For a few seconds, we stood, gazing into each other’s eyes, before she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my mouth close to hers.
‘I missed you too,’ she whispered.
A tentative brushing of the lips was followed by hungry, devouring kisses. Our passion was so intense it felt as if we were engaged in an act of mutual destruction.
Jane broke away and said breathlessly, ‘I’m on tomorrow – early . . .’
I nodded, acknowledging the implication. She would stay with me all night and sneak downstairs in the morning.
Once again she pulled me close, her mouth already opening. She raised her knee and the hem of her uniform travelled up her thigh, exposing the embroidered trim of a nylon stocking. I slid my hand around her waist and let it drop, its descent following the neat curve of her buttocks. Her leg twisted around my hip and our bodies became locked in a tight embrace. She tilted her head back and I rubbed my cheek against the taut skin of her neck. A sigh warmed my face as she shuddered with pleasure.
There was a loud thud, as if something, somewhere, had fallen to the floor. I felt a tremor through the soles of my feet. We stopped kissing and Jane said, ‘What was that?’
This distraction could not have come at a more inopportune moment.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Taking Jane’s hand, I led her to the bedroom, where I immediately recognized the cause of the noise: a pile of my books had toppled over and they were scattered near the wardrobe. I quickly tidied them up and returned my attention to Jane. Her presence in my shabby quarters was as miraculous as an angelic visitation, and I was momentarily paralysed by a sense of unreality. My incredulous stare was too prolonged and Jane’s expression became concerned, inquisitive. I apologized: ‘I’m sorry. I can’t quite believe that you’re here.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘Well, I am.’
Bending over, she turned off the lamp.
The curtains were drawn, but not touching, and the room was illuminated by a slither of moonlight. I discarded my dressing gown and attempted to remove my pyjamas so quickly that I almost tripped. Jane was less hurried. I got into bed and watched her draping items of clothing over the back of a chair. As she undressed she seemed to acquire more substance, her pale flesh being more reflective than her undergarments.
Jane slipped between the sheets and clambered on top of me. I gasped, surprised by the intensity of her heat. She perceived my imminence and stopped moving. ‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘please, not yet.’
After we had made love, talk seemed unnecessary – no endearments or declarations, confessions or confidences. We simply lay there, on the rumpled sheet, limbs intertwined, exchanging languid caresses. I inhaled Jane’s perfume and stroked her hair.
The murmuring sea cleansed my mind of all thoughts, and eventually I fell asleep.
I dreamt of a lighthouse, its beam passing over black waters: sluggish waves, with the consistency of crude oil. The sky was starless. With each sweep, the beam made a sound, harsh and industrial, like the noise of a blast furnace. When I woke up something of the dream seemed to persist, like an after-image, but it soon faded away. Its dissolution left me feeling inexplicably sad.
The room was still dark, apart from the moonlight entering between the parted curtains. I saw Jane pass in front of the window, her shadowy form moving across the luminous gap. She was obviously being considerate, trying very hard not to make any noise. ‘Darling?’ I said softly. But she did not reply. Again she blocked the moonlight. ‘Darling?’ I repeated, a little anxious, wondering if there was anything wrong.
It was at this point that Jane’s arm encircled my chest and I realized that it was not her standing at the end of the bed, but someone else.
My body tensed and my first thought was that one of the patients had escaped from the wards. Yet I had a distinct memory of having turned the key in the landing door. Had they picked the lock? None of the patients had criminal records, and I couldn’t imagine who (among the men or women) would do such a thing. I drew some consolation from the fact that, without exception, all were heavily sedated and therefore unlikely to be violent.
One anxiety was superseded by another. If the situation wasn’t handled with extreme care, Jane might very easily have Sister Jenkins to answer to. I could hardly count on a patient being discreet! A number of compromising scenarios played out in my mind.
I disentangled myself from Jane’s arms and legs and sat up.
‘Who are you?’ I asked, modulating my voice so that the patient would not be startled. The strip of moonlight reappeared, but I could not determine whether the movement had been to the left or right. ‘Don’t worry,’ I continued, ‘I’m not angry. Look, just stay where you are. I’m going to turn the lamp on.’
