Doctor On Toast (11 page)

‘I believe that is the name displayed on the door.’

‘I have this for you, sir.’

Whipping a paper from his hat, the chap slipped it into the surgeon’s top pocket and made flat-footedly for the door.

Everyone gasped. There hadn’t been such a sensation in the place since Sir Lancelot set his trousers alight with the Bunsen.

‘Sister!’ he roared. ‘Can’t you keep a closer eye on the patients? That fellow is raving mad. He could easily have assassinated me if he’d had a pistol hidden in his hat. As it happens, he has contented himself with presenting me with some sort of tract–’

It was then he noticed the paper was covered with nasty phrases in gothic writing like ‘High Court of Justice’ and ‘We command You.’

‘But I’m afraid he only tossed it aside, muttering something about tomfoolery,’ ended Miles sadly. ‘In fact, his only response was making the rest of the patients strip naked and come up wrapped in the surgery bath-towel.’

I’d never mixed much with lawyers, except when fixing the St Swithin’s
v
. Inns of Court rugger matches in the ‘Bell and Bottle’ behind the Law Courts, where you find them by the dozen downing the beer and sandwiches in their black coats and striped trousers. Come to think of it, it’s one of the charming conveniences of London that you can hobnob with any profession if you happen to know the right pub – you find doctors in the ‘White Hart’ opposite Bart’s, stockbrokers elbowing each other in the ‘George and Vulture’ on Cornhill, MPs knocking it back at the ‘St Stephen’s’ in Westminster, artists in the ‘Cross Keys’ at Chelsea, and even professional Marxists telling funny stories to each other in the ‘Nag’s Head’ near the Communist headquarters in Covent Garden.

From Sir Lancelot’s remarks over the years I’d expected his solicitors to lurk in a Dickensian garret up among the chimneys of Cheapside, and was therefore rather surprised to find one of those modern buildings all made of windows, with slim-legged office furniture and secretaries to match. The solicitor himself, far from adding up to both Dodson and Fogg, was a youngish bird quite as smartly turned out as any car salesman in Piccadilly.

‘Sorry I’m late, Beckwith,’ grunted Sir Lancelot as he bustled in.

He was in a pretty black mood, I gathered from having to boil his own breakfast egg and the Bishop nabbing
The Times
.

‘Now let us make haste to dispose of this totally preposterous situation.’ Sir Lancelot came briskly to business. ‘It is not only outrageous but somewhat insulting for anyone to suggest that
I
have committed professional negligence. I can assure you, Beckwith, that I have never been negligent in my life, except over remembering my blasted wedding anniversary. I am not at all certain that I haven’t a case for litigation against these people myself for gross defamation of character.’

‘Everyone’s suing their surgeon these days,’ smiled Beckwith, with the cosily reassuring air of a good family doctor. ‘There’s quite an epidemic, in fact.’

‘An epidemic which I fully intend to stamp out. I have no doubt whatever that the result of this case will provide an excellent remedy.’

‘Anyway, there’s no need to worry about it, Sir Lancelot. Any worrying from now on can be safely left to us.’

‘Let me assure you that I am not worrying in the slightest. I merely want to know from you, Beckwith, my precise legal position.’

The solicitor pursed his lips. ‘That would involve a lot of lawyer’s jargon which wouldn’t mean anything to you, I’m afraid. And now,’ he added, in the more businesslike tone of a good family doctor telling you to start taking your clothes off. ‘I think it’s time we were making for your brother’s chambers.’

Mr Alphonso Spratt provided a more legal atmosphere, all mahogany and leather bindings and no open windows, with seedy-looking old boys poking about among piles of papers done up with red tape.

‘Where’s Alfie?’ muttered Sir Lancelot as we entered.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Beckwith. I’m afraid that Mr Spratt has been delayed,’ said one of the seedy birds, fussing up.

‘I am a very busy man,’ Sir Lancelot told him.

‘And so is Mr Spratt,’ replied the seedy bird, showing us into an inner office.

‘Alfie always was an untidy hound,’ grunted Sir Lancelot, glancing round more piles of papers. ‘His bedroom was an absolute disgrace.’

As we sat down, he went on, ‘Thank God I haven’t been exposed to this nefarious part of the world since the days when I used to give medical evidence for Hoppings. Remember him, Beckwith? He specialised in elderly gentlemen behaving peculiarly in Hyde Park. Then they improved the Park lighting and he lost his practice.’

Sir Lancelot spent the next five minutes glaring at an etching of a severe-looking chap in a large wig, whom I fancied was Judge Jeffreys. Suddenly the door burst open, and Mr Alphonso Spratt shot in.

‘My dear Lancelot! How extraordinarily pleasant to see you.’

