The Valley of the Shadow (8 page)

“And good evening to you too, Inspector. We were afraid you might not find time to consult Dr. Prthnavi about the man DS Pencarrow rescued.” Nick glanced provocatively at his wristwatch.

“I hoped,” said Scumble through gritted teeth, “to avoid disturbing a busy GP. However, enquiries elsewhere have got us nowhere so far. Doctor, I take it you’ve heard all, or most, of the story by now.”

“Yes indeed. Mrs. Trewynn’s niece appears to have played a heroic part.”

“All in the day’s work for a police officer.” Noting Eleanor’s outrage, he relented slightly. “She did well. I walked down to the inlet, and it’s a hairy spot. Not where you’d choose to bathe.”

“But he’s going to be all right,” Lois said in a tremulous voice. “The boy she saved.”

“That remains to be seen, Mrs. Prthnavi. I rang the hospital just before I spoke to you. All they told me was that his condition is unchanged, which is worrisome.”

Rajendra frowned. “Do you want me to examine him? It’s not for me to interfere at the hospital with someone who is not my patient. If the housemen are out of their depth, they must call in a consultant.”

“But you are the local police surgeon, Doctor. There’s something fishy about him being found in the water there—pun unintentional. Whether it was accident or a suicide attempt, which may yet prove successful, the police are obliged to investigate. I’d like you to take a look at him. If you prefer, I’ll ask Superintendent Bentinck to authorise—”

“That won’t be necessary, Inspector. Can it wait till morning?”

“I’d rather you saw him tonight, sir. I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a long day.” As Rajendra started to stand, Scumble went on, “Just a couple of things I’d like to clear up first, if you don’t mind. I’m assuming, since you haven’t mentioned it, that you haven’t heard from anyone trying to locate a young man of … Indian appearance?”

“No. There aren’t many of us in this part of the world.”

“That’s why I’m asking you. And Mrs. Prthnavi would have told you, of course, if someone had tried to contact you?”

“No one did.” Lois was close to tears. “That poor boy!”

“Then one last question, sir. If … when … the young man comes round, supposing he doesn’t know English, do you speak any Indian languages? I gather there are several.”

“Hundreds, Inspector,” Rajendra said dryly. “I speak Gujarati fluently—my parents’ language. My Hindi and Urdu are passable. Otherwise, a few words here and there.”

Scumble sighed. “Then as well as your forensic medical expertise, Doctor, we may have to call in your services as an interpreter.”

EIGHT

Megan wasn’t worried about whether the patient spoke English or not. She was more concerned about whether she was going to fall asleep and slither ignominiously off her chair at his bedside. After working late last night and starting early this morning, followed by fresh air and strenuous exercise, she could barely keep her eyes open.

The ride in the Coast Guard helicopter had been mercifully brief. The noise alone was horrendous, and though they’d done their best to keep the patient warm, Megan had been bitterly cold.

On arrival at the Launceston hospital, she had been lent a pair of surgical-green drawstring trousers rather than a flimsy gown. Once she’d thawed in the well-heated ward, Julia’s pullover was rather too warm. She’d taken it off, but the scarlet polo-neck underneath seemed inappropriate, so she’d asked for a top to match the trousers. Not that anyone but the nurses could see her, as they were curtained off from the rest of the men’s ward.

The cubicle was in a corner. It included part of an outside window, the blind now drawn as night had fallen, and a slice of the interior window of the nurses’ room, so that the nurses could keep an eye on both the A&E patient and the ward as a whole. The cottage hospital didn’t run to a casualty ward.

From the patients beyond the curtains came the sound of muted chatter. Someone laughed; someone coughed. A rumble and squeak suggested the arrival of a trolley. A youthful female voice offered a choice of Ovaltine or Bovril. Their mingled odours seeped in, battling the prevailing smell of disinfectant.

Either drink would send Megan straight to sleep. She needed strong coffee.

She tried to concentrate on the man in the bed at her side. A mask covered his nose and mouth, connected by a tube to a machine on the other side of the bed that produced a soft, regular hiss. The sister had explained that it was to assist his breathing, which was still wheezy. If he roused and tried to take it off, Megan had to ring the bell for a nurse.

