findings of the experts, as will the coroner. In the meantime, though, coincidence does exist. Judgment must be suspended, but investigation must not. Hence”—the inspector smiled—“the snooping. You do understand?”
Bruce resignedly lifted and let fall his hand.
“Very well. Is there anything you want to ask me now? I don’t want to be much longer getting over to the hospital, and I’ve some home visits I shall have to fit in.”
“I’ll be as brief as I can. Firstly, the cause of death. Do you want to say what you think it was?”
“Oh, a coronary. I don’t think there can be any doubt about that. He died extremely quickly, you know.”
“Obviously you wouldn’t have had time to make a detailed examination, but did you notice anything—anything at all—that seemed odd at the time, or has since struck you as being odd?”
Bruce pondered.
“Not a thing. The whole scene was exactly as one would have expected. He must have blacked out and gone full length.”
“But wouldn’t he have been sitting in his chair? Doctors never seem to get up when they’re being consulted by me.”
Bruce’s manner eased a fraction. “Perhaps you consult them about the wrong things. No, I imagine my partner was standing up in order to examine the McCreavy woman’s chest. She was half undressed when she ran out, you know.”
“According to Miss Sutton, he saw only three patients this evening. Yet she had quite a pile of cards. You must have dealt with far more than three in the same period.”
“Yes, that was the usual pattern.”
“You mean he was—what?—more leisurely in his dealings with patients?”
“If you like. Look—I’m the junior partner, he was the senior. Every practice works on the sound old principle that the junior’s share of the work shall equal the senior’s share of the income. What could be fairer?”
“What, indeed.” Purbright walked to the door and threw out the end of his cigarette. “In that case, I assume Dr Meadow tended to be selective. Did he deal primarily with those we might call his regulars?”
“Naturally.”
“Could you list them? In categories, I mean, not as individuals.”
“No difficulty about that. The paying patients. The socially desirable. And a few of the interestingly elderly.”
“Ah,” said Purbright, “it’s the old ones that I’ve been finding interesting lately. When I retire from the police force, perhaps I’ll take up geriatrics. Incidentally...”
Bruce watched Purbright search through a collection of pieces of paper he had taken from his pocket, select one, and thrust the rest back.
“Do you happen to know,” the inspector asked, “anything about a substance called”—he frowned at his note—“beta-aminotetrylglutarimide, God forgive us?”
“Where on earth did you get that one from?”
“It was mentioned during the inquest on Winge. I can’t vouch for my pronunciation. Nor for lawyer Scorpe’s.”
“Scorpe—he asked about it, did he?”
“Yes. He put it to Meadow.”
After a pause, Bruce said: “No, I don’t know what it is, but I suppose the old man’s family must have nosed around and found that Meadow had been prescribing it for Winge.”
“That was my impression.”
“I know those vultures. I smell a lawsuit.”
“So did Meadow, I think. He dragged in a red herring right away. He told Scorpe that Winge had been going against his advice and dosing himself with a herbal remedy called Samson’s Salad. You haven’t heard of
“Good God, no. What’s it supposed to do?”
“Impart the sexual virility of the Ancient Britons.”
Bruce took a little time to digest this promising specification. Then he said, half in wonder, half in pride:
“We don’t half have some goings-on in this little old town.”
“Don’t we?”
The inspector stood and buttoned his raincoat. At the door, he raised his hand.
“Ring me if you get any ideas.”
Chapter Fourteen
Miss Teatime paused at the little Georgian doorway that led to her rooms in the Church Close, and, while feeling for her key, looked up at the gothic wedding cake tiers of the great tower of St Laurence’s. That miraculous stone confection never failed to please her. She loved in particular its ever-changing response to weather and time of day. In the first light of morning, its buttresses, lancets and galleries had a metallic sharpness; they looked to be fashioned in pewter. Then, as the sky brightened, silver facets appeared. Summer noons turned the traceries to honeycomb. In storm, the tower was a monochrome of granite; in mist, a long brown sail, becalmed. As Miss
