The Wench Is Dead

evening) of the bed diagonally opposite.

When he'd first been wheeled into the ward, Morse had noticed the man who occupied that bed – a proud- looking man, in his late seventies, perhaps, with an Indian Army moustache, and a thin thatch of pure-white hair. At that moment of entry, for a second or two, the old warrior's watery-pale eyes had settled on Morse's face, seeming almost to convey, same faint message of hope and comradeship. And indeed the dying old man would certainly have wished the new patient well, had he been able to articulate his intent; but the rampaging septicaemia which had sent a bright-pink suffusion to his waxen cheeks had taken from him all the power of speech.

It was 5.20 a.m. when the houseman emerged from behind the curtains; 5.30 a.m. when the swiftly summoned porters had wheeled the dead man away. And when, exactly half an hour later, the full lights flickered on in the ward, the curtains round the bed of the late Colonel Wilfrid Deniston, OBE, MC, were standing open, in their normal way, to reveal the newly laundered sheets, with the changed blankets professionally mitred at the foot. Had Morse known how the late Colonel could not abide a chord of Wagner he would have been somewhat aggrieved; yet had he known how the Colonel had committed to memory virtually the whole poetic opus of A. E. Housman, he would have been most gratified.

At 6.45 a.m. Morse was aware of considerable activity the immediate environs of the ward, although initially could see no physical evidence of it: voices, clinking of crockery, squeaking of ill-oiled wheels – and finally Violet, a happily countenanced and considerably overweight West Indian woman hove into view pushing a tea-trolley. This was the occasion, clearly, for a pre-dawn beverage, and Morse welcomed it! For the first time in the past fey days he was conscious of a positive appetite for and drink; and already, and with envy, he had surveyed the jugs of water and bottles of squash that stood on the bedside tables of his fellow-patients, though for some reason not on the table of the man immediately opposite, one Walter Greenaway, above whose bed there hung a rectangular plaque bearing the sad little legend NIL BY MOUTH.

‘Tea or coffee, Mr Greenaway?'

‘I'll just settle for a large gin-and-tonic, if that's all right by you.'

'Ice and lemon?'

'No ice, thank you: it spoils the gin.'

Violet moved away massively to the next bed, leaving Mr Greenaway sans ice, sans everything. Yet the perky sixty-odd-year-old appeared far from mortified by his exclusion from the proceedings, and winked happily across at Morse.

'All right, chief?'

'On the mend,' said Morse cautiously.

'Huh! That's exactly what the old Colonel used to say: 'On the mend'. Poor old boy!'

'I see,' said Morse, with some unease.

After Greenaway's eyes had unclouded from their appropriate respect for the departed Colonel, Morse continued the dialogue.

'No tea for you, then?'

Greenaway shook his head. 'They know best, though, don't they?'

'They do?'

'Wonderful – the doctors here! And the nurses!'

Morse nodded, hoping indeed that it might be so.

'Same trouble as me?' enquired Greenaway confidentially.

'Pardon?'

'Stomach, is it?'

'Ulcer – so they say.'

'Mine's perforated!' Greenaway proclaimed this fact with a certain grim pride and satisfaction, as though a combination of the worst of disorders with the best of physicians was a cause for considerable congratulation. 'They're operating on me at ten o'clock – that's why I'm not allowed a drink, see?'

'Oh!' For a few seconds Morse found himself almost wishing he could put in some counter-claim for a whole gutful of mighty ulcers that were not only perforated but pierced and punctured into the bargain. A more important matter, however, was now demanding his attention, for Violet had effected a U-turn and was (at last!) beside his bed.

She greeted her new charge with a cheerful grin. 'Morning, Mr, er' (consulting the Biro'd letters on the name- tab) 'Mr Morse!'

'Good morning!' replied Morse. 'I'll have some coffee, please – two spoonfuls of sugar.'

'My, my! Two-sugars!' Violet's eyes almost soared out of their whitened sockets towards the ceiling; then she turned to share the private joke with the grinning Greenaway.

‘Now, look you here!' (reverting to Morse): 'You can't have no coffee nor no tea nor no sugar neither. Oh right?' She wagged a brown forefinger at a point somewhere above the bed; and twisting his neck Morse could see, behind his saline apparatus, a rectangular plaque bearing the sad little legend NIL BY MOUTH.

Chapter Three

Flowers, writing materials, and books are always welcome gifts for patients; but if you wish to bring food or drink, do ask the Sister, and she will tell you what is advisable

(Oxford Health Authority, Handbook for Patients and Visitors)

Detective Sergeant Lewis came into the ward just after seven o'clock that Sunday evening, clutching a Sainsbury carrier-bag with the air of a slightly guilty man walking through the Customs' shed; and at the sight of his old partner, Morse felt very glad, and just a little lachrymose.

'How come you knew I was here?'

'I'm a detective, sir – remember?'

'They phoned you, I suppose.'

'The Super. He said you sounded awful poorly when he rang yesterday morning. So he sent Dixon round, but you'd just been carried off in the ambulance. So he rang me and said I might like to see if the NHS is still up to scratch – see if you wanted anything.'

'Something like a bottle of Scotch, you mean?'

Lewis ignored the pleasantry: I'd've come in last night, but they said you weren't to have any visitors – only close relatives.'

‘I’ll have you know I'm not quite your 'Orphan Annie', Lewis. I've got a great-aunt up in Alnwick somewhere.'

'Bit of a long way for her to come, sir.'

'Especially at ninety-seven’

'Not a bad fellow, Strange, is he?' suggested Lewis, after a slightly awkward little pause.

'Not when you get to know him, I suppose,' admitted Morse.

'Would you say you've got to know him?'

Morse shook his head.

'Well?' said Lewis briskly. 'How are things? What do they say's the trouble?'

‘Trouble? No trouble! It's just a case of mistaken identity.'

Lewis grinned. 'Seriously, though?'

'Seriously? Well they've put me on some great big round white pills that cost a couple of quid a time, so the – nurses say. Do you realize you can get a very decent little bottle of claret for that price?'

'What about the food – is that all right?'

'Food? What food? Except for the pills they haven't given me a thing.'

'No drink, either?'

'Are you trying to set back my medical progress, Lewis?'