Doctor On Toast Page 16

  ‘Proceed,’ added the Judge.

  Sir Lancelot sat breathing heavily. I edged up a bit and sat on one of his coat tails.

  ‘Dr Angus McFiggie,’ announced Mr Grumley, when Mrs Possett had escaped.

  The Judge looked up.

  ‘Your only expert, Mr Grumley?’

  ‘He is, My Lord.’

  ‘I am quite prepared to hear his evidence, but from what has passed already I feel it my duty to suggest to the defendant, in the interests of saving my time and public money, that he should seriously consider the possibility of a settlement. I am perfectly willing to grant an adjournment for the purpose.’

  Sir Lancelot looked as if a junior nurse at St Swithin’s had contradicted his diagnosis.

  ‘What a preposterous suggestion!’

  ‘Will you be quiet, Lancelot?’ snapped his brother.

  ‘I wish you’d make up your mind, Alfie,’ returned the surgeon angrily, ‘exactly which side you are on.’

  ‘I take it you are disinclined to settle?’ demanded Mr Justice Fishwick bleakly.

  ‘Never!’ Sir Lancelot folded his arms.

  ‘I will charitably assume the defendant’s refusal to be uttered by counsel, who is the only person entitled to address the Court. You will explain that to him as well, Mr Spratt.’

  ‘I am most indebted for Your Lordship’s most helpful and considerate–’

  ‘Proceed, Mr Grumley.’

  As McFiggie appeared in the box Beckwith passed me a note saying, ‘Hope Sir Lancelot is a sporting loser.’ I thought it best to make no reply.

  I must say, I felt pretty miserable about the morning’s proceedings. Apart from Sir Lancelot’s saving the Grimsdyke life, I’d developed a pretty strong respect for the old boy in our adventures over the last few months. It was pretty galling to see him not only going down the legal drain, but being treated by Fishwick much the same as I was treated myself by Miles.

  McFiggie was, of course, totally different from the chap who’d sat sucking his teeth in Sir Lancelot’s drawing-room. He was as at home in the Court as in the saloon bar of his local. He stood glaring round, his eyebrows slowly going up and down like a pair of peculiar hairy insects likely to fly off and sting someone. Even Mr Justice Fishwick seemed impressed, and helped himself to a couple of pills and a glass of water.

  ‘Dr McFiggie,’ began Mr Grumley, after reciting our pathologist’s qualifications and appointments like reading out a Royal Proclamation. ‘Would you say, on the basis of your many – your many and most highly valued – years as a specialist in forensic medicine, that the symptoms complained of by Mr Possett are a perfectly possible result of his operation?’

  ‘I would.’

  Sir Lancelot growled.

  ‘You mean to tell the Court that the present pitiful condition of this previously healthy and virile young man might indeed have resulted from the operative interference of the defendant?’

  ‘It might.’

  I anchored Sir Lancelot a bit more firmly.

  ‘Dr McFiggie, have you performed post-mortem examinations on the defendant’s deceased patients?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And is it your opinion that in many cases the operation performed was necessary or unnecessary?’

  ‘Unnecessary.’

  Sir Lancelot jumped up, ripping off a coat-tail.

  ‘I challenge that!’

  ‘Silence!’ called several people at once.

  ‘I challenge McFiggie to produce one jot of clinical evidence–’

  ‘Sit down and shut up!’ snapped his brother.

  ‘You keep out of this, Alfie–’

  There was a good deal of confusion, through which I could hear the Judge shouting at someone to send for the Tipstaff.

  ‘It is perfectly clear to the meanest intelligence you have not the slightest idea what you’re talking about, McFiggie,’ Sir Lancelot persisted hotly. ‘If you had taken the bother to look up an elementary students’ surgical textbook–’

  ‘Sir Lancelot Spratt!’ The Judge turned pale. ‘I intend to commit you to Brixton Prison.’

  Sir Lancelot stared at him. ‘You intend to what?’

  ‘I intend to commit you for contempt.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ muttered Mr Beckwith.

  I didn’t know what to say. I could only see our distinguished consultant – the chap who’d slammed death’s door in my face – shuffling about in broad arrows breaking stones.

  ‘Alfie, put this matter straight at once,’ Sir Lancelot commanded.

