A Late Phoenix by Catherine Aird

Author:Catherine Aird
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media

Crush the shell

CHAPTER NINE

Dr. William Latimer was getting ready to leave the Feathers Hotel in Berebury. He had enjoyed his first meeting of the Caduceus Club more than he had expected he would.

The hotel itself looked as if it had come straight out of an old-fashioned Christmas card, and he had parked his car in a quaint cobbled yard built long ago for horses.

Before going inside he had straightened his tie, pulled down his waistcoat and braced himself for his first meeting with his fellow doctors—but there had been no need. The first club member he had met wasn’t even wearing a waistcoat. The second looked like a prosperous farmer in from the country and the third was dressed more like a bookie than a general practitioner.

They had all been very friendly.

“You must be Latimer.”

William agreed that he was.

“What are you drinking?”

This dialogue was repeated up and down the room. By the end of the evening William decided he had met almost everyone present except a lanky chap with a bow tie, who had spent the whole time at the bar deep in converse with the only lady present.

The Caduceus Club was clearly an institution for the relieving of medical feelings. William didn’t take long to gather that.

“A typical appendix …”

“I told the Out Patient Department …”

“Filthy throat …”

“I said to Casualty …”

“Biggest gallstone I’ve ever seen …”

“Four late calls …”

“I wrote the Executive Council …”

“Breech …”

It was almost time to go before William fetched up against the lanky fellow with the bow tie who had by now said goodnight to the lady and left the bar. He shook William’s hand.

“I’m Waineton. You must be Latimer.”

William agreed he was.

“What are you drinking?”

William said he thought he’d had enough.

Waineton nodded in the direction of a corner table.

“You’re all right, old chap. The police surgeon’s over there and he isn’t ready to go home yet.”

William changed his tactics. “Still got some, thank you,” he said, waving his glass.

“Waistcoat killers,” said Waineton indistinctly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Waistcoat killers,” repeated Waineton. “That’s what evenings like this are. We all eat and drink too much. Everybody.”

“Er—yes. You may be right.”

“And how are you enjoying St. Luke’s, eh?”

“I’m just settling in, you know.”

“A bit difficult, of course …”

“Not particularly.”

“Bound to be after what happened.”

William looked up. “What happened?”

“You know. To old Tarde.”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. Waineton’s face changed from the convivial to the melancholy as if it was the indiarubber mask of a disappointed clown. “Poor old Tarde.”

“What happened to him?” said William.

“Knew him well,” muttered Waineton unsteadily. “Been in St. Luke’s for years and years.”

“I know that,” said William, “but what happened to him?” The evening at the bar had obviously made Dr. Waineton quite maudlin.

“Didn’t you know, old chap?”

“Know what?” demanded William firmly.

“I thought you’d have heard …”

“Heard what?”

“He committed suicide.”

The Two Doves in Luston was moderately full despite the lateness of the hour.

Men in working clothes, faces none too clean, kept on slipping in through the swing doors. It wasn’t a dressy pub. It was

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