The Flaxborough Crab

supply of his tablets had burst during the journey. All but one of the tablets had shaken down and been lost through a hole in his pocket.

“Fortunately,”—she took the envelope from her handbag—“there was, as I say, this one survivor. You will see that it is distinctive in shape and colour. I should be most grateful if you could identify it so that my uncle may go to a doctor here in Flaxborough and obtain a repeat prescription.”

The manager was by now pouting very disagreeably. He glanced into the envelope, nodded, sniffed.

“Oh, yes. I know what that is.”

“Splendid!” she said. “I was sure you would be able to help.”

“I said”—he handed back the envelope—“that I know what it is. I did not say that I could tell you.”

“Oh, but surely...”

“We are not allowed to divulge the names of drugs to members of the public. I’m sorry, madam. All I can suggest is that the gentleman consults a local doctor. Then, if the doctor cares to identify that tablet and to issue the appropriate prescription, we shall be pleased to dispense it.”

Miss Teatime had been looking at the manager’s tie. It was fastened in the tightest, most diminutive knot she had ever seen.

“You’ll appreciate that we cannot break the rules,” she heard him add. (Unctuous sod, you’d not break wind if you thought it might oblige somebody.)

“Naturally not. I shall tell the Dean what you advise.” She turned, paused, faced him again. “Oh, by the way...” She was looking her most demure.

“Yes, madam?”

“You will think this unforgivably inquisitive of me, but I do have a reason for asking. Tell me, in what year were you born?”

The irrelevance, the sheer impertinence of the question startled him so much that he answered it at once and without thinking.

“Nineteen thirty-six.” Then he scowled. “Why?”

Miss Teatime looked him up and down appraisingly.

“Nineteen thirty-six...ah, yes. Quite a year for unsuccessful abortions, they tell me.”

Chapter Twelve

Dr Meadow’s surgery was a compact, single-storeyed building at the end of a short path leading off from the main drive to his house. It had been a carriage-house and stables in the earlier days of his father’s practice. Where once had stood old Dr Ambrose Meadow’s high-wheeled gig, there was now a three-litre Lagonda. The rest of the building had been reconstructed to form two consulting rooms, a small dispensary and receptionist’s office, and a waiting-room with doors to the other three.

Miss Teatime arrived in the waiting-room a few minutes before six o’clock, which a printed notice on the wall proclaimed to be the time of evening surgery.

In her handbag was Mr Grope’s green octagon.

In her head, daintily inclined in greeting to the group of people who were already assembled, was a story about the mislaying of a prescription provided by her London specialist and her hope that Dr Meadow would be able to identify the last of her present supply of tablets and give her a fresh order.

Miss Teatime, beckoned by a pretty, auburn-haired girl in a white coat, who had appeared at the hatch of her small office, gave her name and a London address.

“Are you a new patient?” the receptionist asked.

“You could say that I am a visitor. I have not yet chosen a regular doctor in Flaxborough.”

“Do you want to see Dr Bruce or Dr Meadow?”

“Oh, Dr Meadow, I think. He is the senior partner?”

“That’s right.” The girl slipped the sheet of paper on which she had written Miss Teatime’s name and address beneath a pile of three or four cards.

Miss Teatime took a seat and began unobtrusively to observe her fellow patients and to speculate upon their ills. They, equally unobtrusively, did the same to her.

A buzzer sounded weakly and a little glass panel above one of the doors flickered red.

The receptionist glanced at her top card.

“Mr Leadbetter.”

She handed the card to a florid, thick-set man who had risen to his feet with an air of grim determination. He stomped to the consulting room door and shut it firmly behind him.

A man with a grievance, Miss Teatime diagnosed.

She listened. So did everyone else. All that reached them of Mr Leadbetter’s complaint was a prolonged muffled boom. Then came the gentle rise and fall of a sweetly reasoned remonstration by the golden-voiced Dr Meadow. More booming followed, but at a much reduced level and for a shorter time. Again the doctor’s persuasive lilt. A pause. The lilt once more, livelier this time and crested with amusement. The boom—now friendly, responsive to the joke. An outside door clicked shut. Silence.

Smooth, thought Miss Teatime. Very smooth. Perhaps she should have asked to see Dr Bruce instead.