Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (18 page)
After leaving both his job and the persona of Sam Todd, he had shaved off his moustache and dyed his hair darker. He’d done this before with a preparation bought from the chemist’s but this time it had proved unavailable, so he did the best he could with the remainder of the bottle, supplemented by a spot of boot polish. The result, he thought, wasn’t half bad, although he’d have to be careful about getting caught in the rain.
Now, exactly two weeks later, he brushed his jacket and retrieved his trousers from beneath the mattress. This was a red-letter day - or, rather, evening: his first outing as Dr James Dacre, MB, ChB. Already, he looked more substantial; shoulders broader, back straighter, head held higher. He and Fay Marchant, he thought, would look good together - very good indeed . . . But, he reminded himself, until it was properly established, his new identity was a fragile thing, and must be nurtured carefully. First things first . . .
‘I say,’ he said to his reflection, in the smarter, more precise tones of the professional man, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing . . . You chaps are from the Middlesex, aren’t you?’ He offered his hand for an invisible shake. ‘Dacre. Trained up in Scotland. I must say, I’m jolly glad I’ve run into you . . .’
He clapped his hat on his head, winked at his reflection and left his room. He made his way to the Cambridge Arms, where, in the two weeks since leaving his job, he’d hung around in the evenings watching the three doctors. Now, as Dr Dacre, newly minted, he was ready to join them.
He’d done the necessary research into their backgrounds, and - another good omen, this - none of them had trained at St Andrews. Of course, it was entirely possible that they might know somebody who had, but an indirect connection could be easily managed . . . In any case, at this first, seemingly accidental, meeting, he’d be the one asking most of the questions.
Once he’d gained their confidence - he’d enough money to buy them drinks - he’d be home and dry, but he mustn’t be too cocky. Cracking jokes, he’d found, could help out in sticky situations, as long as one didn’t overplay it. He’d have to watch the voice, too; it was important to sound natural, not ‘put on’.
The doctors weren’t there when he arrived - no bad thing, as it would make the encounter seem more as if it had come about by chance. Perhaps, he thought, they were on duty and he’d have to come back the following evening. That would be irritating, but not disastrous. In the meantime, he’d enjoy his first public appearance as Dr Dacre. He chose a spot at the corner of the bar from which he could easily survey the whole room. Judging by what he’d seen around him, this pub appeared to attract a quieter lot than the raffish types who frequented the pubs of Rathbone Place and Soho. They seemed to be mainly businessmen, some with women - not whores - in tow, a few elderly locals, and, in one corner, two American soldiers clad in short, buff-coloured Ike jackets.
Watching them all through the haze of smoke and the buzz of chatter, seeing their mouths open and close, their hands lifting up and down as they drank, he thought, they are like fish, swimming aimlessly in a murky tank, not knowing where they are going or what they are seeking, operating only on instinct, nothing more. Whereas he, superior, a shark scenting blood and going in for the kill, knew precisely what he was doing.
Within five minutes, Doctors Wemyss, Betterton and Unwin entered and established themselves at one of the corner tables. Dacre waited until they had settled, each with a pint of the suspiciously watery ‘Scotch Ale’ which was all there was on offer, and began to study them, surreptitiously.
He had worked out, over the course of several evenings’ observation of the three men, who would be most approachable. The rich one, Wemyss, was easy to spot, tall and freckled, his red hair already receding at the temples; Betterton was plump, with a shiny face and fleshy, quoit-like lips, and Unwin was long-nosed with a sardonic expression. Dacre had discounted the latter very quickly on the grounds that he looked both impervious to flattery and prone to making sharp remarks. He’d considered Betterton, but after watching him, on several occasions, jabbing a fat finger on the round, copper-covered table as he made some point with eager argumentativeness, had decided against him too. Wemyss, he concluded, was the man to aim for. There was something about the way he lolled in his seat with his head resting against one of the blackout boards that were placed over the windows that suggested a fundamental laziness. Of course, it was possible that the man was simply tired, but his part in the conversation appeared so consistently languid as to suggest he was willing to agree with things because to do otherwise was too much of an effort. Perhaps it was because he was protected by his money against actually having to work for a living, jammy bastard. For casual acceptance into the medical brotherhood without too many questions being asked, Wemyss was definitely the best bet.
