The Malcontenta (17 page)

‘Really?’

‘Yes. He has developed a number of highly tax-effective packages for people who would like to support what we do here and at the same time invest in their own health.’

‘Well, I’ll certainly do that.’

‘Good. Now, I’ll introduce you to my wife. She’ll be supervising the treatment regime which I’ll work out for you, and she’ll want to meet you and show you round the treatment facilities.’

He lifted the phone. While he waited, Brock looked around the room. Near the door he spotted a small framed picture, and he got to his feet to have a closer look. It was a coloured etching, the view of a classical house in a parkland landscape. Beneath it was a title:
The Malcontenta.

‘You recognize it?’ the voice said behind him. ‘It looks familiar.’

‘You just walked through that portico. It’s this house, when it was first built, in the eighteenth century. Without the west wing, of course.’

‘Ah yes. And the title?’

‘That’s the name of an Italian house it was modelled on. You’ll find a history of the place in the library if you’re interested.’

Beamish-Newell tried another number. ‘Laura’s probably still tied up with the afternoon sessions. Hello? … Ah, Rose, is Mrs Beamish-Newell with you? … No? Well, I wonder if you could come up to collect a new patient … Yes, my office.’ He put down the receiver. ‘Are you interested in architecture, David?’

Brock shrugged. ‘I sometimes wonder how we manage to persuade ourselves to go to all the trouble of making such permanent things, knowing our own time is so limited.’

‘That’s a particularly apt observation as it happens. The gardens here were laid out as a kind of architectural discourse on the theme of mortality, a sort of eighteenth-century conceit about life and death. If you look closely at the etching, you’ll see a small ruined pyramid under that tree to the right. It’s actually out there, if you search for it, at the end of the avenue of cypresses. And there are other things scattered about, reminders of what’s in store for us.’

‘From my room just now I could see a rather forbidding-looking temple hidden among the trees at the back. Is that one of the reminders?’

‘In a way. At least it was originally. When the garden was set out they built just the four columns and the pediment on that little hill as a folly, a ruin. Then much later, early this century, the owner of the house had the temple building constructed behind the ruined front. Resurrecting the imaginary original building, if you like - the building that had never been there.’

‘You make it sound like a Frankenstein monster.’

Beamish-Newell gave a thin smile. ‘Buildings aren’t people. You can do things to them - hack them to bits, reconstruct them, bring them back to life - that wouldn’t be acceptable, on the whole, with people.’

There was a tap at the door. The Director called ‘Yes’, and a young woman in a white coat and white shoes came in. Beamish-Newell introduced Brock to Rose, who impressed him as being bright and alert, eager to please her boss. She shook his hand, gave him a big smile and led him off for a tour of the basement treatment areas.

By the time they reached the gym, Brock was feeling a bit more comfortable about what lay in store for him. Most of the rooms they looked into were occupied by small groups of patients and staff, all of whom seemed absorbed and content. Rose had a knack of making the oddest-sounding procedures sound quite appealing, and even the empty room with the acupuncture couch seemed almost commonplace by the time she had explained it.

‘There’s more space down here than you’d think,’ he said, as he watched her trying to unlock the heavy door in front of them.

‘Mmm, it’s a bit of a rabbit warren, really,’ she agreed, in her strong Ulster accent. ‘But you’ll soon know your way around, David. Is it all right if I call you David? Most of the patients prefer first names, you know.’

‘Of course. Which part of Ireland are you from, Rose?’

‘Belfast. Sandy Row, if you know the place.’

‘I do,’ Brock smiled, then immediately regretted it as the inevitable question followed.

‘How come?’

He recalled his short visit several years before, during the course of a murder investigation of an Irish girl in London.

‘I visited some friends in Belfast once. They showed me round the area.’

Then you’ll know why I left.’

He smiled vaguely and decided to change the subject, conscious again that he was going to have to work harder at telling lies or avoid having to tell them at all.

‘What’s this chamber of horrors, then?’

The door swung open at last, and he saw the exercise machines and recognized Kathy’s description of the gym which Petrou had been in charge of.

