The only regret I had as far as Henry was concerned was that although he’d confided in me about some things – the love-hate relationship he had with his mother and the frustrations of still living with her, the grief his hard-nosed father had given him when Henry was a young boy, this followed by further grief from a subsequent stepfather who had taken the place of his natural father when the latter had kneeled over and died from a heart attack at the age of forty-eight, the time he’d fled from the school playground because of bullying and had wandered the streets in the pouring rain so that he’d caught pneumonia and nearly died – he never once touched on his own homosexuality and the problems denial had caused him (I mean denial regarding his friends here, not self-denial: as far as we were concerned the closet was firmly padlocked and not even Ida, who freely admitted her lesbianism, had managed to find Henry’s key). I found his reticence odd, especially in these enlightened times when homosexuality was accepted more and more as a life-choice (or, more accurately, a life-directive), and also because his preference was so obvious to those who knew him. Pocketbook Freud maybe, but I’d always surmised that the relationship with his mother and her old-school, die-hard, attitude towards what she considered deviant behaviour was the root of the problem: he hated to appear less than perfect in her bigoted old eyes. I also got the feeling that in keeping the true nature of his sexuality from his mother, he was in some way keeping it from himself; in refuting the reality, there was no reason to act upon it. Of course, this meant ignoring emotions and passions as well, so it was little wonder that beneath the exterior of prissy and acerbic coolness, Henry was pretty screwed up.
‘Dis? I said has someone upset you?’
‘Uh, no, Henry. Just a bad night.’
Who was holding back now? Should I let him in on the whole thing, perhaps allow a voice of sanity into the debate, or would my bookkeeper merely think I’d finally flipped? Wasn’t I playing the same game as Henry, denial leading to self-denial? Whatever, I decided my friend and associate wasn’t quite ready for this yet, and neither was I: I was too vulnerable at that time to risk his derision.
Henry’s expression told me he wasn’t convinced by my explanation, but he shrugged his shoulders. He swung back to face his desk and opened up an accounts book.
‘No movie question this morning?’ I asked to get the daily challenge over with and out of the way.
‘I was too busy last night to give it any thought,’ he replied distractedly, his brain already engaged in figures and balances.
‘All work and no play, Henry,’ I warned.
‘You’re a fine one to talk.’ His voice was distant, because by now he was already in his other world where truth was in facts and nothing else. A clear world for clear thinkers. How lucky he was.
I left him to it, going into my office and closing the door behind me. I needed to think and now, before the daily grind began, was a good time. Later, when the working day for others had commenced, I would ring Dr Leonard K. Wisbeech, MD, FRCS, FRCOG, FRCP, DCH at PERFECT REST, for I was determined to visit Hildegarde Vogel again, no matter what her condition. My mind was going off on another track now, you see, wondering if the ‘desperate message’ contained in the nightmare (real or otherwise) was, in fact, a warning about the frail old ex-midwife. Was she the one that was really in danger?
The ringing of the phone startled me in the quietness of my office and I stared at the receiver for a few minutes before picking it up. I suspected Louise Broomfield was the caller, checking up on me again, and possibly with some outrageous new idea as to the relevance of last night’s little episode. I was wrong though, it wasn’t her.
‘Mr Dismas?’
I drew in a breath. ‘Constance?’
‘Yes, it’s Constance Bell . . . from PERFECT REST.’
You don’t need to tell me that, Constance. I said: ‘I was hoping to come over today.’ Butterflies in my stomach? Well, something was fluttering around in there.
‘I know. That’s why I’m calling you.’
She sounded fraught and I suddenly had a cold, ominous feeling. ‘What is it, Constance? Is it something to do with Hildegarde?’
‘How . . . how did you know?’
I closed my good eye and allowed a slow breath to escape me. ‘What’s happened to her?’
‘I’m afraid . . .’ She seemed lost for words.
‘Is she dead?’
There was a short silence before Constance replied. ‘She died during the night.’
Why wasn’t I surprised?
‘Mr Dismas?’
‘Please call me Dis. Or Nick. Call me Nick.’
‘Nick.’ Despite the gravity of her message, I felt a touch of warmth when I heard her say my name. ‘Hildegarde passed away during the night,’ Constance went on. ‘We found her early this morning in one of the corridors.’
‘She’d left her bed?’
‘She often did. We often used to find her roaming the home until her illness worsened and incapacitated her almost entirely.’
‘But not recently?’
‘Not in the last couple of years.’
‘Had she fallen, is that what killed her?’
‘We’re not sure at this stage. Dr Wisbeech thinks her heart just stopped beating.’
‘A heart attack?’
‘It seems likely. Inability to breathe correctly or confusion in unfamiliar surroundings may have induced a panic attack. In recent years her heart has been very weak.’
‘I’m sorry, Constance. I know you liked the old lady.’
‘I’m not sure that I did.’
Another surprise for me, but I let it go. ‘How could she have left her room? Surely you have night staff to check on your patients from time to time?’