He was thinner than the surgeon, his beard was greyer, his hair was longer, and his voice was fruitier.

‘So sorry I’m a trifle late,’ he apologised briefly. ‘At this very moment I should be on my feet in the Court of Appeal.’

‘And at this very moment,’ said Sir Lancelot, shaking hands coldly, ‘I should be on my feet in my operating theatre.’

Alphonso didn’t seem to notice this remark, but settling in the most comfortable chair went on briskly, ‘Let’s get this little matter straight in our minds, shall we?’

He produced a crocodile case from an inside pocket and lit a cigar.

‘This young man is my amanuensis,’ explained Sir Lancelot, as his brother gave me a curious glance. ‘Now look here, Alfie, I want you to understand from the start the importance of this action. The point is not simply to justify myself, but the entire practice of British surgery. I cannot put it too strongly. Personally, I was about to chuck the original communication from these impossible people into the wastepaper basket–’

‘Good Heavens, that was a High Court writ, not a bookie’s circular,’ muttered Alphonso, looking shocked.

Beckwith handed him a bundle of papers.

‘But hadn’t you been getting letters from their solicitors?’ asked the barrister, looking a bit puzzled.

‘Of course I had, man! For months.’

‘Then where, may I ask, have they got to?’

‘Naturally I tore them up. You cannot expect someone with my volume of work to fritter away valuable time with a lot of litigious lunatics. I was finally persuaded to consult Beckwith here. Unlike the rest of the population, I fortunately do not regard money spent on professional advice as wasted. Though the whole business is, of course, as ridiculous as Gilbert and Sullivan.’

Alphonso puffed his cigar. ‘On the contrary, I must advise you to take it with the utmost seriousness.’

Sir Lancelot looked startled. ‘But damnation! It’s just a piece of dastardly blackmail.’

‘Most court cases are, of course,’ his brother returned calmly. ‘Now let’s see – who’s this Herbert Egbert Thomas Possett?’

‘An extremely stupid young man with a duodenal ulcer, which he perforated at an unusually early age, and which I repaired perfectly competently in St Swithin’s,’ Sir Lancelot explained. ‘He also has a mother, who made a frightful nuisance of herself in the ward. I believe them both to be a little touched.’

‘Indeed?’ Alphonso looked up. ‘Perhaps you could obtain the written opinion of a psychiatrist?’

‘Damn it, Alfie! It’s not the slightest use bringing in psychiatrists, or water-diviners or spiritualists, if it comes to that. If I say a man’s mad, he’s mad, and that’s all there is to it. Surely you’re not suggesting that anyone could doubt my opinions?’

‘But he says here in his statement of claim you should never have operated on him at all.’

‘I can tell you here and now that if I hadn’t operated on the ungrateful idiot, I ought to have been hanged, not sued.’

‘Dear me,’ said Alphonso. He took a monocle from his waistcoat pocket and started shifting the papers.

‘Possett complains that since the operation he’s suffered from pains in the stomach and blackouts,’ he observed after a bit.

‘So do half the population,’ replied Sir Lancelot shortly. ‘Will you please understand, Alfie, that you needn’t bother your head about the obvious medical facts? You just leave all that to me. Your job is simply to put this fellow in his place. Then I assure you I shall be perfectly prepared to forget the whole affair.’

He made a generous sweep of his hand, knocking over the solicitor’s briefcase.

‘Mr Beckwith,’ said Alphonso, who seemed to be tiring rather quickly of his brother’s company. ‘Is this a case of
res ipsa loquitur
?’

‘I hardly think so.’

He tapped the ash from his cigar. ‘Then it’s not on all fours with
Polkinghorne
v
.
Ministry of Health
?’

‘I feel more likely with
Stumley v. Typhoon Feather Pluckers
.’

The barrister screwed in his monocle. ‘But that surely brings us against
Heaviside v. Kiddiwinks Toys, Bournemouth Aquarium Intervening
?’

‘Forgive me, Alfie,’ interrupted Sir Lancelot, ‘but would you kindly tell me what the devil you two are talking about?’

‘My dear fellow, I’m afraid it wouldn’t convey anything in the slightest to you if I did. Just leave the worrying to me, there’s a good chap. You content yourself with following my instructions, then I’ll win your case.’

Sir Lancelot glared. ‘You are surely not suggesting for one second that you won’t?’

‘Not at all. Indeed, I will go so far as saying your chances are not unreasonable–’

‘Not unreasonable!’ Sir Lancelot thumped the table, raising quite a cloud of dust. ‘But damn it, Alfie! Any fool could tell this Possett’s a screaming neurotic. All these symptoms he’s making a song and dance about are totally hysterical and imaginary. There should be some sort of law against things like this ever coming into court.’

