Bring Forth Your Dead (4 page)

4

There are not many deaths like that of Edmund Craven, where a poisoner so nearly gets away with murder. When they do occur, the first person to fall under suspicion is the patient’s doctor. In a few cases, he may be the deliberate agent of death: he is the person in the best position to administer poison without detection. In other, fortunately even fewer, cases, he may be an accessory after the fact, deliberately concealing evidence to protect someone, usually a lover. The law has dealt harshly with the small number of medical men known to have gone astray in this way—there are few women doctors who have been detected in such actions. Equality will no doubt in time bring its inevitable side-effects, here as elsewhere.

In a much larger proportion of these cases, it is possible to detect a degree of negligence in medical practice, where the doctor in question has failed to spot that death did not occur from the natural causes he specified and signed for on the death certificate. Such omissions are not always publicised, medical men being more than usually charitable towards their fellow practitioners. All professions are conspiracies against the laity, Lambert reminded Hook, as the big car moved smoothly towards the house of Dr Carroll; he was sure Bert would have been a wholehearted supporter of Shaw’s Fabianism had he been given the opportunity.

Carroll lived in a box-like modern house with a trim front garden, modest and characterless after the Edwardian confidence of Craven’s house, but no doubt much more convenient to live in and to run. Mrs Carroll, who was at the door before they had time to ring, was as trim and
well-organised as her house. It was still quite early in the afternoon, but she brought in the tea-tray without asking if they required it, to Bert Hook’s undisguised approval. Then, having poured the tea, she left them alone with her husband.

Dr James Carroll was scarcely the best advert for the efficacy of his own profession. He was probably not more than two years older than his wife, but he looked ten and behaved more. His hand shook as he offered them the cups and saucers, so that Hook sprang forward to take over the duty. His wife had fussed over him maternally in arranging the seating arrangements; where her movements had been those of an alert and active senior citizen, her husband’s had the careful but uncontrolled energy of the aging arthritic. Having manoeuvred himself carefully into position over his armchair, he began a slow descent, which was transformed into a collapse in its latter stages. Despite the sun outside and the central heating within, his voice had the wheezing hint of bronchitis when he spoke, and his breathing was shallow and quick.

He said, ‘I believe you told my wife when you made the appointment that you were inquiring into the death of my old friend Edmund Craven.’ His fingers twisted nervously in and out of the bottom buttonhole of his cardigan. Lambert was reminded of those occasions long ago when he had sat as a young constable at the bedside of hospital patients, with only a brief period allowed to him to extract statements from them. It was perhaps that image that made him determined to be brisk here.

‘It is now established that Mr Craven was murdered, Dr Carroll.’

‘And I signed a death certificate to say that death was from natural causes. That is, of course, the purpose of your visit here.’ He gave them a small, grim smile over his rimless spectacles, as if to remind them that the brain could remain sharp when the body declined. ‘May I ask what is the cause of death you have now established?’

‘He was poisoned with arsenic. Systematically, by small but regular doses over a period.’

Carroll’s rheumy, old man’s eyes widened; Lambert thought it was with surprise rather than horror at the thought: medical men, like policemen, saw plenty of the viler things of which humanity is capable. ‘So your murderer is someone who had regular access to the deceased. It seems scarcely credible, but of course I have to accept what you now tell me.’

Lambert was irritated by Carroll’s refusal to confirm his own deficiencies in the business. He said, ‘Can you tell me what medical condition you were treating in Edmund Craven?’

‘Have I any excuse for slipping up as I did, you mean?’ Carroll had the air of childish irresponsibility Lambert had met before only in the very old, who seem to become aware in their last days that life and its rule-makers have very few sanctions left with which to punish their transgressions. Carroll was not much over seventy, but perhaps he did not have much longer to live. ‘Edmund had had a serious heart attack ten years before he died. He had two more minor flutters about three years before the end. He had quite a bit of pain with angina pectoris and took tablets for that. I attended him regularly, about once a month in the year before he died. It wasn’t really necessary, but he was a rich man and seemed to enjoy the sense of being pampered that he got from my visits. And I had the time to indulge him: I’ve been retired, apart from a few private patients, for the last six years.’

