Operation Pax (31 page)

Jane considered. ‘I think it’s becoming a fashionable word for a grand sort of nursing home – the sort that has one special line. If the rich want to slim, they go and live on roast beef and orange juice in the appropriate clinic.’

‘Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps that’s what the deer are for. One vanishes into the kitchens daily in the interest of a high-protein diet.’ Remnant swung the car round a bend in the drive. ‘Here we are.’

A large house had appeared before them. Its form was irregular and rambling, so that it might have been very large indeed; but the aspect which they were approaching was dominated by a graceful white portico, now glittering in the sun. They looked at this curiously. ‘It must take an awful lot of paint,’ Jane said.

‘About as much as the Queen Elizabeth. I suppose it gives the right effect: cheerfulness and antisepsis hand in hand. There’s a garden over there with quite a lot of people.’

‘They must be ambulatory patients.’

Remnant slowed down. ‘You do have a fine stock of words.’ His glance was moving swiftly over the whole scene. ‘What sort of patients are they?’

‘The sort, oddly enough, that don’t need an ambulance.’

‘Well, they certainly don’t look as if they had been kidnapped in one. Do you think we drive under this portico affair? I think we do. Nothing like a confident approach to the dark tower.’

‘Yes, drive right in.’ Jane found that her heart was beating much faster than usual. But it was only sensible, she reminded herself, to feel a bit scared. Unless she had made a colossal ass of herself – and that would really be almost worse than anything else – they had embarked on an enterprise of very actual danger.

They got out in front of a short flight of steps and mounted to a door painted in brilliant vermilion. There was a large brass bell pull, brightly polished, and a small brass plate, equally brightly polished, on which both their glances fell at once. It read:

MILTON MANOR CLINIC

REGISTERED OFFICE

As Jane read this she was aware of a first twinge of mere misgiving as momentarily replacing her alarm. The little notice was somehow both unobtrusively and monumentally respectable. She had a vision of imminent fiasco – of a reception at first puzzled, and then successively amused, annoyed, frigid… But Remnant appeared to have no doubts. His hand had gone out unhesitatingly and given a brisk tug at the bell pull. This proved to be attached to one of those genteel contrivances which simulate a miniature carillon. They stood for a moment listening to the brief cascade of musical notes releasing itself somewhere inside. Before it had died away – or, Jane reflected, they could turn and bolt – the door opened.

They were aware of an interior that was all cool, clear colours and polished floors. Standing before them was an immaculate nursing sister. ‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘Good morning.’ Roger Remnant, in his old duffel coat, Jane noted, had somehow taken on the appearance of springing from the most privileged and opulent class of society. ‘I am Lord Remnant.’ He paused as if this must be a very sufficient announcement in itself. The nurse seemed suitably impressed, but her features contrived, at the same time, to suggest the need of further information. Remnant’s eyebrows elevated themselves slightly. ‘My sister and I have an appointment with the Medical Superintendent.’

‘With Dr Cline?’

‘I’m afraid I have no idea. His name hasn’t been given to me. The appointment was made by my aunt – or at least she intended to make one. But it is just possible she failed to ring up. She is very distressed – has been very hesitant about the whole matter.’

‘I
quite
understand.’ The nurse’s voice might have been described as oozing comprehension. ‘Will you please come in? I am afraid that if there has
not
been an appointment you may have to wait a little. Dr Cline is having a terribly crowded morning. But I will let him know at once.’

They entered a large hall with panelled walls and a broad staircase, all of which had been enamelled in light greens and greys. At one end was a bright fire, vying with the sunshine that poured in through tall windows giving upon some broad court at the back. The other end was a mass of chrysanthemums disposed behind and around a small fountain. Two silver-haired old gentlemen of distinguished appearance were coming down the staircase, surrounded by a group of spaniels. As they reached the bottom a manservant appeared and encased them in hats and coats. They turned down a broad corridor, apparently intent upon a stroll in the gardens. Jane had an enhanced feeling that it was all too true to be good – to be at all good for what was surely the utterly extravagant hypothesis she had formed. High blood pressure, or chronic disorders of the liver, looked like being the only sinister revelation Milton Manor had to offer.