  ‘Damnation, Lancelot! If you insist on behaving without the least vestige of respect–’

  ‘Mr Spratt!’ rapped out the Judge.

  ‘I am sorry, My Lord. Extremely sorry. I beg Your Lordship’s pardon. I can only say–’

  ‘If you’d controlled your client properly this unhappy situation would never have arisen.’

  ‘Control him? You try and control him–’

  ‘Mr Spratt!’

  ‘I’m sorry, My Lord. Extremely sorry. This case has left me quite overwrought.’

  ‘Look here, Alfie, I am perfectly certain a judge in a civil action hasn’t the slightest right to make threats like that.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lancelot! Can’t you shut your big mouth?’

  ‘Mr Spratt! Your language!’

  ‘Dammit! Fishy, don’t you see I’m at the end of my blasted tether?’ complained Alfie. ‘I warned you in the club last night my brother’s completely impossible. I mean, I crave Your Lordship’s pardon–’

  ‘Stop crawling, Alfie,’ urged Sir Lancelot. ‘It makes me want to vomit.’

  ‘Control your client, I say!’

  ‘I’m doing my level best,’ exclaimed Alfie angrily. ‘But you’re not making it any easier sitting up there threatening to hand out terms of imprisonment–’

  ‘Mr Spratt! You forget yourself–’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it’s about time somebody protested from the Bar about the way you’ve been carrying on recently towards a perfectly respectable succession of litigants–’

  ‘That’s the stuff, Alfie!’

  The Judge jumped up. ‘I intend to commit you both to Brixton Prison.’

  ‘What?’ Alfie stopped short. ‘But that’s absolutely–’

  ‘Where’s the Tipstaff? Summon the Tipstaff! Send for the–’

  I was just wondering whether to cause a diversion by setting a match to the papers, when the Judge gave a groan, reached for his pill bottle, and pitched over his desk.

  ‘Good gracious me,’ exclaimed Sir Lancelot. ‘Grimsdyke!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Hand me that water bottle. Right you are, everyone. I’ll take charge. McFiggie – don’t just stand there, pick up his feet. I recall now he did this once before, when I brought a foot home from the anatomy rooms for a lark and put it in his bed.’

  24

  Sir Lancelot and I sat alone in his drawing-room. He’d only bothered to switch on one light, which gave an even gloomier air to the evening. We were sipping a whisky and soda in silence. Lady Spratt was up in Hampstead trying to engage another domestic. The new French maid had already left.

  ‘Today,’ observed Sir Lancelot at last. ‘Is my birthday.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘Many…many happy returns, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Grimsdyke.’

  We said nothing for a further five minutes.

  ‘I suppose I was rather impetuous in court this morning,’ Sir Lancelot admitted.

  ‘Very understandable, sir,’ I murmured.

  ‘On the contrary, it was very stupid of me. Unfortunately, that is the nature of the beast.’

  ‘A very useful quality, sometimes, sir,’ I tried to console him.

  ‘I suppose I can say that I have saved a life or two in my time by rushing in where angels and my fellow-surgeons have feared to tread,’ he agreed quietly.

  He sat for a few moments stroking his beard.

  ‘There
is a penalty to pay for being temporarily the most important person in the lives of our several patients,’ he went on. ‘If one is treated like a god day in and day out, it requires greater strength of character than I fear I possess not to feel oneself somewhat godlike. Indeed, one deliberately plays the part – call it a bedside manner, or what you will. It reassures the patients and gives oneself a confidence that is so often painfully lacking.’ He paused. ‘Unhappily, it is not appropriate for a court of law.’

  ‘I expect it will come out all right, sir, in the end,’ I added, still trying hard to cheer him up.

  Sir Lancelot made no reply, but reached for an envelope beside him.

  ‘I found this hanging about for you in the porter’s lodge at St Swithin’s.’

  I opened it in silence. It was an invitation to the wedding of Mr Bridgenorth and Miss Miggs.

  ‘And here is your cheque, Grimsdyke. Though after I have faced Mr Justice Fishwick tomorrow, I fear there will be little point in finishing your task. I can only offer my sincere thanks for the work you have performed.’