‘Did you notice any marked deterioration in the last few months of this patient’s life?’ It sounded like a criticism of his carelessness, but Lambert saw no point in treading carefully with a man who seemed to be almost enjoying the examination, as if it were a puzzle worthy of
his professional attention.

‘Yes. Over about the last three months. I can be so precise since I have naturally given the matter some thought since I heard about the exhumation.’ The damp grey eyes pleaded their case to be taken seriously. ‘I imagine you are going to tell me that it was during that time that Craven was being poisoned.’

Lambert nodded. ‘So Dr Burgess informs us. Apparently he could tell this from an examination of the corpse’s hair.’

‘Good man, Burgess. That would be the Newton activation analysis.’ With this unexpected piece of technical knowledge, the old doctor’s face twinkled like that of a mischievous schoolboy giving hitherto unsuspected evidence of preparation. ‘Well, Inspector, I suppose I should apologise for my shortcomings.’ He seemed to be so evidently enjoying himself that Lambert wondered if his own demotion was deliberate rather than the accidental slip he was used to. ‘But really, unless one was suspicious of what I believe you call foul play, there was honestly not much reason to apply other tests. The pattern of decline accelerated rapidly, but that is not so unusual when a man with a medical history like his gets over seventy.’

Carroll paused, studying the bookcase behind the busily writing Sergeant with an ironic smile as he confronted his own mortality head on. ‘The symptoms of a heart which is ceasing to function properly are not very different from those of arsenic poisoning. Perhaps if I had thought of that at the time, I might have become suspicious, but I doubt it. Of course, as soon as the hospital contacted me to ask about the death, I could see the possibilities of arsenic. But you see, I’ve never seen anyone die from deliberate poisoning before. Perhaps, in view of your visit here this afternoon, I should say not to my knowledge at least.’ It was the nearest he would come to an apology or an admission of carelessness; even here, his bitterness seemed rather against a dishonest world that presumed to deceive him rather than at his own omissions.

‘You were the only doctor involved?’

‘Yes, to my present regret. There was no legal requirement for a post-mortem because I had been in regular attendance: I saw Edmund three days before his death. And I am sure you are aware that with a burial, only one doctor’s signature is needed on the death certificate. The modern trend for cremation is a splendid thing: it brings extra income to chaps like us from the second signature required before you can burn a corpse.’ His levity seemed quite incorrigible, though he looked tired now. He had forgotten all about his tea, which was almost cold as he found it belatedly beside him. He spilled a little of it in the saucer; then his face creased with distaste as he sipped the tepid liquid. The contrast between his crisp speech and the aging shell from which it emerged was more marked than ever.

‘So you never considered the possibility that there might be more than a damaged heart involved in Craven’s rapid decline?’ Lambert pressed because he was anxious to know if Carroll had even suspected otherwise, but he was aware also that he was piqued by the man’s cheerful abnegation of all responsibility; surely he should have at least shown a decent sense of guilt.

‘Never, Inspector. Perhaps I should reiterate that the symptoms of decline stemming from a malfunctioning heart are not dissimilar to those of arsenic poisoning, when that is conducted over a period of time. And arsenic eventually causes heart failure. Technically, I think you would find that what I entered on the certificate as the cause of death was correct.’ He leaned back in the chair and hugged himself at the thought, his tea finally abandoned. His shrunken figure was shaken for an instant with unseemly mirth.

Lambert realised that he would get no further with this line of questioning. He said, ‘Dr Carroll, you were in regular attendance upon a patient we now know to have been systematically murdered over a period of months. As an outsider entering each week into that household, you may have become aware of undercurrents of feeling. I should like to know if you noted any incident or relationship which might now seem significant. Think carefully, please. Those with regular access to Mr Craven’s food which means once a week or thereabouts—appear to be Mrs Lewis, his housekeeper, his daughter Angela Harrison, his son David Craven, and his old friend Walter Miller, who went in to play chess with him once a week.’