They sat down to wait. By way of intellectual beguilement there was a choice between
Country Life
and
The Field
. It was all too depressing for words.

The wait, however, was brief, for the nurse returned almost at once. ‘Will you come this way?’ she said. ‘The Superintendent can see you now.’

They were led for some way through the house and shown into a room of moderate size, furnished with consistent sobriety as a study. Dr Cline was a rubicund man of buoyant manner who came forward with a frank smile. ‘Lord Remnant?’

Roger Remnant bowed. ‘My sister, Lady Jane,’ he said gravely.

‘How do you do. I understand that your aunt – But I am afraid it is a little chilly here – and really a little gloomy as well. I suggest that we go out to the sunshine of the terrace.’ And Dr Cline led the way towards a pair of French windows. ‘After all, there is much to be said for a cheerful atmosphere when discussing these things. Whether the Clinic is efficient is a matter of statistics. But that it is a reasonably gay sort of place you will presumably see for yourselves.’

The Medical Superintendent, it was evident, had no hesitation in getting briskly down to sales talk. And he had all his wits about him. Jane had a sudden and horrid conviction that, before admitting them, he must surely have made a grab at Who’s Who or Debrett. But of course, for all she knew, Roger Remnant might really be a lord. He might even have a sister called Lady Jane… They had emerged on a flagged terrace. It was liberally provided with garden furniture, but untenanted. Perhaps it was reserved for the Superintendent’s private use. For on a second terrace, immediately below, was a scattered group of some half-dozen people. They were for the most part elderly, and engaged in reading, conversing, or simply gazing into the gardens. An air of waiting, somnolently but pleasurably, for what could confidently be anticipated as an excellent luncheon, was pervasive among them. The only pronounced activity visible was on the part of a small boy of about five years of age, who was wandering restlessly from individual to individual… At this small boy Jane, as she sat down, took a second look. And it flashed upon her that he represented what, so far, was the only discordant note about the place. For he did not look at all a gay or cheerful child. On the contrary, there was something strained and tense about his whole bearing. And when he glanced towards the upper terrace for a moment it was with eyes that it was not at all comfortable to become aware of.

But Roger Remnant was talking – and with the most complete assurance still. ‘You will understand, Dr Cline, that this is an entirely tentative inquiry. And my aunt – who is naturally very distressed – has felt quite unequal to coming down herself. She is afraid that–’

‘Quite so, Lord Remnant, quite so.’ The Superintendent was eminently willing to meet this halfway. There is always the dislike of talk – of gossip. But I assure you that it is a matter which we handle with a good deal of acquired skill – of
finesse
, I may say. Residence at Milton Manor can be
entirely
confidential. Take correspondence, for example, from the patients’ private friends. That can go to an address in London, from which it is brought down daily by private messenger.’

‘That,’ said Remnant, ‘is very important.’ He smiled amiably at Dr Cline. ‘It makes one begin to see one’s way more clearly.’ And his eyes, although quite expressionlessly, moved fleetingly to Jane’s.

‘Precisely.’ Dr Cline looked understandingly at his visitors. Then – and rather as if it were something that had just come into his head – he suddenly assumed an appearance of mild professional reserve. ‘But I must point out,’ he said, ‘that, in the first instance, it would have to be your – um – uncle’s personal medical advisor–’

‘We perfectly understand that. But I must repeat how tentative this is. Nothing has been suggested to my uncle, and his doctor is not yet really aware of – er – how bad the position has become. What has happened is simply this. My aunt confided her anxieties to Lord Polder, who is a very old friend.’

Dr Cline, at the mention of this most august of medical names, bowed gravely.

‘And Lord Polder mentioned the possibilities of the Milton Clinic. He, rather than the family doctor, you know, would be the best person to take on the difficult job of broaching the matter to my uncle. They regularly shoot together. And of course they are constantly meeting in the Chamber.’

Jane wondered whether the Chamber was really what very grand people called the Lords. Anyway, it sounded well. It all sounded incredibly well, indeed. And this fashionable little medical parasite appeared to be eating out of Remnant’s hand. She speculated on what atrociously disreputable disease the noble peer under discussion – whether real or imagined – was about to be plagued with by his ruthless nephew… But now Remnant had gone off on another track.

