The Flaxborough Crab

though he had just discovered there the fugitive conscience of Dr Meadow.

“You have, ah, told the court...” he began, slowly.

“Mr Scorpe...”

It was the deputy coroner speaking.

“Mr Scorpe, I do not have to remind you, of course, that while you are entitled to ask the witness questions, those questions must be simple requests for relevant information. You must not cross-examine. This is not a court of law.”

“If you please.” Scorpe bowed with exaggerated humility, then stood for a while nibbling the sidepieces of his occular ordnance.

Suddenly he directed at Meadow a broad, conciliatory smile.

“You have always enjoyed, doctor, have you not, the full confidence and warm appreciation of the Winge family?”

Meadow tried not to look surprised. “Why, yes, I believe that to be so.”

“And in treating my late client, whose death we all deplore, you invariably employed the full extent of your professional knowledge and skill...” Aloft went Mr Scorpe’s glasses to forestall reply. “No, no, doctor—I require no confirmation. That was a statement, not a question. A statement of known fact.” Mr Scorpe glanced sternly at the deputy coroner, then smiled once more upon Dr Meadow.

“Would you not agree, doctor,” he went on, “that the family of my late client has offered no objection at any time to the course of treatment you saw fit to prescribe for Alderman Winge?”

“No objection. Not at any time, Mr Scorpe.”

“Of course not!” Scorpe again treated the deputy coroner to a glance of contempt. Dr Thompson scowled back, then ostentatiously consulted his watch.

A piece of paper had appeared in Mr Scorpe’s hand. He resumed his fond contemplation of Dr Meadow.

“They did not object—they had, indeed, no known reason to object—to your prescribing a substance named”—Scorpe peered at the paper—“beta-aminotetrylglutarimide?”

There was a moment’s silence, perhaps in tribute to Mr Scorpe’s feat of pronunciation, then Dr Meadow said carefully:

“I am not in the habit of consulting my patients’ relatives, but, as you rightly say, there was no reason why they should have objected. Laymen have no business either to approve or disapprove the prescription of drugs. They know nothing about them.”

“The medical profession, on the other hand, knows all about them?”

“I personally make no claim to omniscience.”

“Not in regard to, ah...beta-aminotetrylglutarimide?”

“It is a carefully tested and widely approved preparation.”

“How carefully tested, doctor?”

For the first time, Dr Meadow’s bearing of dignified condescension showed signs of disturbance. He turned to the deputy coroner.

“I really cannot submit to this line of questioning on medical matters by a lay advocate. It is most improper.”

Dr Thompson, who had been enjoying the exchange between Meadow and Scorpe, made a non-committal pout.

“If Mr Scorpe,” added Dr Meadow, “is intent upon attaching sinister significance to every pill and powder taken by a man who has had the misfortune to fall into a reservoir, I suggest he looks into his late client’s devotion to self-medication.”

The solicitor made a gesture of huge reasonableness.

“By all means, doctor. Provided, of course, I am so invited by the learned coroner.”

Dr Thompson frowned. The description smacked of irony—but so did all descriptions in the mouth of the impossible Mr Scorpe.

“What had you in mind, doctor?” he asked, quietly.

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Winge indulged in quack remedies. I advised against them, naturally, but he tended to be headstrong in these matters.”

“Quack remedies?”

“Yes. Herbs—that sort of thing. His latest addiction, if I am not mistaken, was to something he called ‘Samson’s Salad’. He obtained supplies of it by mail order. Looked like compost.”

Purbright heard behind him a hoarse, indignant whispering. He looked round. Old Mrs Crunkinghorn was protesting about something or other to her neighbour, Fireman Hackett.

“May we have quiet, please!” commanded the deputy coroner, feeling by now thoroughly authoritative and ready to slap an odd witness or two into gaol for contempt if he got half a chance.

The disturbance died. Dr Thompson returned his attention to Dr Meadow.

“ ‘Samson’s Salad’, did you say, doctor? How very odd. Still, it is scarcely within the scope of this inquiry to speculate on the hypothetical effects of some hearsay vegetable. If Mr Scorpe has exhausted his catechism, I don’t think we need detain you any longer from your practice.”