T don’t know if you’ll be needing this place. Patients have to use it under instruction because it’s just too easy to pull a muscle or do yourself some other injury, and we don’t want your family to see you hobbling home in worse shape than when you came.’ She had a full, warm laugh. ‘Do you have any muscular problems?’

‘A bit of a sore shoulder. Dr Beamish-Newell said I’d be needing physiotherapy and acupuncture.’

‘Oh well, we’ll see whether he wants you to exercise in here, then.’

‘Do you look after the gym, Rose?’

‘No, Mrs Beamish-Newell has overall charge, of course, but one of the men, Tony, usually supervises.’

Brock surveyed the room. It seemed constricted by the low brick vaults supporting the house above, and the air smelled musty with old sweat as if it was rarely aired.

‘I should have mentioned it before, Rose, but I think we may have a friend in common.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, her name’s Kathy. I met her unexpectedly in London not long ago, and when I told her I was coming here she said to say hello to you.’

‘Kathy, you say?’ Rose frowned, puzzled.

‘Kathy Kolla. She’s in the police.’

Brock saw Rose’s expression freeze.

‘She mentioned that you had written to her a while ago and she felt guilty that she had never replied. Something about her having been taken off the case and not able to do much to help. She did say, though, that, off the record, she shared your concerns, and if there was any new information she’d like to hear about it. You could either contact her direct, or you could tell me about it and I’ll pass it on. That’s what she said.’

I see.’ Brock caught the reserve in her eyes and voice. Outside in the corridor he could hear the sound of people leaving the afternoon therapy sessions. ‘It was to do with the young man who died suddenly here, wasn’t it? I read about it in the papers, I remember.’

Rose hesitated, the vivacity gone from her face. Brock scratched his beard and pressed on, trying to get some response before they were interrupted. ‘That must have been a terrible thing. Did you know him well?’

‘Quite well,’ she said after a pause, then added, ‘This was his gym - he was in charge of it before Tony.’

‘Ah. What was his name?’

‘Alex … Alex Petrou,’ she said, and at that moment the heavy door swung open and Brock met the eyes of another woman in a white coat standing staring at them.

‘Rose?’ she said sternly.

‘This is a new patient, Mrs Beamish-Newell. Mr David Brock.’

The Director’s wife nodded and offered her hand to Brock. She had the same cold look of detached appraisal as her husband, but was taking less trouble to put a friendly front on it. ‘Come to my office, Mr Brock.’ She turned on her heel. Brock gave Rose a little smile as he followed. She made an effort to respond, but her face was troubled, her dark eyebrows lowered in a frown.

Laura Beamish-Newell closed her office door behind Brock, went round the desk and picked up a file. They both stood while she read from it in silence. Through the small semicircular window above her head the afternoon light was dying. When she finally looked up at him, he almost felt disposed to make a full confession. She had intelligent eyes and he noticed they were lightly made up to cover some premature creases. She considered him steadily for a moment as if weighing up whether he was a fraud. ‘Take off your dressing gown, Mr Brock, and your slippers. Get on the scales, please.’

She noted his weight, fourteen stone six, and his height, six foot two, then told him to sit down on the metal office chair facing her desk. Remaining standing, she wrapped a strap around his upper left arm and took his blood pressure. Then she took the file back round to the other side of the desk and sat down.

‘Are you interested in exercising in the gym?’

‘Well, I thought it might be a good idea.’

‘It should be all right. But only under Tony’s instruction. I’ll have a word with him.’ Her accent was difficult to pin down, Home Counties probably, but with a trace of something underneath, from the north perhaps. She continued writing, filling in boxes on what looked like a timetable and making notes on a page in the file.

Eventually she made a number of copies on the small photocopier in the corner of the room, put them into a plastic folder and handed them over to Brock. ‘This is the information you need for your first week here. We’ll review your progress at the end of that time. That is the schedule of your therapy sessions.’ She leaned across the desk and indicated with her pen on the timetable. ‘There are three sessions each day, at nine, eleven and three; in between you have the morning break, lunch and rest hour, and afternoon free time. A notice of evening talks and other events is posted in the entrance hall outside the dining room. All sessions start promptly, Mr Brock. Please bear that in mind.

