The Convivial Codfish (18 page)

“If I could find an empty bed, you’d better believe I’d crawl into it,” the nurse replied. “Oh well, I expect they’ll be letting some of us go home pretty soon. We do have Red Cross emergency personnel coming in to take up the slack, and things are beginning to quiet down. They’ve even released some of the patients.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Let’s see. A list just came around.” She fished through the papers on the desk and found it. “Thomas Tolbathy. He’s the man who gave the party, right?”

“That’s right. Tolbathy wasn’t very sick, was he? He told me back at the train that he’d only tasted the caviar.”

“I think it was mostly shock and nervous upset in his case. No wonder, poor guy. I’d hate to be in his shoes right now.”

“How’s his wife?”

“Still guarded. And the brother was DOA, of course. I expect you know about that.”

“I ought to. I was one of the guys who found him.”

Max decided he’d better toss the nurse a nugget or two of gossip himself, if he wanted to keep her talking. She wouldn’t be so chatty about her patients, no doubt, if she weren’t so exhausted herself. Perhaps she felt that his having been at the party gave him some kind of special status. He pushed his luck.

“What about the official cause of Wouter Tolbathy’s death? Has it been announced yet?”

“Fractured trachea. Really freaky.” The nurse rubbed the back of her left hand across her eyes. “I think I need another cup of coffee. Care to join me?”

“Sure, if it’s not against the rules.”

“It’s okay if I say so. I’m floor nurse, I think. We’re all so beat by now we don’t know who’s what.”

She led him into a small kitchen where a glass coffee maker was keeping hot on an electric plate, poured out two mugfuls, helped herself to milk and a great deal of sugar. “How do you want yours?”

“Black for me, please.”

Max took his mug and sat down beside her on one of the stools pulled up to a plastic laminated counter. The coffee tasted better than he’d thought it would, or perhaps he’d needed it more than he’d realized. He let the nurse get a few sips into her before he asked another question.

“Who else has been released?”

“Ellen Oliphant, Jessica Puffer.” Names that meant nothing to Max. “Quent Durward. We read a book about him at school. Different one, I suppose. Donald Dork. What a name! Here’s another, Nehemiah Billingsgate. Abigail Billingsgate. His wife, I imagine. Edward Ashbroom. Obed Ogham.”

“Ogham? When did they let him go?”

“Early this morning. About half-past eight, I think. None too soon, in my opinion. Oops, are you a friend of his?”

“Is anybody?”

The nurse laughed and choked on her coffee. “Not around here,” she managed to say after Max had kindly slapped her on the back. “I can’t remember when we’ve had a worse pest on the floor. When they brought him up, he was moaning and carrying on as if he was ready for the last rites. Half an hour later, he acted like one of those jerky get-well cards where the patient’s ripping the pants off every nurse who comes within grabbing reach. Would you believe he even tried to put the moves on me?”

She must have been at least fifty and no doubt somebody’s mother. “I told him to keep his hands to himself or I’d bop him with a full urinal.”

“Too bad you didn’t,” said Max. “Was Ogham really poisoned? I saw him being sick back at the train, but I thought it might have been from the liquor. He’d had an awful lot to drink. Do you know whether each patient’s stomach contents were analyzed separately after they’d been pumped out?”

“I couldn’t say for sure, but I’m inclined to think not. We were really swamped, as I said. Anyway, once the diagnosis had been made there was nothing we could do but treat them symptomatically regardless of how much or how little poison they’d swallowed. There wouldn’t have been much point in doing a separate quantitative analysis on each patient. I mean, they’re either going to get better or—”

“Sure I understand,” Max said quickly. “I just wondered. Did you take care of Ashbroom?”

“No, he wasn’t on my floor. We had Mr. Durward, though. He was a character. We couldn’t make him out. One time you’d go into his room and he’d be nice as pie. The next time, he’d act as if he didn’t know you were there.”

“He probably didn’t. My wife’s uncle claims he’s legally blind and too vain to admit it. Did Durward talk much about what happened? When he talked at all, I mean.”

“Oh yes. He asked about Mr. Ogham and Mr. Dork, I remember. He said they’d been talking together when the train crashed. He wanted to know if they’d been killed in the wreck. He wouldn’t believe me when I tried to tell him there wasn’t any wreck. But there wasn’t, was there?”