I found the switch. Even though the bulb was very dim, I had to squint and wait for my eyes to adapt.
There was no one in the room.
I jumped out of bed, put on my dressing gown, and searched along the hallway, in all of my rooms as well as those that were unoccupied. To my utter amazement, they were empty, and when I checked the landing door it was locked, just as I had remembered. I went to the toilet, relieved myself, and then returned to the bedroom where Jane was stirring.
‘What is it?’ she asked. Her hair was attractively tousled.
‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘Go back to sleep.’
I turned off the lamp and when I got back into bed Jane snuggled up against me and rested her head on my chest. Her hand fell casually between my legs. I tried to make sense of what had happened, and sought comfort in the reassuring intelligibility of science. There was a rational explanation: people frequently report seeing things soon after waking. The brain can continue dreaming, even though it is no longer asleep, and figments of the imagination will suddenly seem very real. This well-documented phenomenon is most likely to occur after intense excitement or emotion . . .
Yes
, I told myself.
That must be it
.
I was consoled by Jane’s warmth, her corporeality, the smoothness of her skin, the hard certainty of her bones. The world seemed solid once more – trustworthy, reliable. I abandoned my inner deliberations and went back to sleep.
On waking, I reached out for Jane but my hand met no resistance. She was gone. I opened my eyes and looked at the face of the alarm clock. It was six thirty and the room was suffused with the grey light of an indifferent dawn. I did not get up, but stretched my limbs and let my head fill with images of our lovemaking. Desire re-awakened and I hoped that it would not be very long before Jane came knocking on my door again. This state of lazy self-indulgence lasted until I remembered the phantom intruder. I had no cause to revise the explanation that I already favoured. Indeed, I was even minded to recall the technical term employed to describe such hallucinations. In textbooks they are commonly designated
hypnopompic
: from the Greek
hypnos
, meaning sleep, and
pompe
, meaning to send away. Still, something was troubling me, something unresolved, like a scruple or a niggling doubt.
I raised myself up and found my cigarettes. The first drag made me cough. I looked around the room and noticed the pile of books: the pile that had fallen over while Jane and I were kissing in the hallway. Now that I was at leisure to give the disturbance more detailed consideration, I couldn’t help but notice (with some attendant perplexity) the pile’s modest size. This was curious, because I remembered the thud produced by its collapse as having been extremely loud. The floorboards had actually vibrated. I got out of bed, crouched beside the pile and examined it closely. The brittle spines of two older volumes had cracked. It was damage that I had never noticed before. After a few seconds, I pushed the pile over. The books tumbled across the carpet and the noise they made was relatively muted.
It occurred to me that the method most likely to reproduce the effect of the previous evening would be to collect all the books together again and drop them from a great height. That – and that alone – would be sufficient to send a tremor through the floorboards.
I sat on the side of the bed, staring at the jumble of books, and when I had finished smoking my cigarette I lit another immediately after.
Maitland hadn’t got back to me concerning Hilda Wright and I found myself worrying about her. In the end, I decided that I should probably return to Rose Cottage – if only to ensure my own peace of mind. I explained the situation to Sister Jenkins, who was very understanding and who suggested that I might ask Mr Hartley to give me a lift: I could then accomplish the round trip in less than an hour. Hartley was amenable to my request and I was soon standing at Hilda Wright’s bedside conducting another examination. Fortunately, her condition had not deteriorated and I was able to offer some words of comfort to Mrs Baines. I knew, however, that I would be much happier once Hilda Wright was admitted onto the women’s ward and being regularly monitored by nurses.
The following afternoon I received a phone call from Maitland and he came straight to the point. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. The patient you assessed on Saturday – Hilda Wright – she died last night. Must have been the peritonitis.’
I was shocked: ‘How awful.’
‘Yes, a terrible shame.’
‘I went back to see her again only yesterday.’
‘Did you?’
‘Hartley was kind enough to give me a lift. She wasn’t very strong, but all the same . . .’ My sentence trailed off and I listened to the crackling of electricity in the earpiece.