‘This is information on your dietary programme for the first week,’ she continued, indicating another sheet in the folder. Brock stared at it for a moment, trying to make sense of it. It didn’t look much like a menu, more like a chemical analysis. The numbers of grams listed in the right-hand column didn’t seem very large.

‘The first week is crucial. At each meal-time you will find a tray with your name on it waiting for you on the long table in the dining room. Please don’t supplement your diet in any way, apart from water and lemon juice. Is that understood?’

There was none of Dr Beamish-Newell’s invitation to set out on a great dietary adventure. These were orders, not requests. This was going to be serious.

Brock realized just how serious when he collected his tray for dinner that evening and opened the lid. There was a woman in a white coat standing at one end of the long table, a cook perhaps, and he took his tray to her.

I wondered if there had been some mistake,’ he said.

He opened the lid and showed her the solitary glass of water and slice of lemon. She smiled and looked at the label on the tray.

‘Mr Brock? No, no mistake, dear. You’re on total fast for three days.’

‘Three days!’

‘That’s right, dear. Seventy-two hours. You can look forward to dinner on Thursday night for a real treat.’

‘My God. What will it be?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she laughed. ‘Something special. Maybe a glass of carrot juice. Sit down anywhere and make some friends.’

Somewhat stunned, he wandered over to a table at which a couple were sitting and asked if he might join them. The man rose stiffly to his feet and extended his hand. He was tall and willowy, and there was an air of exhaustion about him.

‘Sidney Blumendale,’ he said. ‘And this is Martha Price.’

Brock introduced himself and sat down.

‘Are you all right, old chap?’ Blumendale asked. ‘You look a bit pale.’

‘I’ve just had a shock, actually,’ Brock said. He lifted the lid of his tray and showed them the glass of water. ‘Apparently this is my dinner.’

The two diners smiled. ‘Your first day?’ Blumendale asked, and Brock nodded.

‘You’ll feel wonderful after you’ve got over the first week,’ Martha Price assured him.

‘You sound as if you’ve got plenty of experience of the place,’ Brock said, eyeing their plates. ‘What are you eating? It smells good.’

‘It’s a vegetable casserole,’ Martha told him, ‘with a delicious nut crust topping and fresh green salad. But don’t think about it.’ She was enjoying herself. ‘Oh, and this is freshly made carrot juice from the vegetable gardens here. And after the casserole we’ll get some stewed apples and cream bran -that’s bran with yoghurt and honey.’ Of a similar age to her companion, in her sixties, she appeared to have twice his energy and her voice crackled with mischief.

Brock groaned. ‘I’m told I can look forward to the carrot juice in three days’ time, if I behave myself. How long have you been here to deserve all that?’

‘Oh, we practically live here. I started coming five or six years ago, when I was first seriously bothered by this.’ She held up a hand with joints swollen by arthritis. ‘You wouldn’t believe, but I could hardly move with it, and I was only sixty-three. Now it hardly bothers me at all, and that’s all due to exercises and acupuncture and, above all, the diet. In the last six months I’ve even been able to do without my walking stick. So you must behave and do as you’re told, David. No cheating!’

Brock guessed he was getting the pep-talk she gave all newcomers and he played along with it, pulling a face and muttering, ‘Good for the soul, I suppose.’

‘Now, why did you come here if you weren’t ready to take it seriously?’ she scolded him. ‘This isn’t a holiday camp, you know. Honestly, some of you men are like little boys. You don’t know what real hardship is.’

Brock was beginning to think that Martha Price was a pain, but he nodded ruefully and sipped his water, and after a moment Sidney Blumendale gave a dry little cough and said, ‘I first came here in ‘89, the year after my wife died. Getting a bit run down, you know. Spend ten months of the year here now.’

‘The other months he visits his children for as long as they can put up with him,’ Martha added, ‘and this winter we had a fortnight out of season in Majorca, which we’ll be doing again, won’t we, Sidney?’

Sidney nodded agreement. From the look of him Brock guessed he didn’t dare do otherwise.

‘What about you, David?’

‘This is my first time. Got a bit of a bad shoulder. Thought they might be able to help.’

‘Oh, if anyone can, Dr Beamish-Newell will. He’s a wonderful man.’ Martha Price’s eyes filled with the light of enthusiastic faith.