5

When the waiter had served our drinks as though presenting a humble petition to royalty, Grimsdyke looked over his shoulder, lowered his voice, and asked: ‘Have you heard of Monica Fairchild?’

‘What, the actress? Of course I have.’

‘She lives here, too. Damn great suite on the top floor, like the National Gallery. With an entourage consisting at the moment of one husband and one secretary.’

‘And she’s one of your patients?’ I said, looking at him with greater respect.

He nodded.

‘I’d better start by explaining that she’s a rather difficult one. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that I’ve met some pretty difficult women in my time, but I’d rather face Boadicea in her chariot any day.’

He broke off as a thin man in rimless glasses glanced into the bar.

‘Good evening, Mr McGlew,’ said Grimsdyke politely. ‘And how is the oesophagheal dysfunction this evening?’

‘OK, Doc.,’ grunted the man. ‘Just looking for the wife.’

‘That’s Mr Harry McGlew,’ Grimsdyke explained, as he withdrew. ‘He made fifty million dollars from canned pork and has to live on boiled fish. Serves him right, if you’ve ever tasted the stuff. Did you notice the technical terms, by the way? Very keen on them, the Americans. I have a hell of a job keeping one disease ahead of the patients, though reading up the medical section of Time helps no end. But I digress.

‘I first made the acquaintance of Miss Fairchild,’ he continued, ‘at two o’clock in the morning, when I was summoned by the young woman who’s her secretary with the news that the great actress was dying. And when I reached the bedside I damn well thought she was. She looked absolutely on her last legs, and was crying hoarsely for people to summon her mother and her agent. Then I took another look, found temperature and pulse were all right, and after puzzling it out a bit I suddenly remembered that she’s currently playing Desdemona at the Old Vic, much to the appreciation of press and public. Do you see the point, old lad? It was all part of the act.

‘I think all actresses are a bit potty,’ Grimsdyke declared warmly. ‘And I’ve known a few of them in my time. Not in the Fairchild class, of course – most of mine were eking it out with a bit of chorus work in the provinces. Now, I don’t really believe Miss Fairchild was creating for the hell of it. She just felt like death, as most of us do from time to time, and thought that was the way you went about it. Actually, she was constipated.’

‘At least, she’s an interesting patient,’ I murmured consolingly.

‘Again, yes and no. The Fairchild is not only a shocking hypochondriac, but she’s somewhat imperious. I suppose when a thousand or so people clap you to the echo night in and night out you begin to get the inkling you’re someone pretty damn important. As soon as she discovered that she wasn’t in fact dying, she demanded, “Who is this mere boy at my bedside? Bring me a proper physician.” Annoyed me a bit at first, until I realised that it was really Lady Macbeth speaking. After that we got on rather better. She even took a fancy to me, in a distant sort of way. The only snag came when I wanted to examine her. Wouldn’t let me inspect her chest at any price. If I want to have a look at her sternal region, it seems I’ll have to wait until she’s in Restoration comedy.’

At that moment we were again interrupted, by the appearance of a rather plain girl of about nineteen with pony-tail hair, tartan trews, and upswept glasses and an upswept bosom.

‘Ah, there you are, Dr Grimsdyke. I have a message for you.’ Her voice dropped reverently. ‘From Miss Fairchild. She wishes to see you when she returns this evening.’

‘Right-ho. I’ll be waiting on the mat,’ said Grimsdyke submissively. ‘About what time?’

‘Not before one-thirty. Miss Fairchild is going to a supper party at Les Ambassadeurs.’

‘And how’s her second bottle of medicine going along?’

‘It doesn’t seem to taste at all like the first one, Dr Grimsdyke.’

‘Oh, come come. The same prescription and all that. Perhaps Miss Fairchild’s been eating something first – onions, or so on?’

‘It is always I who tastes Miss Fairchild’s medicines, Dr Grimsdyke. Will you kindly send another prescription to her suite at once? And Miss Fairchild never eats onions.’