‘Well, you never know where you stand with tuberculous peritonitis.’ Maitland’s tone was benign, supportive. ‘I’m sure you did everything you could.’
When Maitland arrived the next day, he invited me up to his office for tea and crumpets and asked me if I wouldn’t mind going to Hilda Wright’s funeral. Although I respected his wish to establish good community relations, I had only visited Hilda Wright twice, and I did not want to intrude upon the private grief of her family. Even so, I found it impossible to refuse him. ‘Oh, and one other thing,’ Maitland continued, ‘perhaps it would be a good idea to call the coroner? I’ve already had a word with him. There’s nothing to be concerned about, he’s a sensible chap.’
I did as I was instructed and the coroner proved to be exactly as Maitland had described: a practical, efficient and eminently reasonable man. After a short but considered discussion, he said, ‘If you are satisfied that the cause of death was tuberculous peritonitis then I will issue a death certificate without recommending an inquest.’
‘Yes,’ I responded, ‘I am quite satisfied.’
‘Dr Richardson,’ he said with polite distinction, ‘you have been most helpful.’
On the morning of the funeral, Hartley dropped me off outside St James’s Church in Dunwich and said that he would wait for me at the inn. The service was a modest affair, attended by only close relatives and a handful of villagers. After the burial I sought out Mrs Baines in order to offer her my condolences, which she accepted with earnest gratitude. She even invited me back to Rose Cottage for sandwiches, but I made my excuses and, after exchanging a few mannered words with the vicar, I discreetly exited the churchyard. Hartley’s car was parked close to the inn, but when I went inside I couldn’t find him anywhere. He had warned me that he might go for a short stroll along the beach, so I was not very surprised by his absence. The landlord recognized me and I ordered another pint of the same bitter I had enjoyed on my first visit.
‘Been to the funeral?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How did it go?’
‘All right I suppose.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking . . .’ He held the glass under the tap and it began to fill with dark liquid. ‘What did she die of?’
‘An illness called tuberculous peritonitis.’
He passed me my drink and I couldn’t help but notice the peculiarity of his expression. There was something suggestive about the cast of his features.
I tilted my head to one side, tacitly requesting clarification.
‘Is that so?’ he responded, ‘tuberculous peritonitis?’ This time I could detect a definite critical undertone.
‘Yes,’ I said, somewhat bemused. I had not expected him to challenge the accuracy of my diagnosis! ‘It is an inflammatory disease – and not
that
uncommon.’
He nodded and lit a cigarette.
‘I suppose the Bainses will be leaving Rose Cottage now, off to somewhere much grander.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, they won’t be short of a few bob. Not now.’
The landlord looked at me, eyebrows raised, as if willing me to draw some specific conclusion. Suddenly, I understood what he was implying. He observed my reaction with obvious satisfaction, smiled and added, ‘Something to consider, eh?’
I shook my head and feigning indifference replied, ‘I don’t think so.’ He was about to say something else, but I turned my back on him and walked away from the bar. I sat down and gazed into the fire. My frosty dismissal had been disingenuous, and by the time Mr Hartley appeared I was becoming quite concerned.
At our next meeting I discussed the matter with Maitland. ‘The symptoms of arsenical poisoning are easily confounded with tuberculous peritonitis and Mrs Baines always prepared the tube feed.’
Maitland stood and walked to the window. He rested his hand on a massive, antique globe, and then set it spinning. ‘My advice – for what it’s worth – is to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘But shouldn’t I speak to the coroner again?’
‘If there’s an inquiry, you might be asked some problematic questions.’ There was an uncomfortable silence and I loosened my collar. I was expecting some sort of reprimand, but instead Maitland continued in a much lighter voice: ‘This landlord of yours said nothing consequential. He made a few oblique insinuations, that’s all. You know what people who live in villages like Dunwich are like, how parochial they can be, how small-minded – and how fond they are of idle gossip.’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘That’s very true.’ I felt as though I had exposed a flaw in my character, a fragile seam of gullibility.