Dacre’s luck was in. After half an hour, during which the pub had become far too busy for Dacre to have any chance at all of overhearing what they were talking about, Wemyss rose and brought their empty glasses to the bar for more drinks.
Dacre took a quick glance back at the table. Betterton and Unwin were deep in discussion, both looking down as Betterton’s finger drew a diagram of something on the tabletop with the help of matches and a crumpled cigarette packet. Hoping it wasn’t some medical conundrum that he might be asked to pronounce upon later, he contrived to move next to Wemyss, manoeuvring himself so that the taller man jogged his elbow just as he was raising his arm to take a drink.
Dacre, who was holding the glass in a deliberately clumsy manner, spluttered in an exaggerated fashion as beer splashed over both their sleeves and the lapel of his jacket.
‘Sorry, old chap,’ said Wemyss, in a drawling voice that managed to be both contrite and condescending at the same time. ‘Didn’t see you there. Terrible waste of beer - you must let me buy you another.’
‘It really isn’t necessary.’ Dacre looked down at his beer-stained clothes in dismay.
‘No, I insist.’
‘Well, in that case . . .’ Dacre smiled at him. ‘Thank you. I don’t seem,’ he patted his pockets, ‘to have a handkerchief.’
‘Here.’ Wemyss proffered his own. ‘This should dry it up a bit.’
‘This is jolly decent of you,’ said Dacre, blotting his clothing.
‘My fault entirely,’ said Wemyss. The barman was serving another customer, and Dacre saw that he’d have to move the conversation on to the next step before the drink was bought and Wemyss, duty done, returned to his colleagues. He didn’t want to have to resort to the line about overhearing their conversation - the racket in the place was such that it simply wasn’t credible.
It was the barman, coming momentarily to rest opposite Wemyss and seeing the empty glasses, who saved the situation. Although there was nothing on offer but beer, the habit of years made him say, ‘What can I get you, doctor?’
The order given, Dacre said, ‘Good heavens. You don’t happen to be from the Middlesex, do you?’
‘Yes.’ Wemyss indicated the table with a jerk of the head. ‘All of us.’
‘Well, there’s a turn up.’ Dacre stuck out his hand. ‘James Dacre. Trained up in Scotland. St Andrews.’
‘Really?’ Wemyss’s expression shifted from polite but necessary interest to engagement. ‘Wemyss,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’
‘Nothing, really.’ Dacre gave a self-deprecating grin. ‘At least,’ he amended, ‘nothing at the moment. I’m hoping to help. On the scrap heap as far as the forces are concerned. Wanted to join the RAMC of course, but . . .’ he hesitated to allow Wemyss to prompt him.
‘But?’
‘Cardiomegaly, I’m afraid.’
Wemyss frowned, and Dacre, realising in a flash that he’d never actually heard the word spoken, wondered if he’d mispronounced it. ‘Didn’t know myself until the medical,’ he continued. ‘No arrhythmia or palpitations or any of that, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Felt a bit of a chump, if I’m honest, when they told me. What about you?’
‘They kept us back.’
‘Oh?’ Dacre injected the monosyllable with a note of surprise.
‘Needed some fresh blood.’ Wemyss shrugged in his turn. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Mmm . . .’ Draining the remains of his first pint so as not to have to reply too quickly, Dacre said, ‘I suppose they must be keeping you pretty busy over there.’
‘I should say so.’ Wemyss grimaced. ‘We’re a man down, actually.’
‘Air raid?’
‘Poor chap got himself murdered. At least, that’s the on dit.’
‘Good heavens! What happened?’
‘Nobody’s really sure. Someone seems to have clobbered him on the head in the blackout. And then there was a nurse, managed to get herself strangled. That was actually in the hospital.’
Dacre raised his eyebrows. ‘Good heavens. Patient run amok?’
‘God knows. Look . . .’ Wemyss eyed him for a moment, as if making a decision, then said, ‘Why don’t you come over and join us? Those two’- he glanced across at Betterton and Unwin, who were now watching him expectantly - ‘must be getting thirsty.’