If
he roused. The young houseman had found a contusion on the back of the patient’s head, which the ambulance men had missed. In spite of this, he was not actually unconscious, or comatose, just suffering from extreme lethargy caused by exhaustion and hypothermia. Megan couldn’t tell the difference.

Besides the breathing mask, he had an IV needle in his arm, leading to a bottle on a high stand. She hadn’t asked what was in the liquid, sure she would be none the wiser for knowing. She had asked what were the man’s chances of survival. The houseman refused to commit himself. A consultant would see the patient tomorrow; no doubt he’d provide a prognosis.

Megan sincerely hoped she would be relieved before then.

Between the curtains appeared a round face with flyaway blond hair escaping from a nurse probationer’s cap. “Hello,” she whispered. “Would you like something to drink, miss … officer…” She blinked at the green cotton trousers and smock. “They said you’re police?”

“I am. Detective Sergeant, but
Miss
will do. I don’t suppose you have coffee? I have to stay awake.”

“I’ll make you some. We don’t give it to the patients at bedtime. Just Nescaff, okay?”

“Fine. Black, please, no sugar.”

The face disappeared and the curtains closed. The trolley rumbled and squeaked away. Megan returned to her contemplation of the dark face on the snowy pillow.

The part she could see was smooth, no age lines, not even sun creases at the corners of his eyes. Early twenties, she guessed. Young and strong, or he’d not have survived his ordeal. Surely not even the stupidest, most ignorant of daring young men would choose to bathe in that narrow, rockbound arm of the sea, even on the calmest of days. There had been no sign of friends he might have been showing off to, no clothes cast off on the slate shelves bordering the water.

So where had he come from? What errant current had carried him to the perilous chasm carved by the waves and the Trevillet stream?

Megan tried to picture a map of the north coast. The overall shape of Cornwall was easy, sticking out into the ocean between the Bristol and English Channels, like a pointed, high-arched foot. But it was a much-battered foot, its margins indented, etched, hollowed out by the ceaseless assault of the stormy North Atlantic. It zigged and zagged unpredictably, like a choppy, whitecapped sea in a stiff breeze.

She knew her way about the district covered by CaRaDoC’s Launceston HQ, knew how to get from here to there, though she didn’t pretend to match her aunt’s intimate knowledge of the back lanes. If the coast zigzagged, the lanes twisted and turned like a coil of serpents, sea serpents, entangling her limbs, dragging her down, down—

“Miss!”

Startled, Megan opened her eyes and jerked upright. “I wasn’t asleep.” How trite! “Nearly,” she acknowledged.

“Your coffee. I made it good and strong.”

“Thanks. I really need it.”

“I can tell. I brought a couple of Rich Tea bics, too. I’ll come back now and then, if you like, and make sure you’re awake.”

“Super. My boss isn’t likely to pop in, but if he did and found me nodding off…”

The young nurse-in-training giggled. “Don’t I know it. Sister would kill me. Oh, and the night porter said a young man delivered a skirt for you.”

“A young man! Not my aunt?”

“A young man, he said.” She giggled again. “You must have a secret admirer! Do you want to change now?”

“No, thanks, when I leave. I’m better in these while I’m here.”

“Okay.” She whisked off, closing the curtains neatly behind her.

Nick, Megan thought, but how had he got hold of one of her skirts? The one she had been wearing, the one he’d used for the rope, was past resuscitation. Aunt Nell must have lent him the Incorruptible and the key to Megan’s flat. She didn’t like the thought of him rooting through her wardrobe, though it was something her job required her to do to other people’s personal belongings. It was kind of him, she supposed, even if probably done at Aunt Nell’s instigation.

The coffee was hot and bitter. It hit her stomach with a jolt. Gobbling down the biscuits, not usually one of her favourites, she realised she had had nothing to eat since lunch, and she was ravenous. Horlicks for “night starvation,” said the advert. She should have asked for some, or a cup of Bovril.

Did the small hospital have a canteen? It must have a kitchen, to feed the patients.

She dragged her mind away from food to check her own personal patient. He seemed unchanged. She couldn’t tell whether the faint wheeze was from his lungs or the machinery. Surely someone somewhere was worrying about him, wondering where he’d got to. Someone would report him missing. His identity would soon be discovered without her sitting here all night, starving and trying desperately not to fall asleep.

