TWENTY-SIX
It was dark by the time the ambulance dropped them off and a reception committee had formed in the doorway of the transfusion tent. It wasn’t a happy band; the frown lines on their faces were cast as deep crevices by the glow of two hurricane lamps. There was Major Torrance, Caspar Myles, Sister Spence comforting a red-eyed Miss Pippery and Robinson de Griffon.
The moment Mrs Gregson stepped down from the ambulance, Miss Pippery rushed over and hugged her before bursting into sobs.
A Jack Russell tied to one of the tent posts gave two yaps, before de Griffon gave it a sharp rebuke. He then turned and saluted Watson. ‘Good to see you again so soon, sir,’ he said.
Before Watson could answer, Myles crashed in. His words were heavy with aggression and rancour. ‘What did you put in that damned blood of yours, Watson?’
Watson turned towards Myles, not certain he had heard correctly. ‘I beg your pardon, Doctor?’
‘The blood was bad, Watson. Damned bad.’
Torrance tutted at the impertinence then barked: ‘Gentlemen, if you would give Major Watson time to draw breath—’
‘Which is more than poor Shipobottom will ever do,’ Myles muttered.
‘Shipobottom?’ Watson asked. ‘Shipobottom’s dead?’
‘I am afraid so,’ said de Griffon glumly. ‘I rode over to tell the men the news, that we were being taken back up the line and . . . well, yes he died.’
‘And in the most awful way imaginable,’ added Myles.
Part of him wanted to rush inside at once, but Watson tried to remain calm and professional. ‘May I see the body?’
‘I think you should,’ said Torrance, for once lowering his voice.
The group shuffled aside and allowed Watson to enter. Brindle had been moved. There was but one bed occupied but the figure in there was unrecognizable. It was all Watson could do to stop from crying out at the sight of poor Shipobottom. There were deep scratches on his cheeks, where the poor chap’s nails had raked the skin and torn at the bandages that had covered his eye. The upper chest also showed breaks in the skin. The hands were folded and locked like claws on his chest, and had been tied together with crepe bandages, presumably to try and stop him attacking his face and throat further.
All that was bad enough, but it was his facial expression that was most remarkable and disturbing. The eyes bulged, the skin around the face was tinged with blue and the tongue lolled from a mouth that had been drawn back into a demented grin. Poor Shipobottom looked like some grotesque poster advertising a circus freak show. It made Watson’s stomach turn just to look at him.
‘How long has he been dead?’ Watson asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘Several hours,’ honked Torrance.
‘And the facial muscles haven’t relaxed at all?’
‘Does it look like it?’ demanded Myles. ‘He’s a damned gargoyle in flesh. Look at him, man.’
‘I am looking,’ snapped Watson, his weariness making him irritable. ‘In fact, I’d like some time to examine the body in private.’
‘So you can come to some other conclusion other than you fed this man poisoned blood,’ Myles suggested.
‘We don’t know that,’ objected Torrance, albeit without much conviction.
‘Will somebody please tell me the sequence of events? Miss Pippery, can you help?’ asked Watson.
The VAD gave an enormous sniff and nodded. Mrs Gregson squeezed her hand to steady her nerves. ‘I was monitoring the patient, the way we agreed, when Captain de Griffon—’
‘Hold on. Is that de Griffon as in the Norfolk de Griffons?’ Mrs Gregson asked.
Watson felt another flash of irritation at the unnecessary interruption. Mrs Gregson had no sense of decorum or timing.
The young captain gave an ingratiating smile. ‘It is. Do you know—’
‘I know all about the de Griffons,’ Mrs Gregson muttered, ‘enough to not want to share a room with one.’ With a final pat on Miss Pippery’s shoulder, she left the tent. De Griffon looked perplexed.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Sister Spence, mouth pinched in fury, went after the VAD.
Watson, although puzzled by Mrs Gregson’s behaviour, did not want to be distracted. ‘Please continue, Miss Pippery.’
‘Well, Captain de Griffon arrived to look in on the sergeant.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘Two o’clock,’ said Miss Pippery. ‘Perhaps a little later.’
‘And when did the patient first display symptoms?’ Watson asked.
‘He already had a fever by that point. I was quite concerned about it,’ she said.
‘And then . . . ?’ Watson prompted.
‘He began fitting,’ said de Griffon. ‘Quite badly.’
Miss Pippery nodded. ‘Tonic-clonic seizures, about ten minutes apart. I sent for Dr Myles at once, of course.’
The American jumped in. ‘When I arrived his pulse rate was 145 and wild. He was beginning to show signs of the cyanosis. I gave him oxygen. But nothing worked. It took him four hours to die.’
Watson examined their faces. De Griffon looked numb and Miss
Pippery terrified that everything was somehow her fault.
They could hear raised voices from outside. Sister Spence and Mrs Gregson were going at it hammer and tongs. It was difficult to establish which of them had the upper hand. It sounded positively gladiatorial.
‘Do you think,’ asked Torrance evenly, ‘that it could be contamination of your stored blood? Or perhaps the method of anticoagulation? Sodium citrate is toxic.’
‘Not like this,’ said Watson, pointing at Shipobottom’s twisted visage. ‘And not at the dilutions we use. Nought point two of one per cent in this case.’
‘Could the dilutions have been wrong?’ It was Sister Spence, returned to the tent, her face flushed. ‘It has been known in inexperienced hands for a point two per cent to become two per cent or even twenty per cent solution.’
Sister was clearly suggesting that the VADs had somehow compromised the transfusion process. Watson was having none of that. ‘I prepared the anticoagulant. I have absolute confidence the dosage was correct. Besides, all an excess dose does is inhibit clotting. If he had haemorrhaged to death . . .’