‘You see the situation?’ asked Grimsdyke as the girl left us. ‘That’s the secretary, of course. Absolutely under old Fairchild’s thumb. And what’s more, seems to revel in it. She’s a psychologically negative personality, just the same as the husband. He’s a rather nasty chap with Charing Cross Road hair, who spends his time trotting meekly after his illustrious missus helping her out of her minks and into her Rolls. What a life! But it brings me right to my point. Listen, old lad–’

He glanced round the bar again.

‘You’re sound on your professional secrecy, I suppose?’

‘Of course I am!’

‘Forgive my asking, but it’s absolutely essential that not a word of this leaks out. Even to other members of the trade.’ He dropped his voice further. ‘I have reason to suspect that Miss Monica Fairchild is in the family way.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Really? That’ll be very interesting for everyone.’

‘It certainly will be. If she is. After that bloomer on the high seas I’m not going to be caught a second time, believe me. Oh, no! That’s why I wanted a consultation with you, with your up-to-the-minute experience of the condition.’

‘What are her symptoms?’ I asked.

After he had described them I agreed, ‘It certainly sounds suspiciously like it.’

‘Exactly, old lad. The question is, what’s the next move?’

‘Wouldn’t it be simplest if you just sent her along to one of the high-powered gynae. boys in Harley Street?’

‘That’s the snag,’ Grimsdyke explained, with a worried look. ‘You can’t imagine how tricky it is dealing with La Fairchild. Why, I daren’t even raise the subject. Oh, I know all about the doctor-patient relationship and so on. But none of the rules apply to this particular one. There’d be a tremendous fuss, to start with. And if I was wrong… Well, they wouldn’t need a doctor, they’d need a lion-tamer.’

‘Then if you want to make the diagnosis discreetly, why not fall back on our mutual friend the xenopus frog?’ I suggested.

He looked puzzled. ‘The what frog, old lad? I never was very hot on my midder and gynae.’

‘It’s the standard test,’ I explained. ‘All you do is acquire what is known generally to the public as “a specimen.” You send the bottle to the clever chaps in the path. lab., and by applying it to one of these unfortunate frogs they can tell in a few hours whether the patient is or isn’t. It’s all a matter of excreted hormones. Of course, it has to be a xenopus frog, which is also known as the xenopus laevis, or South African clawed toad–’

Grimsdyke jumped up.

‘My dear chap, what a magnificent idea! I can easily get her to provide me with a specimen, without saying what it’s for. Then I’ll send it to the lab. and have the answer in my pocket with no one the wiser. That makes life ever so much simpler. I’ll be eternally grateful to you.’

‘Only too glad to help,’ I said modestly.

‘Look here, let me express my thanks in more useful form. Why don’t you and Nikki come down to dinner one evening? Don’t worry, it’ll all come off the old expense sheet,’ he added, as I hesitated. ‘We can all three of us have an absolutely slap-up beano, completely buckshee. Yes, I’ll get the chef to start laying it on straight away.’ He rubbed his hands enthusiastically. ‘Great chum of mine, the old chef, now I treat his chronic indigestion.’

‘It’s certainly very decent of you, Grim,’ I told him appreciatively. ‘I’m sure Nikki would like to come very much.’

‘It’s the least I can do, old lad. Though I’m afraid you’ll have to dress up a bit,’ he apologised. ‘I have to change into a dinner jacket at nightfall, like a ruddy television announcer. Let’s make it Wednesday fortnight.’

With strong feelings of mutual helpfulness, we parted.

‘I’d simply love to go to the Arundel,’ said Nikki, when I got home that night. ‘It’ll be quite a treat, particularly as we haven’t been out for ages.’

‘And particularly as it won’t cost us a bean.’

‘I shall need a new dress, of course, darling.’

‘New dress? But what about that new black one you’re so fond of?’

‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly wear that at the Arundel.’

‘Then I suppose I’d better get my dinner-jacket cleaned,’ I grumbled. ‘It’s still wearing the battle scars of the last St Swithin’s reunion.’

‘Yes, it will be nice going out,’ repeated Nikki. ‘While I’m still fit to appear in public.’