‘Of course we do, but generally it’s just one person, with others on standby. Unfortunately, the nurse can’t be expected to be everywhere at once.’
It wasn’t a rebuke, nor even a defence; it was more a deep regret over the situation. But a brittleness in her voice conveyed something even more to me: I sensed a slight anger and, inexplicably, a kind of dread also. It worried me.
‘Look, I’d still like to come over there,’ I said. ‘Maybe I could see you, we could talk.’
‘You mustn’t!’
I was startled yet again, almost flinching from the telephone. It was the insistence rather than the shout that alarmed me. ‘I need some questions answered,’ I said, recovering quickly. ‘If Hildegarde can no longer answer them, then perhaps you can. Or I could talk to Dr Wisbeech.’
‘Nick, please don’t.’ The dread was more evident in her voice now. I felt her desperation when she said: ‘Let me come and see you. Tonight, I could meet you tonight.’
‘But I can easily get over there. It might be easier for you . . .’
I hadn’t meant to patronize, but she cut me short. ‘I have my own specially adapted car and I’m an adequate driver.’
‘I didn’t mean – ’
‘I know you didn’t. Please, let’s do it my way, Nick.’
‘What’s wrong, Constance? What the hell is going on at PERFECT REST?’
‘Nothing. Honestly, nothing.’
‘Then why are you so afraid?’
‘I don’t understand. What makes you think I am?’
Intuition? Years of experience dealing with all kinds of folk, discerning all kinds of nuances? An unspoken connection between the two of us? ‘It’s just a feeling,’ I said.
There was no reply.
‘Constance?’
A further pause, and then: ‘Yes?’
‘Okay, look. Do you want to come here, to the office?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather come to your home.’
Mind? Oh Lord, that sounded good to me even though I was mystified. ‘I’d still like to talk to Dr Wisbeech again, though. There are questions that maybe only he can answer.’
‘You can put them to me, Nick.’
‘I’m really not sure you’ll have the answers.
Tell me something, how long have you known the Doctor?’
‘Why do you ask?’
What was so difficult about the question? ‘Just curious, Constance.’
‘I’ve been employed at the home for many years.’
‘But did you know him before that?’
She seemed uncomfortable. ‘Leonard was a family friend. He knew my parents when they were alive.’
‘They’re both dead? God, I’m sorry, Constance, I didn’t know.’
‘Why should you have known? It happened a long time ago, so the worst of the grieving is over for me. They died in a motoring accident eleven years ago – the other driver was drunk. He paid the price though – a five hundred pounds fine and an eighteen months’ driving ban. It seems he was not entirely to blame for the crash.’ Her bitterness was apparent, but she didn’t dwell on it now. ‘Dr Wisbeech took me in. He was wonderful to me, Nick. He paid for my education as well as my upkeep, financed the operations I’ve had over the years and then for my training as a nurse and care-supervisor.’
‘He sounds like a good man.’
She took my comment at face value. ‘I have to go. Arrangements have to be made about poor Hildegarde, our other residents have to be reassured . . .’
‘Wait, can’t you talk to me a little longer?’
‘I think I can hear Nurse Fletcher calling me.’
I couldn’t understand her urgency to end the call. Was she worried she’d be overheard?
‘You’ll see me tonight?’
‘I’ll be there, but I only have your office address.’
I quickly gave her the location of my flat and rough directions on how to get there once she reached Brighton. I heard another muffled voice from the earpiece, one that I vaguely recognized as belonging to the senior nurse-cum-administrator I’d met during my first visit to PERFECT REST.
Without another word, Constance rang off, but it was another minute before I replaced my own receiver.
The next call actually was from Louise Broomfield. She was checking on me, anxious to know if I was all right, that I’d recovered from my nasty experience. I assured her I was fine, the shock had worn off, the memory already blunted, and she wondered what my intentions were now. I told her I wasn’t sure.
‘Dis,’ she said, her voice taking on an even more serious tone if that were possible, so that I guessed I was in for another warning. ‘You must be careful. I sense terrible danger and somehow it’s all connected to Shelly’s missing son.’
‘You were wrong about last night.’ I felt no satisfaction in correcting her. ‘It wasn’t me at risk, it was Hildegarde Vogel, our little sparrow. She died at the nursing home last night.’
I caught the small gasp.
‘Look,’ I added, ‘she was old and infirm. I don’t think you can read anything into her death.’
‘Are you sure, Dis, are you really sure? You don’t see these visions you’ve been having as premonitions?’
‘They’re too crazy for that. Surely I would have seen some sense to them if they were.’
‘They led you to Hildegarde Vogel.’
I couldn’t argue with that.
‘Are you going to drop the case again?’ the clairvoyant persisted.
‘I told you, I don’t know. Something tells me that this Dr Wisbeech and Shelly’s missing baby are linked, so maybe I’ll do some more digging.’ For some reason, I felt disinclined to mention Constance Bell’s forthcoming visit that evening.
