Omally left a note for the Professor, thanking him for sanctuary and promising to return by breakfast with the book, and set off across Brentford to catch a 65.
There were no police cars outside Mrs Bryant’s. But why should there have been? The chances were that the lady wouldn’t even be there. She would be staying with a relative for the night, or might possibly be under sedation in a hospital bed.
John went round to the back and knocked gently at the kitchen door. No answer. Should he force the lock? Omally, not by nature one to dither, dithered.
Come back later, was that the best? No, he was here now, do it.
John turned the handle and gave the door a shove.
It opened before him.
Magic.
John slipped inside, closed the door behind him and strode over to the reproduction olde worlde table. Jim’s book was not on it.
“Damn!” said John.
“Eeeeek!” screamed Mrs Bryant, who’d been coming down the hall.
“Oh, sorry.” John put out his hands to catch her as she swooned away. He helped her to a kitchen chair and poured a glass of water.
“I thought you were a burglar, John.”
“I’m so sorry. I wanted to see if I could do anything to help. Sip this.”
“Thank you. I’m all right. It was a terrible shock, though.”
“It was certainly that.”
“But one must look on the bright side.”
“Yes, I’m sure one must.”
“It was the way he would have wanted to go.”
“It was?”
“To die like the King.”
“The who?”
“Not The Who, the King.”
“I’m sorry,” said John. “You’ve lost me here.”
“The King,” said Mrs Bryant. “Elvis. Jack died like Elvis.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose he did. What did he die of, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“A massive haemorrhage. He was straining too hard and something burst.”
A small but clear alarm bell rang in John Omally’s head. The image of the defunct Jack Bryant would probably never leave him. Every detail was indelibly etched. But if Jack Bryant had died while taking a dump, then he, John Omally, was a clog-dancing Dutchman. For one thing, although Jack may have been seated on the toilet, the lid was down. And for another, unlike Mr Compton-Cummings, Jack Bryant had died with his trousers up.
“How very strange,” said John.
Mrs Bryant sniffed and sipped her water. “According to the duty physician it’s quite common, just not the kind of thing people like to talk about. They always say ‘he died peacefully in his sleep’.”
“Yes, I suppose they would. Now is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, thank you. My brother’s coming down from Orton Goldhay. He’ll sort out the funeral arrangements. I may move back up there.”
“I’ll miss you,” said John.
“And I shall worry about you. Get yourself a good woman, John. Sort your life out.”
“I’ll try.” John Omally kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Oh, just one thing,” he said. “Can I have that history book back? I left it here on the table.”
“History book?” Mrs Bryant stiffened. “It’s hardly a history book, is it? What is sacofricosis anyway?”
“You really wouldn’t want to know.”
“No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
“So, can I have it back?”
“Well, you could,” said Mrs Bryant, “but I’m afraid I don’t have it any more.”
“What?”
“I must have left it in the waiting room at the Cottage Hospital.”
When John left Mrs Bryant’s he caught the 8.15 bus. Bill got thrown off again for fondling a schoolgirl and a lady in a straw hat told John all about her husband, who had once sprayed deodorant on his beard and gone to a fancy dress party as an armpit.
Omally got off at the Cottage Hospital. More bad thoughts were now being sucked into the black vortex in his head.
A very pretty nurse stood at the reception desk.
“Good morning, ms,” said John. “I wonder if you might help me?”
“Are you ill?”
“No. My name is,” John paused, “John Bryant.”
“Oh yes? How’s Fergie doing?”
“Sorry, I don’t quite understand.”
“Sorry, it just slipped out.” The nurse gave a Sid James chuckle.
John made a mental note to return at a later date and ask her out. “My brother was brought here last night,” he said. “Jack Bryant. He died.”
“Oh yes, Mr Bryant. Tragic way to go.”
“But just like the King.”
“I thought the king said ‘bugger Bognor’ and died in his bed.”
“I wonder if I might have a word with the doctor who was on duty at the time.”
“I’m afraid not,” said the nurse. “He’s not here at the moment, and I can’t give out any information at all.”
“I see. It was Dr Pooley, wasn’t it?”
“Dr Malone.”
“Ah yes, old Jim Malone.”
“Dr Steven Malone.”
“Of course. Does he still live in Hanwell?”
“No, he lives in Brentford now.”
“That’s right, in Mafeking Avenue.”
“In Kether House on the Butts Estate.”
“Won’t be the same chap, then. I’m sorry you couldn’t help me. Oh, just one other thing: my sister-in-law left a book of mine in the waiting room. Brentford: A Study of its People and History.”
“Oh, that book,” said the nurse, giving out with another Sid James.
Oh dear, thought John. “Might I have it back?”
“The doctor on duty took it home with him.”
Dr Steven Malone was enjoying his breakfast. He was also enjoying Jim’s book. “Well, well, well,” he went, as he munched on kedgeree and swallowed orange juice. “Whoever would have thought it? Whoever would have thought that a Brentford corner shopkeeper would be the first man to wade across the Channel?” He turned another page and glanced at a photograph. “And whoever would have thought that?”
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came a knock-knock-knocking.
Dr Malone got up and answered the door. Upon the step stood John Omally, notebook and biro in hand.
“Dr Malone?” he asked. “Dr Steven Malone?”
“I am he.”
Omally viewed the monochrome medic. “Has anyone ever told you that you bear an uncanny resemblance to…”