‘Well, something caused this . . . this horror,’ said Myles.
De Griffon kept a steadier tone. ‘I’m no medical man, but could it be something contagious? I am concerned for my other men. They’ll be in very close proximity once we move back to the front.’
It was a good point and the three doctors looked at each other for an opinion. There was a contagious division, a series of three isolation tents in the old orchard, accessed by an avenue of trees that ran through the monastery gardens, where TB and typhoid cases were sent.
‘I think that’s unlikely,’ said Watson.
‘But you can’t be sure?’ de Griffon asked.
‘Not until I have examined him, no.’
‘I think we had better isolate this tent, just in case,’ said Torrance gloomily. ‘And keep an eye on anyone who has come into contact with the deceased. We should seal the body in a canvas bag.’
‘I’d still like to examine him thoroughly before any of that,’ said Watson. ‘Alone, if you don’t mind. I shall, of course, report my findings back to you.’
‘If you have any findings,’ muttered Myles.
‘Very well,’ said Torrance. ‘But for the moment, Major Watson, I shall have to suspend any further blood transfusions using your method. We shall return to patient-to-patient direct infusion where necessary.’
‘Of course.’ Watson began to unbutton his jacket. ‘Did anyone think to take a blood sample for analysis?’ He waited for an answer from Myles or Torrance. None came. ‘No? Very well.’
The others left for other duties, leaving only de Griffon and Watson alongside the deceased.
‘I’m sure it’s not your fault, Major,’ the captain said.
Watson shrugged. ‘At this stage, it is best not to rule out any possibility.’
‘And the American doctor—’
‘Dr Myles.’
‘Yes. I simply think he feels wretched because he couldn’t save him. It was a pretty ghastly sight to be honest. You come expecting to see some terrible things at the front, but not at a hospital, surely?’
They peered at the cyanotic face and the hideous grin. Myles had been right about one thing: it was an expression one only normally saw high up on church walls. Watson gave an involuntary shudder. ‘No. Not at a hospital,’ he said. ‘If you will excuse me, I have to get along. Unless you want to stay and . . . ?’
De Griffon gave a little smile. ‘I think I shall leave this to a professional. The 25th are scattered across the reserve lines at the moment. If I’m not at regimental HQ, I’ll be with the 9th Platoon of A Company, billeted at Suffolk Farm. That’s Shipobottom’s company. We’re there for the next few days. Perhaps you could send word of any results to myself or my lieutenant? Metcalf. The men, they’ll want to know. Shipobottom was well liked by them.’
‘And by me,’ Watson said glumly.
‘Yes. And, of course, I shall have to write to his next of kin. It will be useful to know the cause of his death. Well, good night, Major. And good luck getting to the bottom of this dreadful business.’
‘Good night, Captain.’
Watson stood for a few minutes, looking at the corpse, waiting for the phantom voice in his head to proffer an opinion, a strategy, even a little comfort, but none came. You are on your own, he told himself, as it should be. This is your field of expertise now. No more ghosts.
It felt like freedom.
‘Major Watson.’
He turned to see Mrs Gregson, looking contrite. ‘I’m sorry for my behaviour. I have apologized to Captain de Griffon. Sister Spence was right. I brought my personal feelings into a medical area. No nurse should ever do that. No self-respecting VAD either, as she reminded me. I have agreed with Sister Spence that I shall go back to Bailleul tomorrow.’
‘What on earth was the matter? Do you know the captain?’
‘The captain? No. His family. And only by reputation. The de Griffons were . . . are mill owners in and around Leigh, although they are not from those parts. They live down south in some big pile. Absentee landlords, you might say. My father, when he was a young solicitor, acted for the first union s in the mills. I can’t say the de Griffons were model employers or enlightened in their attitude to organized labour. They broke several strikes at the mill most brutally. Bullied the organizers and worse. Of course, that was before the captain’s time. But in my household the de Griffons were a byword for unnecessary cruelty.’
‘I don’t see much evidence of that in Robinson de Griffon. He seems genuinely concerned for his men.’
‘No, I agree, he seems decent enough. I might have been hasty in my judgement. And not for the first time.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Can I assist you here, Major?’ she asked, unhooking a lamp from the doorway and bringing it across to increase the illumination over the corpse.
‘Aren’t you tired after today’s exertions, Mrs Gregson?’ The strain of the last twelve hours had drawn her features; the harsh lamplight made her look older than her years. Although, he admitted, she had a very attractive middle age in prospect.
‘Aren’t you?’
He nodded. By the same token, he must look like Methuselah. ‘I am weary, yes. And I have an unexpected craving for a glass of Beaune. But there is work to be done here.’
‘Then we shall do it together.’
‘Thank you.’ He retrieved the magnifying glass from his jacket. ‘Perhaps you will hold the lantern close to the body while I go over every inch of this poor chap and see what he can reveal to us.’
‘Of course.’
He stood back and contemplated the twisted body once more. The agonies of his demise were etched in his features. That in itself was passing strange: muscles usually relaxed after death. No, always relaxed. Even the most tortured final hours normally give way to an impression of being at rest or peace that brought some comfort to the bereaved. Not here. The savage contractions had denied poor Shipobottom that kind of dignity. Nobody looking upon him could have any doubt about the grim manner of his passage from this life.
‘You know, Mrs Gregson, I didn’t want to say in front of the others, for it might have sounded too defensive, but I do believe I have seen these symptoms before.’
Her answer, low and fearful, made him shiver once more. ‘Dear Lord. I’m relieved to hear it. Because so have I, Major Watson. So have I.’