, “I’d be happy with less than that.”

Dr Barkworth glanced at his watch. James thought that he was weighing the claims of a game of golf against the carrying out of a routine procedure which he had decided was unnecessary. Routine won. He sighed and picked up his knife again.

He said, “Will you be satisfied with heart, liver and kidneys?”

“That would be splendid,” said James. “And I can do the sections, if that would help.”

“As long as you don’t want the brain,” said Dr Barkworth. “Most of the time it doesn’t prove a damn thing. When you’ve transcribed your notes, could you write me out a short report? I’ll have to bring the Health Authorities in on this. We don’t want an epidemic starting up. Though how they’re going to stop it, God knows.”

“They’d have to isolate that area of the docks, I suppose.”

“That’s
their
job, not mine,” said Dr Barkworth. He sounded more cheerful. It was someone else’s job.

James got back to the Close at nine o’clock. He had snatched a meal on the way, and he was feeling spiritually empty and mentally depressed. It was a relief to sink back into the homely comfort of the Brookeses’ drawing room.

It was the sort of room, he thought, that should have been lit by oil lamps. It was full of odd items of old furniture, many of them shabby but most of them good. Handed down, James guessed, from generation to generation. There was a mixed lot of dim family portraits and framed samplers on the walls, and on the shelf over the fireplace, among the photographs and china dogs, a pair of
famille rose
bowls.

James, who knew something about china, was examining them when Dora Brookes came in with two cups of coffee. She said, “Aren’t they lovely? Henry gave them to me on one of the few occasions that he pulled off a really good property deal. I’m afraid he wasn’t cut out for commercial life. That’s why I was so pleased when we found our niche here. All the same—” she looked at her watch “—they seem to be working him overtime tonight. The Dean called an emergency meeting for seven o’clock, which gave Henry just time to bolt half his supper.”

“I imagine they’ve got a good deal to talk about,” agreed James. “First Tom Lister and now the Archdeacon.”

“Yes,” said Dora. There was a question she wanted to ask, but felt some hesitation about asking it. “They’ll be very short-handed until they can get two new Canons installed.” She stopped and listened. “I think that’s him now. I’ll get another cup of coffee.”

The Chapter Clerk came in carrying a bundle of papers which he dumped on a side table. He looked tired. He said, “I’m not going to bother about business any more tonight. The Dean’s taken it all in his stride. He’s a wonderful man. I suppose the sort of life he’s led has made him more accustomed to crises than most of us.”

Dora put her head around the door to say, “Do you want the rest of your supper?”

“Certainly not. A cup of coffee and then bed.”

“The Dean and Canon Humphrey are carrying on on their own, then?” said James.

“With Canon Maude.”

“Yes, of course. I’d forgotten Canon Maude.”

“People tend to forget him,” said Brookes with a smile. “But I think he’s being as helpful as he can. It will mean double shifts of duty, of course, but some of the minor Canons will be brought in to help with the services.”

“I was wondering what would happen,” said James. “I’m sure it won’t arise, but suppose, for instance, the Dean and Francis Humphrey were involved in a car smash so that there was no one left really capable of running things.”

“Oddly enough, that was one of the matters we were discussing. The diocesan clergy could handle the services, but someone would have to be appointed as administrator to look after the financial side. The difficult question is who would make the appointment. The Archbishop would be the logical person, but I suggested that it might be the Bishop, in his capacity as Visitor of the Cathedral.”

“A somewhat irregular visitor,” said James. “He never seems to be here.”

“He’s a splendid person,” said Brookes loyally, “but he does spend a good deal of his time in travel round the Dominions.”

“If he’d spent more of his time in the diocese,” said his wife, coming back with the coffee, “the Archdeacon wouldn’t have had to do so much of the pastoral visiting. What has been fixed about the funeral?”

“The Archbishop has agreed that it would be appropriate to hold a joint service, followed by interment in the cloisters. That would be in accordance with tradition, you know. For many years now – unless, of course, there were objections from the family – Deans and Canons have been buried there.”

James visualised the limited space available in the centre of the cloisters and was about to say something when Brookes, reading his thoughts, said, “Naturally, it is only the ashes that are interred nowadays. The bodies are cremated first.”

His wife said, “Was anything else arranged?”

“A number of routine matters, yes. The Dean is taking over the administrative functions of the Archdeacon for the time being. In which case I think we can regard any question of summoning the Greater Chapter to discuss the sale of Fletcher’s Piece as a dead letter.”

“Excellent,” said Dora. “What about our friends, the Friends of the Cathedral?”

The Saturday meeting had been abortive. The Dean had announced the death of the Archdeacon and had said that he felt certain that it would be the wish of all concerned that the meeting should be adjourned. One or two people had looked as though they would have liked to say something, but the Dean had cut short the meeting by leaving the Chapter House.

“The meeting stands adjourned.”

“Indefinitely, I hope,” said Dora and picked up a piece of embroidery. It had been occupying her spare moments for the last two years. Brookes sipped his coffee. Silence fell. It was a silence which contained a question which, as James realised, both of them were now longing to ask.

In the end it was Brookes who took the plunge. He put down his empty cup and said diffidently, “I wouldn’t want you to tell us anything if it was confidential or anything like that, but
did
your post-mortem examination give any possible explanation – any indication – of the cause of the Archdeacon’s death?”

Dora’s needle had stopped moving through the tapestry.

James said, “First I ought to explain that it wasn’t
my
post-mortem. I was only there as a spectator. However, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t know what will be public knowledge soon enough, though you’d better not say anything until Dr Barkworth’s report is out. It’s his view that the Archdeacon died of influenza.”

“Flu!” said Brookes. “But surely that’s most unusual. I mean—it was so rapid.”

“When you talk about it as flu,” said James, “I agree that it sounds fairly harmless. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, all you’re talking about is a bad cold, with perhaps a bit of fever on top of it. But in the hundredth case, virus influenza can be quick and very deadly. You get a heavy discharge of fluid into the lungs and – to put the matter simply – you drown. We had a case last winter. A woman brought her children up from the country to take them to the zoo. She was perfectly all right until she got back to London Bridge station, when she collapsed. They got her into the emergency ward at Guy’s. She died that night.”

Dora said, “I can remember my father – he was a warrant officer in the RAMC – talking about that epidemic they called Spanish flu. It killed hundreds of thousands of soldiers just after the end of the Great War. More than died in the trenches, they said. He told me that a man would come on parade in the morning completely fit and be dead before lights-out.”

“But,” said Brookes, “this is terrible. How did it start? However did the Archdeacon come to catch it?”

“There doesn’t seem to be much doubt about that. There have been three cases already, two of them sailors in a ship which had come from Singapore and one of them a docker who’d been unloading the ship. The Archdeacon had been down at Westport visiting the Dockland Settlement and talking to the men.”

“Then it could be the start of a serious epidemic?”

“If you mean another Spanish flu epidemic, no. We’re armed with antibiotics which weren’t available in 1918. In any event, forewarned is forearmed. The Medical Officer of Health has been alerted and he may be able to isolate the outbreak.”

Dora said, “I’ll make you one prediction: people are going to feel sorry for some of the things they’ve been saying about the Archdeacon. He was a man who didn’t shirk his job. In fact, you might say that he died doing it.”