  ‘It was the least I could have done. After all, sir, mine was one of those lives you saved.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘My appendix, sir.’

  Sir Lancelot seemed puzzled. ‘You mean, you agreed to undertake my memoirs solely because you felt indebted to me for operating on you?’

  ‘The job did rather muck up my work plans, sir,’ I confessed. ‘But – well, heart-felt gratitude and all that.’

  The old boy seemed to be staring at me oddly. ‘Grimsdyke, I really must – There’s the doorbell,’ he broke off. ‘Be a good chap and answer it.’

  Mr Alphonso Spratt came hurrying into the drawing-room.

  ‘Lancelot, my dear fellow, my dear fellow…’

  The two brothers shook hands warmly.

  ‘I fear I failed you most miserably this morning,’ confessed the barrister. ‘I lost my temper. It was quite inexcusable.’

  ‘No, Alfie. I should have had sufficient self-control to contain myself while the Judge was being so blatantly unfair.’

  ‘I certainly agree he was outrageously unfair. I really can’t understand why. But Fishy has been behaving most oddly these days. Everyone at the Bar has been noticing it.’ Sir Lancelot handed him a whisky. ‘What was the matter when he collapsed? I know nothing of such things, of course.’

  ‘Purely an attack of colic. He was wise to adjourn the court and go home to bed. Tomorrow morning he will no doubt be in excellent form when he sends the pair of us to prison.’

  Alfie shook his head. ‘I think if I apologise slavishly enough – and after a night’s sleep all round – I shall save our skins in that respect. But your case, I’m afraid, has a pretty bleak outlook.’

  ‘And my career,’ agreed Sir Lancelot sombrely. ‘I suppose Tiptree will be next President of the Royal College. I must only be grateful that it could never be McFiggie.’

  ‘I’m deeply sorry, Lancelot. Particularly as I don’t mind telling you here and now I was confident from the start that we’d win hands down. It was simply that Fishwick jumped in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Perhaps you might win an appeal?’ I interjected hopefully.

  ‘I doubt it, young man. They wouldn’t reverse Fishwick with no point of law involved.’

  ‘So there’s no hope?’ ended Sir Lancelot gloomily.

  ‘To be heartlessly frank, none. Only a retrial–’

  The doorbell rang again. On the step this time I found Captain Spratt.

  ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he demanded at once.

  ‘Paying a call, sir,’ I replied, saluting automatically.

  ‘Where’s my brother?’

  ‘In the drawing-room. They both are, in fact.’

  The Captain burst in like one of those dinner-table hurricanes of his.

  ‘Lancelot! Alfie! M’dear chap, I was absolutely enraged by the reports in the evening papers. Hell’s teeth! The whole business is perfectly scandalous. I came as soon as possible to offer you whatever help it is in my power to give.’

  ‘That is extremely kind of you, George.’

  ‘If we stick together,’ agreed Alfie. ‘At least we shall be supported through the public clamour by each other’s companionship.’

  ‘A pity we have not enjoyed much of it while the years have been eating into our lives,’ added Sir Lancelot.

  I must say, it was quite a sight, the three Spratts together on the hearth-rug. It had the impressiveness of those old Victorian naval reviews.

  Captain Spratt took some snuff.

  ‘It is perhaps not quite the moment to announce another item of news,’ he said, glancing round quickly, ‘but I must confess I find it somewhat difficult to contain myself.’

  The brothers looked at him questioningly.

  ‘In short – Alfie, Lancelot – I have just got married.’

  ‘Married?’ we all exclaimed at once.

  ‘Yesterday morning.’ Captain Spratt gave a laugh. ‘Indeed, I am at this moment on my honeymoon. We are leaving for a voyage on the Capricorn Queen tomorrow afternoon. As passengers, naturally.’

  ‘But my dear George!’ Sir Lancelot looked confused. ‘My congratulations, of course. I can only assure you that Alfie and I are most anxious to meet our new sister-in-law–’

  ‘My wife is in the car outside. The young doctor might have the kindness to show her in.’

  Ophelia made a very pleasant impression all round.

  ‘You may also be surprised to hear that I am leaving the Capricorn Shipping Company,’ the Captain declared a few minutes later. ‘You know how I hate the sea? I shall be going into partnership with my wife in a modelling agency.’

