never thought to interfere in the first place. “Damnation,” he said out loud before throwing back the whisky. How he envied people who could tell right from wrong so easily. Oh for a black and white world instead of the universal greyness that was his. He got up and ran a bath. Too much quiet could be a bad thing.
Saracen decided on a suit and tie for his visit to Timothy Archer; he needed all the props of social nicety to tell the man what he had to. As he straightened his tie in the mirror he wondered how Archer would take the news. He had had time to get over his initial grief but there were more factors to consider than might otherwise be the case. His wife’s death had come at a time of great upheaval and disorientation for them both for they had just given up what had been their life for twenty years in order to come back to Skelmore. That in itself must have been a considerable strain. True, Skelmore had once been home to Archer but twenty years is a long time and seeing gaps where familiar buildings used to stand could not have been comforting. In strange surroundings and with nothing familiar to cling to the tide of grief could come perilously high.
When Saracen turned off the engine in the residents’ car park at Palmer’s Green he was struck by how quiet it was. It was only seven thirty in the evening and the weather was fine but there were no children’s voices to be heard, no sound of balls bouncing on concrete, no jangling bicycle bells. Only the sound of singing birds disturbed the monastic quiet. He got out and walked across the spotless courtyard to the double glazed front doors where he had to wait for the caretaker to open them.
As he waited he smiled at his own naivete. Of course there would be no sounds of children at Palmer’s Green. The apartments here cost the earth. No young families could possibly afford them. They were the prerogative of the well heeled and, in Skelmore, which automatically meant the elderly.
The doors slid back and Saracen approached the hall desk. “I’d like to see Mr Archer.”
“Is Mr Archer expecting you sir?”
“No.”
“What name please?”
“Dr Saracen.”
“One moment.”
The man picked up a green telephone and Saracen turned away, unwilling to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation however mundane. He casually examined the large mosaic that occupied an entire wall in the entrance area and recognised Greek helmets, spears and rocks that appeared to have elephants’ trunks protruding from them. Leaning his head first to the right and then to the left he still failed to establish an overall theme and gave up with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
“Mr Archer will see you sir. Flat number fourteen.” said the caretaker.
Saracen followed the direction of the man’s outstretched finger and made his way to Archer’s apartment. He knocked gently on the door and it was opened almost immediately. “Come in Doctor. It’s good to see you.”
Saracen noticed that Archer’s tan had faded a good deal since the last time they had met and his hair was more unkempt than it had been. An open bottle of whisky stood on a small table by the armchair, a half filled glass beside it.
“Can I fix you one?” asked Archer nodding to the bottle. Saracen agreed and Archer poured a generous measure into a tumbler. “Anything in it?”
“A little water.”
Archer went to the kitchen to fetch the water giving Saracen time to appraise his surroundings. There was an impersonal, almost hotel like ambience, about the place with no books, ornaments, photographs or letters lying around. Through an open door he could see a suitcase lying open on the floor and half full of clothes. He guessed that time had been standing still for Archer.
Archer returned and said, “I’d like to think that this is a social visit Doctor but maybe not?”
“It’s about your wife,” Saracen began tentatively. “There are some things I think you should know.”
When Saracen had finished Archer sat forward in his chair and cradled his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” said Saracen softly.
Archer shook his head and said, “Plague? My wife died of plague?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But that died out centuries ago,” protested Archer.
“In Britain but it’s endemic in some areas of the world including parts of Africa.”
“But I haven’t got it!”
“No,” agreed Saracen. “But did your wife leave to come to Britain directly?”
Archer shook his head. “No, she went around the country visiting some of our old friends for a week or so before she left, saying good-bye, that sort of thing.”
Saracen nodded and said, “Well somewhere along the line she must have come into contact with an infected source.”
Archer shivered and rubbed his arms briskly. “God, it’s cold in here,” he said and got up. He went over to the heating controls on the wall and fiddled with the dials before complaining that it was no use, the place was always cold.
Saracen smiled and sympathised. He was relieved that his task was over and Garten had taken it well. “Have you any idea what you will do now?” he asked Archer.
“I thought I might take one of these sea cruises, get some sun, new places, new faces, start picking up the pieces.”
“Good idea,” said Saracen.
“But not just yet,” said Archer. “First I’m going to spend the summer here in Skelmore. I’m going to do all the things Myra and I said we’d do if we came back.”
Saracen smiled and nodded. He put down his empty tumbler and got to his feet. Archer got up with him and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming; thank you for telling me.”
There were two police cars parked outside his apartment when Saracen got back. One was a marked Panda car the other a large, black saloon, its identity only betrayed by its communications aerial. There was a third car parked well behind the police vehicles and Saracen thought that he recognised it. As he got nearer the BMA sticker on the windscreen confirmed it; the car belonged to Martin Saithe.
Saracen entered the building and met his would-be guests coming back down the stairs. Saithe was at their head and saw Saracen. “Ah, James, there you are.”
Saracen was rather taken aback at Saithe addressing him as James. It inferred a familiarity that had never existed between them.
“James, this is Superintendent Carradyce. We were wondering if we might have a word.”
“Of course,” replied Saracen. He led the way back up the stairs and invited his visitors inside. The fixed smile on Carradyce’s face and Saithe’s false manner told Saracen that they wanted something from him. He wondered what.
Carradyce and Saithe sat down facing Saracen and the policeman said, “It’s about this awful business with Dr Garten sir.”
“I thought I’d told the police all I could about that Superintendent,” said Saracen.
“A tragedy, an absolute tragedy,” said Saithe as if he were auditioning for the National Theatre, thought Saracen.
“You were very helpful sir,” said Carradyce, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “It’s just that I’m sure we would all like to minimise the after effects of this tragic affair. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Minimise?” said Saracen unhelpfully.
Saithe leaned forward solicitously and said, “We do realise of course that it must have been very unnerving for you James.”
Saracen had never seen Saithe pretend to be nice to anyone before. It had all the fascination of watching an unnatural act. “But?” he said.
“Mildred was very upset at the time James and the aftermath for the poor woman, well that doesn’t bear thinking about. She has lost everything, absolutely everything…”
So that was it, thought Saracen. Matthew Glendale had been pulling strings to get his daughter off the hook