The girl—her name was Mitzi: “Mary, really, but everyone calls me Mitzi, except Sister”—came to fetch the cup and saucer. She was perfectly willing to ask Sister’s permission to go in search of a sandwich for Megan. While she was gone, the night sister herself came in to take the patient’s pulse and temperature, and to check the IV and respirator.

“How is he doing?” Megan ventured to enquire.

Sister looked at her consideringly. “I suppose it’s all right to discuss his condition with you, Sergeant. His pulse is much stronger. Temperature nearly normal. Breathing still not good. I can’t tell whether he has any colour in his cheeks.”

“He looks to me a bit less sallow than when we pulled him out. But I don’t know what his normal complexion is.”

“That’s the trouble with all these dark-skinned people coming into the country. Though I suppose in the big cities, where there are more of them, they learn to judge.”

“In London, there are quite a few Indian doctors, and West Indian girls often go into nursing.”

“So I’ve heard. If he’s not obviously better in the morning, I might suggest calling in Dr. Prthnavi.”

“What a good idea,” said Megan admiringly, having been angling for just that result. Aunt Megan’s friend Rajendra Prthnavi was her own GP.

“Only if the consultant’s in a good mood, mind.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve brought your— Oops, sorry, Sister!”

“That’s all right, Mary. I’m finished here.”

The sight of a sandwich, however limp and curled at the edges, and a packet of crisps brought Megan’s thought processes back to life. “Thanks, Mitzi. Sister, if you’re not in a hurry, I’d like to clarify something…”

“No hurry. What is it? You may go, Mary. I’m sure you can find something useful to do.” She turned back to Megan with an expectant look.

“It’s this business of ‘lethargy.’ I’m not clear on how it differs from a coma. He looks comatose to me.”

“Oh dear, I don’t think I can really explain. Coma is usually caused by head trauma, and this patient doesn’t appear to have any major injury, just a bit of a bruise. Poisoning can be another cause. Lethargy has many causes, but what it amounts to is exhaustion. He’s just too tired to make any physical effort, even opening his eyes. We can’t be sure without X-rays and maybe an EEG, which we don’t have here, but the doctor thinks he’s sleeping naturally and with luck will wake up naturally, having slept off the worst. If not, he’ll be taken by ambulance to Plymouth. They have the specialists and equipment to make a proper diagnosis.”

“I see. I think. Thank you, Sister.”

Sister nodded graciously. “Is there anything else? Don’t hesitate to ring the bell if you notice the slightest change in his condition. There’s always a nurse next door, but we haven’t got as good a view as you do, and I have the women’s ward to keep an eye on, too.”

She departed. Megan ate her sandwich with more relish than it deserved. Digging the twist of dark blue paper out of the crisp packet, she sprinkled salt and crunched happily. Of course, that made her thirsty. She cast a longing look at the glass and jug of water on the bedside table but decided any germs she might be carrying had better not be transmitted to the patient if he wanted a drink when he woke up.

Assuming he did awake normally. Once again, she studied what she could see of him.

Did those enviably long, dark eyelashes flicker?

Had she imagined it? Should she ring the bell or knock on the nurses’ room window? Should she say something reassuring?

She stood up and leant over him. His eyes opened, vague and unfocussed, lids drooping. One hand lifted a fraction of an inch from the sheet, then flopped back.

Megan reached towards the bell, then hesitated. He looked no different now from when Sister left. The change in his condition was so brief it was probably meaningless. Glancing back at him now, she wondered if it had been wishful thinking. He looked exactly as he had before.

Suddenly his eyes opened again. There was something odd about them, Megan thought, but she was more interested in their expression: bright with consciousness, wide with fear. He made a noise in his throat, halfway between a cough and a gargle. The fear turned to panic and he started to raise the arm with the IV. It must have hurt, because he let it drop, reaching with his other hand towards the mask on his face.

“You’re all right. You’re in hospital.” Megan remembered that he might not speak English, even as she pressed the bell with one hand and held his arm down with the other, to prevent his dislodging the mask. “Okay. You’re okay.” “Okay” was international, wasn’t it?

For a moment he resisted her grip. Then he stopped fighting, though she felt tension in his thin wrist, the tendons taut beneath her fingertips. She could feel his pulse, much stronger now.