‘There is one thing that makes my aunt rather uneasy. She has been told about the research. Of course, my sister and I understand very well that research is always carried on in a leading institution of this character. But my aunt would want to be assured that there was no risk–’

With a gesture perhaps a shade more theatrical than professional the Medical Superintendent of the Milton Clinic raised two protesting hands. ‘But quite so! And I can assure you that nothing of the sort would at all impinge upon your uncle during his residence here. The research is, of course, of the utmost importance. We are making constant gains from it on the therapeutic side – constant gains. But, of course, nothing is embodied in our regular treatments that has not abundantly proved itself when employed in the case of – um – patients otherwise circumstanced. The research establishment, indeed, is entirely separate. The Director and I, needless to say, are in the closest co-operation – the most intimate scientific touch. But the two establishments have no contact, so far as patients and – er – inmates are concerned. The inmates – who come on
very
reduced terms and who are
most
helpful to us – are a completely detached community. We have fixed them up very pleasant – yes,
very
pleasant – quarters in the old stables.’

Remnant looked much relieved. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Guinea pigs, what?’

Dr Cline did not let his wholesome respect for the aristocracy prevent him from looking slightly shocked. ‘It might be better, my dear Lord Remnant, to express it–’

But Remnant had turned to Jane with an air of brisk decision. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think that just about settles it – don’t you, Jane?’

Jane nodded, and spoke for the first time. ‘It all sounds very satisfactory – and hopeful for poor uncle. And, for poor aunt Emma’s sake, I shall be so glad if it puts things right.’

‘Quite. Well, we must book the poor old boy in, and then get Polder to apply the heat.’ From this slangy excursion, proper in addressing a sister, Remnant turned with renewed gravity to Dr Cline. ‘You could manage it at any time?’

‘Well, hardly that – hardly that, I fear. But the wait would not be long. And it will, of course, be perfectly correct that Lord Polder rather than a family physician should refer your uncle to us.’

‘I think we’d better have a firm date, if we can. Nothing like going straight ahead once these things are fixed upon.’ And Remnant looked firmly at Dr Cline. It was evident that, for his distinguished family, waiting-lists simply did not exist. ‘In fact, I think it had better be Monday.’

‘It is just possible that it could be arranged.’ For Dr Cline, seemingly, this was a game that had to be played out according to the rules, ‘But I shall have to take a look at the book. And as my secretary is away for the day, it will be necessary to go across and consult it in the other wing. Will you excuse me?’

And Dr Cline bowed himself off the terrace. Roger Remnant took a long breath. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘now, my dear sister Jane – where do we go from here?’

Jane was watching the small boy. He had been becoming increasingly restless and irritable. In fact he might have been described as trailing his coats, for it was his evident desire to make himself sufficiently tiresome to the elderly people around him to stir them into drastic action. It must, Jane thought, be a poor sort of life for a child amid these comfortable invalids or valetudinarians. They did not appear to take much interest in him, but what interest they took was wholly benevolent. Children need an occasional rumpus. They find an adult world that never turns aggressive on them extremely frightening, for it makes them feel their own aggressive impulses to be something wicked and out of nature. The small boy – he appeared to be a foreign small boy from fragments of his speech that drifted to the upper terrace – was decidedly in this state. He was longing for a clip on the ear. And nobody seemed at all disposed to give it to him… Jane turned to Remnant. ‘Where do we go now? It depends on how much we feel we’ve really found out. What is this place, anyway? What is it going to cure our uncle of?’

Remnant chuckled. ‘Obesity, I should say – to judge by that great fat man who appeared a minute ago.’

‘A fat man? I didn’t see any fat man.’

‘He simply popped round the corner of the terrace for a moment and vanished.’

‘Probably he was one of the doctors – grown sleek on the job. I don’t think it’s obesity. It may be rather comical to be fat, but it’s not indecent. And apparently to make it known that you’re taking the cure at Milton Manor just isn’t done.’ Jane’s eye went again to the people below them. ‘Besides, just look at that lot. You can’t say that their garments are beginning to hang loose upon them. Rather the reverse, if anything.’