  Sir Lancelot spilt his drink.

  ‘Modelling, did you say, George?’

  ‘Yes, I thought they were mad when the Company started taking my photograph months ago. But for some reason my face comes out like a school treat. Now the advertising wallahs have decided these homely features are just the ticket to persuade people to buy things – soap and corned beef and dog biscuits and so on. “Captain Spratt Recommends –” they’re going to put all over the place, God help ’em. Not that I care. The work’s easy and the money’s good. There’s another seafaring feller doing it already in New York, advertising ginger-pop. Now we must be going, my dear–’

  ‘Just one moment,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Yes, dar…doctor?’ said Ophelia.

  ‘I – I happened to hear about your marriage. Secret sources of information, you know. I thought I’d like to give you a little wedding present.’

  I unloaded Basil’s bracelet.

  There was naturally a good deal of cooing over the diamonds, and as we reached the front step the Captain drew me aside for a second.

  ‘By the way, doctor,’ he said quickly. ‘I know, of course, that both you and that other feller – what’s his name? the steward – were at one time both quite attached to my lady. I hope you will forgive me?’

  ‘Nothing to forgive. Jolly good luck to you, and lots of–’

  ‘That is not quite the point.’ Captain Spratt lowered his eyes. ‘I am conscious of it now – indeed, I may perhaps remain conscious of it for many years of my married life – that I have behaved towards you both as…as a bit of a cad. Good night!’

  Alfie left soon afterwards. I pocketed my cheque and prepared to leave, calculating how long it would keep me in my basement if I went easy on the first-class proteins.

  ‘There is just one thing, Grimsdyke.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Sir Lancelot stuck his hands under his coat tails then paced up and down for a moment in silence.

  ‘I have something rather painful to confess to you, my boy.’

  ‘To confess to me, sir?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Your appendix–’

  ‘Which jolly near did for me–’

  ‘On the contrary, Grimsdyke. I removed a perfectly normal organ.’

>   I gasped. ‘Normal, sir?’

  ‘I made a mistake in diagnosis. It has occurred before and will most certainly occur again. That is all there was to it.’

  ‘But what about all that frightful pain and symptoms–’

  ‘Entirely psychological. Like – er, Possett. Pseudo-appendicitis, very common among doctors and nurses, when undergoing periods of stress. I should have known better. However, it seemed best not to complicate your condition by informing you of the truth, so I concealed it. Indeed, I had a word with a psychiatrist before you recovered from the anaesthetic, and he urged me to withhold the news. He remembered from St Swithin’s that you – you will understand I am now speaking purely as your doctor? – that you had a rather weak personality. One too easily bent to the wills of others. I seem to recall he described you as “A psychological balloon.” I felt at the time it was better that you should not know.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir,’ I said slowly.

  I felt wretchedly disillusioned. And I’d helped him take those ruddy children to the Zoo, too.

  ‘Now I fear I have detained you long enough–’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Spratt here. Hello? Who? Oh, Potter-Phipps. How are you? Yes, of course I know Mr Justice Fishwick. That’s the one. I didn’t know he was one of yours… H’m… Indeed?… Sounds like a barn-door case to me. Generalised abdominal rigidity? Right. I’ll be straight over.’

  Sir Lancelot put down the telephone. He seemed to have suddenly cheered up no end.

  ‘Grimsdyke–’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I should be obliged if you would kindly telephone the St Swithin’s private block and tell them to prepare for a case of perforated peptic ulcer. You may inform the theatre staff that I shall be operating in one hour from now.’

  ‘I say, jolly good! That means a new trial – I mean, I’m frightfully sorry for the poor old judge–’

  Sir Lancelot smiled. ‘Then kindly ring my usual anaesthetist. You might ask him to remind me to explain to the patient exactly what I think is wrong with the feller before I get my knife in him. Which is more than the blasted man ever did to me.’

  Sir Lancelot won his case the following week before another judge, and looks extremely well in the robes of the President of the Royal College of Surgeons. Captain Spratt now chortles at everyone from their cornflake packets over breakfast. The Bishop, I hear, has been enquiring about the healthfulness of the air in Canterbury.