“No, the train stopped suddenly and people got jolted around, that’s all. Did Durward realize he’d been poisoned?”

“Not until we told him. He thought it must have been escaping gas or something that made everybody sick.”

“He did recall eating the caviar, though.”

“Yes, and would you believe it, he was cross because he didn’t get more. Apparently he and these friends of his had been off in a corner talking, and the waitress only passed the tray to them once. That must be why they were all able to leave this morning. But Mr. Durward was quite miffed at having been stinted on the er derves. That’s what a friend of mine calls them. My husband says ordures. I told Mr. Durward he ought to be glad he didn’t eat more, because then he’d have got poisoned worse than he was already, but he only said,
‘She
didn’t know they were poisoned. That’s no excuse for her to slight me.’ Can you beat that? Well, I’d better get back on the floor.”

She stuck her mug and Max’s in a rack for the dishwasher and went out to the desk. Max decided he might as well leave. If he tried prowling the corridors trying to interrogate patients, they’d only throw him out anyway.

Through the open door of the room Marcia Whet was in, he could see her husband sitting in one of those wooden armchairs with bright plastic seats that are supposed to strike a cheery note in the sickroom. He had the chair drawn up to the bed and was holding his wife’s hand. She appeared to be asleep. Max cleared his throat. Whet looked around, then he laid Marcia’s hand tenderly back on the coverlet and came out into the corridor.

“I suppose you’d like to get along, Max? Why don’t you go ahead? I want to stay with Marcia.”

“How will you get back to Boston?”

Whet shrugged. “One way or another, I suppose. I could beg a bed at the Tolbathys’ if there’s anybody around to ask. How’s Tom, did you find out?”

“Doing fine, I gather. He’s been released.”

“That’s heartening news. And Hester?”

“Her condition’s still guarded, whatever that means.”

“Better than critical, surely.” Whet looked in at his wife, as if anxious to get back to her.

“Tell you what,” said Max, “why don’t I take a run over to the Tolbathys’? Tom will be glad to know you’re back, and I can ask him about putting you up for the night.”

“Thank you, that’s a kind thought. Yes, I expect Tom might welcome some company later, with Hester still here and Wouter—God, I can’t imagine one of those brothers without the other. Give him my best, won’t you? Oh, and see if he could arrange transportation. I’m sure he’s not up to driving himself.”

“Right. I’ll either stop back or get a message to you.”

Max meant to say good-bye to his new friend the nurse, but she was rushing up the corridor with an IV bottle in her hand and a grim set to her mouth. This was no time for idle pleasantries. He went out and got into his car.

M
AX LEFT THE PARKING
lot under the somber stare of a state policeman who looked as if he’d missed his lunch and held Max Bittersohn personally responsible for keeping him from it. On the way in, he’d followed the H signs to the hospital. Now, on the reasonable theory that this road must lead somewhere, Max turned left and kept going, until he reached an intersection. To his relief, it looked familiar. Yes, there sat the trig little catering shop. And there went Angie, putting a large carton into a station wagon with its tailgate down.

Max hadn’t intended to do more than honk and drive on, but Angie spotted him and waved so wildly that he slowed down and pulled into the drive.

“How come you’re hanging around the shop?” he asked her. “I thought you’d be off somewhere raking in the bucks.”

“Marge and Pam are doing a luncheon,” she explained. “I’m trying to get ready for a big bash at the Masons’ tonight. Thank goodness nobody’s canceling, but they’re all giving us strict orders not to serve any caviar. I understand it’s already being recalled from the stores. That’s going to make poor Mr. Tolbathy even sicker than he was last night, I’ll bet. He’s out of the hospital, did you know?

“How did you find that out?”

“If you lived in Bexhill, you wouldn’t have to ask. We get all the news before it happens. Customers come in for rolls and stuff, and stop to pass the time of day. You know how it is.”

“I hadn’t realized you sold food over the counter.”

“Oh, we have to. That’s the only way we can meet our overhead when business slacks off in the catering department. It’s not always two affairs on the same day, you know. How’s your wife?”

“Fine. How about selling me something to take home to her? Do you have time?”

“Sure. I’m just trying to get some of tonight’s stuff organized so it won’t be a last-minute scramble. We do have a countergirl, but she’s on her lunch break just now. Speaking of which, have you eaten?”

