CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dr Hamid packed away his stethoscope in his medical bag and poured glasses of his herbal aerated water for Mina and himself. ‘As you may know,’ he said, ‘I am often consulted by the police regarding the state of health of a prisoner. I am called to the Town Hall to examine both men and women held in the cells there; those injured in affrays, some who have fainted from lack of sustenance, others who were suffering the effects either of too much alcohol or the withdrawal of the same, and those who found it convenient to feign illness in order to find somewhere other than the streets to spend the night. This morning, however, was different, since when I went to the Town Hall I had not been summoned by the police. I had decided to volunteer my services.’
‘That was very kind of you,’ said Mina.
‘To be truthful, I was wondering as I went there just why I had made this decision, and I was obliged to admit that there was only one reason that I ever do anything out of the ordinary and that reason is you, Miss Scarletti. You are at once the most worrying, the most annoying, and the most unreasonable of all my patients.’ It was said in a friendly tone in the manner of an indirect compliment, and Mina smiled.
He took a deep draught of the comforting water. Mina knew too well where his thoughts were tending. Memories of his eldest sister Eliza, who had been so severely afflicted by scoliosis, were always present. He had occasionally spoken of the long hours that he and Anna had sat by their sister’s deathbed as her damaged and constricted lungs struggled for breath and how finally, bravely and almost peacefully she had given up the battle. Mina realised that more recently he must have feared attending on another such distressing scene. ‘I went there because anything I could do to satisfy my difficult patient’s insatiable thirst for knowledge and boundless curiosity would help preserve her life. But I now find myself in a dilemma, since the news I bring might be too stimulating for an invalid, even one in recuperation. I hesitate to say more.’
Mina folded her arms in a very determined manner and narrowed her eyes in a firm stare. He smiled and began his story.
As I entered the reception hall, the sergeant greeted me in a friendly manner, opened his record book, and ran his gaze down the daily list, ‘Good morning Dr Hamid, who have you come to see?’
I was obliged to admit that I had not been called in any official capacity but had come to offer my services gratis for the man known as Mr John Chantry. ‘All that I have heard of him’ I explained, ‘excites my sympathy and suggests that he would benefit from a doctor’s examination, but it also leads me to doubt that he can pay a doctor’s fee.’
‘Well, that is very good of you, Dr Hamid,’ said the sergeant, making a note. ‘You know’ he chuckled, with a warning shake of a finger, ‘you will never be a rich man what with all the work you do for the poor.’
‘I fear not.’
‘He is still in the cells at present, as we don’t want to turn him out until it’s safe to do so. We don’t think he is dangerous, and I doubt that he would run away even if he had the chance, but there is some concern about his state of mind. We don’t want him wandering about on his own. We have made him as comfortable as we can seeing as he is now not charged with anything, and there is a gentleman with him, a London solicitor, from the firm that has been sending his monthly postal orders. He read about Mr Chantry in The Times and came straight down to see him. He is presently seeking to make some arrangements for new accommodation. He thinks it wouldn’t be wise for Mr Chantry to go back to his old lodgings what with all the attention he has been getting, and I have to agree. But I’ll get a constable to take you down there, and you can see him for yourself.’
‘You are quite sure of the man’s identity? There are no doubts now that he is not Mr Holt?’
The sergeant gave a rueful smile. ‘We’re as sure as we can be. We have asked him many times, but he doesn’t say anything. He has certainly kept us busy, though. There were about a hundred or more letters we received here, people with their own suggestions, you know how it is. Women mainly — wives, mistresses, sisters, all hoping he was their missing man, but of course he wasn’t. And then there were Mr Holt’s creditors demanding to speak to him, but we didn’t allow that because I don’t think they meant him any good. We made a thorough search of his lodgings and there was little enough there, certainly no documents to prove who he is, but we did find one thing — an old newspaper, a copy of The Times, with a mark made on it beside the notice of a wedding. A Miss Ann Chantry who was married to a Mr Albert Fenwick about seven years ago. A sister, we assume. But whoever he might be, our man is not Mr Holt; the solicitor has confirmed that absolutely. The gentleman may look fifty which would be Mr Holt’s age if he was alive, but he is actually rather younger in years and has not taken great care of himself.’
‘That information, coming as it does from a reliable source will be a great relief to many people, although a grave disappointment to others,’ I said, ‘I hope that a statement will be made to the newspapers to enlighten the town. There is too much speculation and supposition in the newspapers and not enough actual news.’
‘I believe that is being done,’ said the sergeant, ‘and the sooner the better in my opinion.’ He summoned a constable to conduct me to see Mr Chantry.
‘Is he still under lock and key?’ I asked as we descended the narrow stairs to the basement cells.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the constable, ‘it’s for his own good really. And we are very careful about who comes to see him, what with all the disturbances and the allegations. There are men out there who still believe that he is Mr Holt and think that the police have plotted with him to hide the truth.’
‘Mrs Vardy was quite certain that he was not. People accused her of lying in order to save her reputation, but now I hope that anyone of sense must accept that she has been exonerated.’
‘Oh yes, she just took one look at him and that was it.’
The constable remained impassive, but I could not conceal my surprise. ‘Really? She didn’t interview him or question him? I would have thought she might have asked him the names of places or persons that only Mr Holt would know.’
‘No, nothing of that sort, sir.’
‘And her brother, Mr Saltmire? He would have known Mr Holt well. What did he say?’
‘I don’t think he said a word. He just nodded.’
At the bottom of the stairs we reached the high gated entrance to the murkily lit corridor which houses the seven cells allocated to male prisoners. Men do not usually remain there long but are held overnight to sleep off the effects of drink for their own and others’ safety, sometimes after arrest for petty crimes before being taken upstairs to court to be fined. Very occasionally the cells hold more dangerous prisoners under serious charges waiting to be remanded and transferred to gaol. The constable unlocked the gate and we entered the vaulted whitewashed corridor. All was quiet, which suggested that either there were few prisoners, or those who were there were asleep. A bored looking attendant was taking the opportunity to swab out the empty cells with a large mop dipped in a bucket of some pungent disinfectant solution.