‘But you don’t know why or how.’
‘It’s partly instinct. The other part – and I’ll admit it’s kind of flimsy – is that Wisbeech has a stack of qualifications behind him. One, an FRCOG, means that he’s a qualified obstetrician and gynaecologist.’
‘What does that tell you?’
‘It tells me he used to have something to do with pregnancy and births. Yesterday I got information from the BMA regarding his other medical specialities. FRCS – Fellow Royal College of Surgeons; FRCP – Fellow Royal College of Physicians, which apparently encompasses treatment of geriatrics; DCH – Diploma in Child Health. Wisbeech is somewhat over-qualified to run an upmarket old folks’ nursing home, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ was Louise’s response.
‘I’m not sure myself. But those capabilities are far-ranging and I’m wondering how they led his career in the direction of caring for the elderly. Maybe that’s where the money is these days, with the majority of the population living longer than ever before. I’d like to find out where he got the money to finance such a Grade A establishment in the beginning even if the house itself belonged to his family.’ Or maybe I just didn’t like the man and it would give me great satisfaction to rake up some dirt on him. It was a mean and petty motive and I don’t think I really believed in it myself; certainly it wasn’t worth mentioning to the clairvoyant.
‘Oh dear,’ I heard Louise say, ‘this seems to be becoming more than I expected.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s routine stuff to me.’ Routine? Broken mirrors, illusionary wings – well, you know the list, so no point in reiterating. There was nothing routine about this business.
‘You will take care, won’t you, Dis? I’ve told you this before, but from the moment we first met I sensed that there is something depleted about your aura . . .’
‘Don’t do this to me, Louise. I don’t want to get into that kind of stuff.’
‘Whether you do or don’t, it doesn’t change things. I’ve never met anyone like you before, I’ve never had such a feeling of . . . of . . .’ She let out what I took to be an exasperated breath. ‘I can’t put a finger on it, it’s something I’ve never before encountered.’
‘I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel special or not.’
‘Don’t joke with me, Dis.’
‘Who said I’m joking? I’m giving off bad vibes, is that it?’
‘Not exactly. I told you, I can’t explain.’
‘All right, so I’ll just have to live with it. Thanks a heap, Louise, you’ve really helped my mood.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – ’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you know if anything develops with this Wisbeech thing.’
‘Dis – ’
‘Goodbye, Louise.’
I brooded for the next ten minutes after I rang off.
Next, I made a call. It was to the Prince Albert Hospital in Hackney.
I already knew that their employment records would not go further back than ten years, but I hoped to speak to someone who had worked there for much longer. And for once, I was in luck: the woman I spoke to was from the hospital’s personnel office and she had been around the place for quite some time.
‘Oh yes, nearly thirty years since I joined Prince Albert,’ she told me, evidently with some satisfaction.
‘Then you might remember Hildegarde Vogel. She was a midwife there, probably in the late Seventies.’
‘Vogel?’ There was a pause. ‘Hildegarde . . . ? No, I’m afraid I don’t recall. The name sounds familiar though. So many staff have come and gone in my time, as you might imagine. Vogel . . . Well, the name definitely rings a bell. Foreign, was she?’
‘German.’
‘Unfortunately, we don’t keep records for more – ’
‘Yes, I know. It was just a chance you might remember.’
‘Can you tell me what this is in regard to?’
I explained that I was a PI trying to trace a missing person whom Ms Vogel might know. I didn’t say it was okay that she didn’t remember Hildegarde, that I was more interested in someone else right then. ‘You don’t remember,’ I ventured, ‘a doctor by the name of Wisbeech being there around the same time, do you?’
‘Wisbeech. Wisbeech, Wisbeech, Wisbeech. Oh yes, of course I do. What woman would forget such a distinguished and charming man. But no, he wasn’t a resident doctor.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Dr Wisbeech was a c
onsultant. Oh, how the nurses used to fancy him. Had film-star looks, that man. I took a shine to him myself, as I remember. Of course, that was over twenty years ago. Is he still handsome? I hope you’re not going to tell me he’s died since.’
‘No, he’s still alive and well. Tell me, did he have a practice nearby?’
She gave a short laugh. ‘In Hackney? Oh no. I think his rooms were in Harley Street or Wimpole Street, one or the other. No, Dr Wisbeech was more like a roving consultant – he used to visit hospitals all over the country as I understood it. Always brought in when a difficult birth was expected. I’ve never been on that side of things, so I don’t know why precisely. He was a very well-respected man, I do remember that. But if you do need to contact him, I should contact the BMA, dear. They’re bound to know where he is nowadays. Retired, I’d imagine. Has that been of any help to you? I do like to be helpful.’
‘You’ve been terrific,’ I assured her. And I meant it.
Most of the rest of the day was filled with the normal business of running an enquiry agency and we all shared the workload, although the heavy-duty paperwork and client contact was left to myself and Henry. It was around 4.30pm that I received the call from Dr Leonard K. Wisbeech.