“Actually, no. I just came from driving Mrs. Whet’s husband out to the hospital. You don’t sell sandwiches and coffee, by any chance?”

“You could have quiche, or a Plowman’s lunch.”

“Plowman’s would be great.”

Max went in and sat down at one of the little tables, rightly expecting to be served some excellent bread and cheese in the manner of a British pub, with perhaps some chutney and a ripe tomato on the side. He hadn’t bargained for the tomato to be carved into the shape of a fullblown rose, but he supposed Angie couldn’t help herself.

“Too bad I didn’t know enough to pick up some beer,” he remarked, sniffing the crusty roll with due appreciation.

Angie, who’d just brought another plateful to the table for herself, went back to the refrigerator and returned with a dark brown bottle.

“We don’t have a liquor license, so this has to be on the house. Merry Christmas.”

“Shalom.”

They sipped their beer, then Max asked, “Has there been anything on the grapevine about the husband of that woman who died?”

“Mr. Ashbroom? Nothing special, as far as I know.”

“Does he live around here?”

“Sure, right up the street. That great big yellow house on the hill, just down from the hospital. You must have come past it.”

“You mean the one with all the windows?”

“That’s right. It’s got a greenhouse built on. The Ashbrooms are really into gardening.”

“So my wife’s uncle was telling me.”

Angie chewed on her bread and cheese for a moment, then said, “Speaking of wives, I wonder when Mrs. Ashbroom’s funeral is going to be. I hope they don’t ask us to cater the back-to-the-house part. We’re booked solid all week. I hate doing funerals anyway.”

“I should think the family would want to keep everything private, under the circumstances,” said Max.

“Unless it turns out to be a double feature,” Angie replied cynically. “Then maybe the heirs will feel like celebrating.”

“Who stands to inherit, do you know? Have the Ashbrooms any children?”

“She never had any. I couldn’t say about him.”

“That kind of guy, eh?”

“You couldn’t prove it by me, but that’s the scuttlebutt around town. Of course it may be just talk.”

Max didn’t feel it was his place to resolve the speculation. Miss Moriston would take care of that angle, no doubt, provided Edward Ashbroom gave her a chance. He paid for his lunch, insisted on paying for Angie’s, too, bought some buns and petits fours to take home to Sarah, and went on to the Tolbathys’.

Impeccably maintained as it was, the mansion looked somehow tacky in the daylight. The dingy effect must have been due to the trampled lawn and the bits of litter left by the many people who’d been milling around here last night. Even a thrown-away matchbook seemed like a deliberate insult. Max wished another snowstorm would come along and make it white again.

He didn’t know whether or not he’d get an answer to his ring, but Mrs. Rollo opened the door quite promptly.

“Good afternoon, sir. You’re Mr. Kelling’s nephew, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he told her, since that was obviously his Open Sesame. “Is Mr. Tolbathy up to seeing me? I have messages for him from Jem and Mr. Whet.”

“Mr. Whet’s back? He’ll be glad to know that. Just a minute, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Mrs. Rollo left Max in the reception hall and disappeared. He’d spied an Alfred Sisley landscape and was giving it a professional once-over when she came back.

“He says for you to go right on up. Just turn left at the head of the stairs. You won’t mind if I don’t take you myself?”

“Not at all. You must be worn out from last night.”

Anyway, locating the master bedroom was no problem. It was the size of a bowling alley. Tom Tolbathy, in a high four-poster with an eight-foot canopy, looked pathetically insignificant. His face had no more color than the old-fashioned white sheets with their heavy lace-trimmed edges, but he had strength enough to hold out a hand when Max went over to the bed.

“Hello, Max. Good of you to come.”

“How are you feeling, Tom?”

“Not too bad. The doctor said I’d better take it easy for a while. What’s this about Gerry Whet? How did he happen to get in touch with you? Did he call Jem from Nairobi?”

“No, he’s home. Got in early this morning, he says. I’ve driven him out to the hospital and left him there. He sends his best and wonders if you could offer him a bed for tonight. He wants to stay near Marcia.”

“Of course. I’ll be delighted to have him. I know exactly how Gerry feels. You didn’t get any recent report on Hester, by chance?”

“According to the floor nurse, her condition’s guarded but not critical. They didn’t sound too worried about her, if that’s any consolation to you.”