‘There are other methods of disguising arsenic than food, of course. For instance, you could inject a solution directly into the bloodstream. However, let us agree for the moment that food is the most likely method of ingestion.’ Carroll’s pedantry was such that for a moment Lambert had the unworthy desire to shake the frail old shoulders. Yet he knew that he was annoyed less by the old man’s omission than by his failure to show a seemly remorse: had he been properly cowed, he might have met a Superintendent full of sympathy. Lambert forced a smile at himself as the doctor went on, ‘Well, the person with the best opportunity was me.’ He cackled outright at the ridiculous thought; Lambert’s experience told him not to dismiss it so lightly. He would investigate the possibilities of the idea in due course, though he fancied that here motive, which he had dismissed so lightly when questioning Margaret Lewis, might be important by its very absence.

James Carroll was studying him intently, with his head on one side, like a child who teases a small animal and awaits a reaction. Lambert and Hook stared back at him stolidly, refusing to feed him further material. Denied such stimulus, Carroll lost his intensity and suddenly looked very tired. He said petulantly, ‘Any of the people you mention could have done it, in theory. Assuming one of them did, you’d better keep your eye on young David Craven.’

*

They got nothing more out of the enigmatic Dr Carroll. If there was anything more than a personal preference in him for David Craven as a murderer, they failed to elicit it. Twenty minutes later they stood outside the original Georgian windows of ,the offices of Arkwright and Company, Solicitors, in the middle of Oldford, and Lambert contemplated the prospect of another interview with a professional man without enthusiasm.

Alfred Arkwright gave the impression that his firm had been here as long as the wool on which the original wealth of the Cotswold town had been built, instead of the mere two hundred years which were the fact. He received Lambert and Hook at the appointed time with the air of an aristocrat doing trade an immense favour in granting it an audience. ‘Sit down, please,’ he said, waving a lordly arm at the only two chairs available in his small office, as though inviting them to select from hundreds. ‘I am at your service. Just let me know how I can be of assistance.’ He knew perfectly well, of course: Hook had explained things painstakingly in arranging this visit. But the forms—Alfred Arkwright’s forms—must be observed.

Lambert, who had long considered Arkwright his ideal Polonius, very nearly demanded more matter with less art. Instead, he had to content himself with stressing his opening phrase as he said, ‘As you know, we are here in connection with the death thirteen months ago of a certain Edmund Craven.’ He noticed himself being drawn into Arkwright’s formalities of language; the solicitor tapped a perfectly manicured finger on the file in front of him and permitted himself a deprecating smile of acknowledgment. ‘Perhaps you would also like to be told officially that we are now in the early stages of a murder inquiry. Which makes Mr Craven’s legal arrangements of special interest to us.’ Arkwright nodded an urbane acknowledgment of the inevitable centrality of the law in all important concerns of men. ‘It will therefore be necessary that you reveal to us not merely legal documents, but everything you know about his thoughts in the last year or so of his life.’

Alfred Arkwright’s brow contracted for a moment beneath the line of his still plentiful silver hair at the crudity of this approach. ‘There is little I can tell you that has not already been made public. As you know, the peculiarities of the law compel us to reveal the details of wills to the fourth estate. When there is an absence of violent crimes or scandal in the locality, which surprisingly enough is still the case in some weeks, our local press fills its columns with the raw detail of the estates of people who can no longer defend their privacy. The details of Edmund Craven’s arrangements appeared there some time ago.’

‘So remind me of them, please,’ said Lambert. He had dealt with Arkwright before; it was like a complex eighteenth-century dance in which each knew the conclusion, but had to go through the elaborate steps to arrive there. Lambert’s brisk injunction here broke the sequence: as if in response, Arkwright rose unhurriedly from his chair and left the office with a muttered excuse.
‘“Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell,”’ intoned Lambert moodily as the solicitor passed from earshot. He knew he was indulging himself: Arkwright was unfortunately neither wretched nor rash. When Hook gave him the required interrogative look, he said, ‘Don’t worry, he gets stabbed through the arras in the fourth act.’