TWENTY-SIX

‘That, if I haven’t lost all my clinical acumen, is a man under stress.’

I could only agree, all the while reflecting that, being the man he was, my father must have been constantly surrounded by people under stress. Abruptly he cast the good headmaster into the wastepaper bin of oblivion, grasped my arm and insisted, ‘Come and look at the allotment.’

I risked a peek at my watch. ‘I really ought to get to the surgery.’

‘Come on. It won’t take long.’

‘I really haven’t got time . . .’

‘Rubbish. Patients expect the doctor to be running late; Hippocrates said it did them good.’

I sincerely doubted the accuracy of this assertion but I was distracted and did not reply. My eye had been caught by another little scenario that was being played out just beyond the school gateway. It involved the man who had just been giving it large to Mr Silsby; now he was being given it large by someone else, because yang inevitably follows yin. That in itself was interesting enough, but it was with whom he was once again in dispute that interested me.

It was Albert Stewart. This time, however, the dyspeptic globular teacher seemed to be on the receiving end, because to judge from the body language, Albert Stewart was an angry man, and making sure that his interlocutor knew it.

‘Come on,’ urged Dad, tugging at my arm, ‘I thought you said you were in a hurry.’

I looked away as he pulled me and protested, ‘Hang on a second.’ When I looked back, events had progressed. The teacher was sitting on the ground and Albert Stewart was striding away, clearly very angry about something. As I watched, with Dad making noises of consternation and impatience, the little man slowly stood up, apparently none the worse for his encounter. That wasn’t all, though. As I hurried to follow Dad, I caught sight of Mr Silsby through a window in the main school building. He, too, was staring at what had gone on between Albert Stewart and the angry little man; his face was fixed and, although I could be mistaken, it was very, very scared.

‘Lance,’ called my father. I was a hundred yards away and he, as is his wont, was impatient.

And so we went to see the vegetable garden.

It held a shock in store for us, for it had suffered grievously from dehydration, even though my father had only been absent for a few days. ‘Oh,’ he sighed, disappointment writ in large script all over his heavily bearded face.

If I had been given the use of only a single word to describe the vegetable garden, it would have to have been wilted. Nothing stood tall, with the exception of the weeds – ‘the devil’s houseplants’ as my father called them – and in one or two species, there seemed to be even more deterioration, so that a further word – dying – needed to be added. I looked at Dad. His eyes held more moisture than they should have done, although no tears had yet escaped. He sniffed and set his lips so that his cheeks puffed out. ‘They said they’d water it for me . . .’ he murmured.

I put my arm around his shoulders. ‘I’m sure they’re very busy, what with preparing for the start of a new school year and everything.’ He neither did nor said anything, just continued to stare. I went on, ‘And you said that David hasn’t been at school. That must have had an effect. I expect things just drifted, without anyone being around all the time.’

At last he reacted, taking a deep breath and nodding. ‘Yes, you’re right. This wouldn’t have happened if David had been around . . .’ His voice subsided then, ‘I wonder why Ada didn’t tell me.’

‘She presumably didn’t get over here to look at it. Too busy, I expect.’

‘But she said she had.’

Which was a tricky one to counter. ‘Maybe only from a distance?’

He looked at me for a brief moment before agreeing. ‘Yes, I expect that’s it.’ There was something in his voice that suggested to me that he was still puzzled.

About fifty per cent of the lettuces had gone to seed and their leaves were bordered in brown. The tomatoes, too, looked distinctly thirsty; Dad commented, ‘They’ll be thick-skinned now,’ and was clearly completely oblivious of the irony. The radishes – once such a prize exhibit – were severely affected, with not many destined to survive; the potatoes formed a flat, flaccid mat of foliage. Dad announced manfully, ‘I reckon we’ll be able to salvage a lot of things.’ His voice was that of a Napoleon following his Waterloo.

I had a sudden panic that by his use of the plural pronoun he had been referring not to the pupils, but to his one and only son.

‘Dad, I haven’t got the time.’

‘What?’ He was contemplating the distressing state of his spring onions and didn’t take in what I had said immediately. ‘Don’t be an imbecile, Lance. I know that. I’ll have a word with Mr Silsby and get some of the children to help out, the lazy little beggars.’ This, I noted, seemed to denote a subtle change in his attitude to the pupils of Bensham Manor School.

I made my goodbyes and left him. As I walked around to front entrance of the school, I noted with some relief that the way was clear for me to escape. I hurried to my car past the main front doors, got in and was making my way out when I caught sight of Mr Silsby; he was visible through one of the windows, presumably sitting at his desk in his office. He had his head in his hands, a picture of despair.

‘I’m really sorry, Dr Elliot, but there’s nothing I can do.’ As we were conversing by phone I couldn’t judge by anything more than the sound of her voice but Sergeant Abelson sounded genuinely sorry.

‘You know what he’s doing, don’t you?’

She hesitated. ‘As a policewoman, all I know is that Tristan Charlton had a drink in a public bar; as it was within licensing hours, he wasn’t drunk, he paid for his drink and he didn’t breach the peace, there’s nothing of interest to me. As a civilian and, I hope you won’t mind me saying your friend, yes, I know exactly what he’s doing.’

‘Well, then . . .’

‘Dr Elliot – Lance – I can’t do anything. Until he commits a crime, we can’t touch him.’

‘Don’t you have a commitment to prevent crime? Haven’t I heard something along those lines somewhere?’

‘And how much of its time does the medical profession spend preventing illness? Doesn’t it usually just attempt to treat it . . . especially if the patient goes private?’

Ouch. I thought it would be unproductive to enter into a political argument about means of medical provision. ‘But surely there’s something you can do,’ I pleaded. ‘You do believe me about Tristan, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. I’ve looked at his file. I read the medical report on your injuries.’ She sounded genuinely shocked. ‘He’s clearly done horrible things.’

‘Well, then . . .?’

‘Do I really have to give you a lecture on jurisprudence?’ she enquired, her tone leavened. She was right. Justice was blind; in the past Tristan could have slaughtered and tortured a million and it would have made no difference. The police needed evidence of what he was up to now.

‘No,’ I admitted.

‘The Inspector’s already made it plain that he thinks your allegations about Tristan Charlton are irrelevant and, to quote him, “hysterical”; he wants me to concentrate on the murders of the teachers.’

‘He’s wrong. He’s underestimating what Tristan is capable of.’

‘According to his doctors, he’s no longer a threat.’

‘They’re wrong, too.’

There was a pause before she said in no more than a soft whisper, as if she was afraid of being overheard, ‘I’ll do what I can.’