TWENTY-FIVE
“BUT HOW IS SHE?” I asked. “Fenella, I mean—really?”
“She’ll do,” said Dr. Darby.
We were motoring home to Bishop’s Lacey, the doctor’s Morris humming happily along between the hedgerows like a sewing machine on holiday.
“Fractured skull,” he went on when I said nothing. “Depressed occipital condylar fracture, as we quacks call it. Has quite a ring to it, doesn’t it? Thanks to you, we were able to get her into the operating room in time to elevate the broken bit without too much trouble. I think she’ll likely make a full recovery, but we shall have to wait and see. Are you all right?”
He hadn’t missed the fact that I was sucking in great deep breaths of the morning air, in an attempt to clear my system of cigarette smoke and the horrid odors of the hospital. The formalin of the morgue hadn’t been too bad—quite enjoyable, in fact—but the reek of cabbage soup from the kitchen had been enough to gag a hyena.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, with what I’m afraid was rather a wan smile.
“Your father will be very proud of you—” he went on.
“Oh, please don’t tell him! Promise you won’t!”
The doctor shot me a quizzical glance.
“It’s just that he already has so much to worry about—”
As I have said, Father’s financial distress was no secret in Bishop’s Lacey, particularly to his friends, of whom Dr. Darby was one. (The vicar was the other.)
“I understand,” the doctor said. “Then he shall not hear it from me.
“Still,” he added with a chuckle, “the news is bound to get about, you know.”
I could think of nothing but to change the subject.
“I’m rather puzzled about something,” I said. “The police took Fenella’s granddaughter, Porcelain, to see her in the hospital. She claims Fenella told her it was me who bashed her on the head.”
“And did you?” the doctor asked slyly.
“Later,” I said, ignoring his teasing, “the vicar told me that he, too, had paid a visit, but that Fenella had not yet regained consciousness. Which of them was telling the truth?”
“The vicar is a dear man,” Dr. Darby said. “A very dear man. He brings me flowers from his garden now and then to brighten up my surgery. But if cornered, I would have to admit that sometimes, on the wards, we are forced to tell him fibs. Little lies in little white jackets. For the good of the patient, of course. I’m sure you understand.”
If there was one thing in the world that I understood above all others, it was withholding selected snippets of the truth. It would not be an exaggeration to say that I was an Exalted Grand Master of the craft.
I nodded my head modestly. “He is very devoted to his work,” I said.
“As it happens, I was present when both the granddaughter and the vicar came to the hospital. Although the vicar didn’t get as far as her room, Mrs. Faa was fully conscious at the time of his visit.”
“And Porcelain?”
“At the time of Porcelain’s visit, she was not. The victims of skull fracture, you see, can slip in and out of consciousness as easily as you and I move from one room to another—an interesting phenomenon when you come right down to it.”
But I was hardly listening. Porcelain had lied to me.
The witch!
There’s nothing that a liar hates more than finding that another liar has lied to them.
“But why would she blame it on me?”
The words must have slipped out. I’d had no intention of thinking aloud.
“Ah,” said Dr. Darby. “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Meaning that people can behave strangely in times of great stress. She’s a complicated young woman, your friend Porcelain.”
“She’s no friend of mine!” I said rather abruptly.
“You took her in and fed her,” Dr. Darby said with an amused look. “Or perhaps I misunderstood.”
“I felt sorry for her.”
“Ah. No more than sorry?”
“I wanted to like her.”
“Aha! Why?”
The answer, of course, was that I was hoping to make a friend, but I could hardly admit that.
“We always want to love the recipients of our charity,” the doctor said, negotiating a sharp bend in the road with a surprising demonstration of steering skill, “but it is not necessary. Indeed, it is sometimes not possible.”
Suddenly I found myself wanting to confide in this gentle man—to tell him everything. But I could not.
The best thing for it when you feel tears coming on for no reason at all is to change the subject.
“Have you ever heard of the Red Bull?”
“The Red Bull?” he asked, swerving to avoid a terrier that had dashed out barking into the road. “Which Red Bull did you have in mind?”
“Is there more than one?”
“There are many. The Red Bull at St. Elfrieda’s is the first that comes to mind.”
A smile crept over his face, as if he was recalling a cozy evening of darts and a couple of pleasant pints of half-and-half.
“And?”
“Well, let me see … there was the Red Bull on a Green Field, from Kim, which was the god of nine hundred devils … the Red Bull of the Borgias, which was a flag, and was on a field of gold, not green … the notorious Red Bull playhouse that burned in the Great Fire of London in 1666 … there was the mythical Red Bull of England that met the Black Bull of Scotland in a fight to the death … and, of course, in the days when priests practiced medicine, they used to hand out the hair of a red bull as a cure for epilepsy. Have I missed any?”
Not one of these seemed likely to be the Red Bull that had attacked Fenella.
“Why do you ask?” he said, seeing my obvious puzzlement.
“Oh, no reason,” I said. “It was just something I heard somewhere … the wireless, perhaps.”
I could see that he didn’t believe me, but he was gentleman enough not to press.
“Here’s St. Tancred’s,” I said. “You can let me off at the churchyard.”
“Ah,” said Dr. Darby, applying the Morris’s brakes. “Time for a spot of prayer?”
“Something like that,” I said.