‘I suppose you haven’t seriously considered the possibility of settling?’

‘Settling?’ Sir Lancelot jumped to his feet. ‘Kindly get this clear, Alfie. I will not lie down and have my rights trampled upon, and I’m damned proud of it. It was exactly the same over that parking summons, when I refused to be dictated to by some inflated greengrocer perched on a magistrate’s bench–’

‘I would not be disinclined to advise a settlement.’

‘Indeed?’ thundered Sir Lancelot. ‘I suppose you advise all your blackmailed clients simply to pay up and say nothing?’

‘I do not handle criminal business,’ replied his brother crisply.

‘Settle! By God! Fine fools we’d be to settle, when the case will be laughed into the street–’

‘I myself would certainly hesitate to say what might happen to any case whatever in court.’ Alphonso glared through his monocle. ‘You seem extremely disinclined to accept my opinion on anything, Lancelot. But you might at least take my advice that judges are like horses, and liable to jump in perfectly unexpected directions.’

‘But Alfie, you fool! Surely you cannot for one instant believe a word of this fantastic accusation?’

‘My own opinions are unfortunately entirely without importance in the matter.’

‘Alfie, you’re a blackguard.’

Mr Alphonso Spratt dropped his monocle.

‘Damn you, Lancelot! Have you no respect for the law?’

‘I have the utmost respect for the law. But I have no respect whatever for lawyers. As it is quite obvious that my presence here is totally unnecessary, I shall return to my hospital and perform some useful work. Come, Grimsdyke. Good afternoon.’

We left. The seedy-looking chaps listening outside looked like the passengers in the Veranda Bar when I appeared with Basil.

‘I fancy Sir Lancelot didn’t like it much being the patient for a change,’ I suggested, describing all this to Miles over a whisky and soda that night.

My cousin made a little impatient noise.

‘I do wish he would be sensible and let himself be persuaded to settle the matter out of court. He doesn’t give a thought to the most damaging effect of the publicity on St Swithin’s.’

I agreed. ‘Always a pretty nasty business, washing dirty hospital linen in public.’

‘Not to mention risking a severe financial loss. And there would be little chance of our seeing him as next President of the Royal College of Surgeons.’

I agreed with that, too. If Sir Lancelot lost his case, making him a President would be like promoting a Captain who’d just lost his ship.

‘Besides,’ continued Miles moodily, ‘he never considers for a moment how the affair might reflect on myself. I must be extremely circumspect these days. Not to mention our most worthy Chairman, the Bishop of Wincanton. I believe you’ve met him. A charming man. It’s remarkable how active he remains in spite of such indifferent health. Being under the same roof, he finds Sir Lancelot’s behaviour at times most upsetting.

‘I made a rather interesting calculation today,’ Miles went on. ‘Do you realise in the few nights you have spent here, you have consumed quite two-thirds of a bottle of whisky?’ He gave a dry little laugh. ‘I shall have to add it to your weekly bill.’

I gave a dry little laugh, too.

‘Quite a joke, Gaston, if I presented you with an account for board and lodging every Friday?’

‘As a matter of fact, old lad,’ I told him, ‘I was planning to leave tomorrow morning.’

I wasn’t, of course, but it’s remarkable how sensitive I am even to the subtlest of hints.

‘Stay as long as you wish, naturally,’ added Miles quickly, looking greatly relieved. ‘We are all delighted to have you, particularly young Bartholomew. Though what exactly,’ he asked after a pause, ‘are you intending to do?’

‘Take a quiet room, finish Sir Lancelot’s memoirs, and start my new novel.’ I reached for one of his cigarettes. ‘Which rather brings me to the point. You know under the old grandpa’s will, just before he was eaten by that tiger, he left you some cash for me when I reach a highly mature age? I just wondered if you’d mind slipping across a little on account.’

‘I’m afraid that’s completely out of the question.’

‘But dash it! It’s just to pay the rent and grocery bills while I do the novel for this new lot of publishers.’

Miles gave one of the looks I suppose he used frequently on the Royal Commission.

‘Please do not think me censorious, but I feel it would more likely be dissipated on the entertainment of some young woman.’

‘That’s a jolly unsporting accusation–’

‘Not in the least. Will you kindly recall your last visit here, at Christmas? You then confessed yourself seriously in love with a lady whom you wished to marry. I don’t seem to have heard you mention the project since.’

‘Ah, yes,’ I said. Odd how quickly one forgets such things. ‘It was simply that I made a slight mistake in the diagnosis.’

‘Then I certainly don’t intend encouraging you to make similar ones. You may rest assured that if you ever do marry a suitable girl I shall advance you the money – at the conclusion of the ceremony. Meanwhile, you should be delighted to know you have such a nest-egg.’