Pleased by the small evidence of an alliance between them, Dacre said, ‘If you don’t mind. I’ll give you a hand.’
‘All right, thanks.’
Securing the remaining glass as well as his own, Dacre struggled behind him through the throng until they reached the corner table. Betterton and Unwin looked up curiously, and Wemyss, depositing the pints, announced, ‘Dacre. St Andrews man. Met at the bar.’
‘James Dacre. Hope you don’t mind,’ said Dacre. ‘Whose is this?’
Betterton stood up. ‘Me, I think. Betterton. How do you do? This,’ he added, as Unwin, who had also risen, showed no sign of speaking, ‘is Unwin. Man of few words.’
Handshakes followed, during which Unwin still did not speak. Dacre, deciding not to force the issue, or show presumption by sitting down, said, ‘If I’m barging in, do tell me. I shan’t be offended. Just that I find myself at a bit of a loose end.’
‘You must be the only medico in London who is,’ said Unwin. ‘How come?’
‘Well, as I was explaining, I’m not fit enough for the services, and the job I had in Scotland fell through - some sort of mix-up over paperwork which nobody could get to the bottom of, including me, although,’ Dacre laughed, ‘I must say, I didn’t try too hard.’ He’d prepared this little speech earlier. Tales of papers going astray and getting lost or destroyed were so commonplace that, as with bomb stories, everybody had their own and it was a fair bet that they’d be quickly bored with the details of anyone else’s misfortune. ‘Found myself digs in Euston - bit of a hole, but it’ll do for the time being . . . Anyway, here I am.’
He was right. Unwin rolled his eyes in mute acknowledgement of bureaucratic cock-ups everywhere and said, ‘Well, pull up a chair.’
Wemyss, picking up his glass for a toast, said, ‘Well, here’s how.’
‘Cheers,’ said Betterton, raising his own. Dacre and Unwin followed suit.
‘To the future,’ Wemyss added, clinking glasses with Betterton. Turning to Dacre, he said, ‘He’s just got engaged to be married.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Dacre. ‘Got married myself, last year. Best thing I ever did.’ This was entirely unplanned, and as soon as he’d said it he wished he hadn’t. Of course, it was another point of difference between his new self and Todd, which was good, and it gave him an added respectability, but if it got about, it would be likely to queer the pitch with his girl. Thinking he’d better do some compensatory groundwork, he said, ‘Mind you, I’ve hardly seen her - she’s staying with her parents in Suffolk. Far too many glamorous American airmen up there for my liking.’ That was an inspired touch: if necessary, his wife could have an affair with a Yank, breaking his heart, which would appeal to the sympathetic nature he was sure his girl would possess. Rather good, actually. ‘Make sure you keep yours close to,’ he counselled Betterton, who grinned.
‘Oh, I intend to. Sooner rather than later, in fact. Courtesy of Wemyss here.’ He fished in his pocket and brought out a labelled key.
Dacre raised his eyebrows in mystified enquiry.
‘Lucky old Wemyss has use of a suite at the Clarendon,’ said Unwin.
Dacre whistled. The Clarendon was a smart West End hotel.
Wemyss looked slightly sheepish. ‘I don’t actually live there. My father got it at the beginning of the war,’ he said. ‘He went back to the country last year but he kept it on for when he comes up. The rest of the time . . .’ Wemyss shrugged. ‘Well, let’s say I keep the key handy. Might as well put it to use.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Dacre, filing away this information for use in the future. ‘Shame to let it go to waste.’
‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep mum,’ said Wemyss. ‘Don’t want everyone to know, or they’ll all be wanting it.’
Dacre nodded acknowledgement, and Wemyss turned to the other two. ‘I was just telling Dacre here about Reynolds and that poor nurse,’ he said.
‘Dreadful business,’ said Betterton, briskly. ‘Not,’ he added, ‘that anyone knows exactly what happened to either of them.’
‘Terrible.’ Dacre shook his head. ‘When did it happen?’
‘About three weeks ago,’ said Wemyss. ‘Don’t want a job, do you?’
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