Peter Corris - The Marvellous Boy

‘Not necessarily. Cases differ.’

‘The nurse,’ I said desperately. ‘The nurse was in the photograph. They were acquainted. The nurse must have treated her as something special.’

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘That is an ignorant remark, Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘Gertrude Callaghan was the most warm and loving woman I have ever known. Everyone was special to her.’

I accepted the rout. ‘You’re right. I’m hoping a child was born. May I see the other cards?’

He passed them over, seven in all. I looked at them carefully. At the top of each a name was written, surname first, in capitals. There were dates then statistics. The data didn’t mean much to me — medical stuff, drugs used, tests, various readings. Each card contained a few lines describing the birth of a child giving time, weight, other measurements, instruments used and so on. I read through this and handed three cards back to Osborn. He took them in at a glance.

‘Females. Only a son will do?’

I nodded.

‘I wanted a son myself but it wasn’t to be. Do you have any children, Mr Hardy?’

I shook my head, still looking at the cards.

‘It’s a paradox, parenthood. Children enslave you, but they bring you great joy. My own daughter…’ He stopped himself. ‘What are you doing?’

I had a pen out and was scribbling on the back of an envelope. ‘I’m trying out some of these names, trying to see an anagram or something. Most people who assume false names don’t just pluck them out of the air.’

He leaned forward. ‘I’m good at that, a crossword fiend. What are the names?’

I handed the cards and the envelope over. I hadn’t got anywhere.

He examined the cards and wrote the names down vertically on a blank card. Then he wrote Brain and Chatterton opposite the list. He doodled on the card, making scrolls and stick figures and blocking in the letters. I was getting impatient, felt let down, and could sense the tobacco craving sneaking up on me. I shifted in my chair and held out my hand.

‘I’ll have to do it the hard way, doctor,’ I said. ‘Check on each one in turn. I just hope they aren’t too scattered.’ I was edgy and almost snapped my figures for the cards.

‘You won’t, you know.’ He separated out one card and handed it to me. ‘I’ll wager this is the one.’

I looked at it. Nothing. ‘Why?’

‘You were on the right track, just a bit off course. It’s not an anagram though.’

‘What then?’

‘Association. The poet Chatterton imitated the works of Sir Thomas Malory. That’s the name on the card. You didn’t know that, about Chatterton?’

‘No. I knew he was a fraud of some sort.’

He sighed. ‘You’re not as big a cynic as you make out. Malory, Morte d’Arthur. That’s a great work, written when English was a real language and not a grab bag of this and that.’

‘It was all like French as I recall,’ I grunted. He said something else which I didn’t catch. I was reminded of Henry Brain’s quoting habit but my attention had shifted to the card.

The delicate writing had faded as if such a pack of untruths could not survive the passage of time. Barbara Malory’s age was given as 17 years and there was a brief account of her physical condition which was excellent. Doubts were expressed as to her mental stability. On Saturday 3 December at 1.34 p.m. she had given birth to an 8 pound 12 ounce male child. The birth was uncomplicated, the child was without defect. There was no address for Barbara on admission or discharge — she came from nowhere and went nowhere. She had stayed at the clinic for 11 days and paid?5 per day; she had paid?38 for the doctor’s services. Okay, that was fine, congratulations all round, now what about the kid? The child had stayed a few days longer than his mother and had been declared ‘exceptionally strong and healthy’. This information was followed by a simple one-line entry: Mr and Mrs Gilbert Brudin, 116 Red Oak Road, Forrest, ACT.

I held the card out to Osborn with my thumbnail under the address. The nail was split and full of dirt. I must have clawed the ground when I went down in the night. I suddenly felt weary and in very bad shape but the adrenalin was running. The card was a shower and a shave and a bottle of champagne.

‘They took the baby?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not a formal adoption?’

‘No.’

‘How were the details arranged, registration and so on?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s hard to believe doctor.’

‘It’s true, nevertheless. These people who took the children were determined folk. They’d been rejected by the official agencies, usually for ridiculous reasons like not being Christians.’ He looked as if he would have liked to spit. ‘They were prepared to do anything to get a healthy child and they made all the arrangements you speak of themselves.’ He read the name aloud. ‘Baudin, Baudin, no, I don’t recall them. But some of these people had influence, they were all intelligent and responsible, I saw to that.’

‘You said you kept a check on the children.’

‘In some cases, yes.’ He turned the card over. ‘Not in this one.’

I wrote down the name and address and returned the card. He balanced the box on his bony knees and deliberately put each card back into place — I stood up and held out my hand.

‘Thanks for your co-operation doctor.’

We shook hands. He didn’t stand.

‘You got what you wanted. You’re good at your trade, Mr Hardy.’

‘Sometimes,’ I said.

He put the box on the floor and eased himself up. One leg protested and buckled and he dropped back into the chair. He breathed heavily.

‘I believe I’ll do as you suggest with the records. I won’t write it up myself, too old.’

‘You’ve got a bit of fight left in you.’

I had the feeling that he didn’t want to let me go. It was as if we had some unfinished business. But I didn’t know what it might be or what else I could say to him. I moved towards the verandah opening. He looked shrunken and deflated in the cane chair.

‘There’s not much fight in me. Do you think I’m in danger?’

‘From whom?’

‘You said Gertrude was murdered… something to do with my work.’

‘I was theorising a bit,’ I said. ‘I don’t know for certain that she was murdered. There were signs that the house had been searched but she might have died naturally. She was an old woman, and frail I suppose?’

‘Yes, and getting more so.’

‘Well…’ I thought of Henry Brain again who certainly hadn’t beaten himself to death in the W.C. But whoever had cooled me had been content to leave it at that. Perhaps Brain’s death was a sort of accident. In any case I didn’t feel that a mindless killer was on the loose and I told Osborn so.

‘I won’t mention you when the police come to tell me about Gertrude.’

‘They might not be involved. She must have friends, someone will find her soon?’

‘Yes.’

I said I was sorry and realised that I was repeating myself. I wanted to say more, to indicate that I knew what he was feeling, but I didn’t. He was a secrets man. The stain around his eyes was almost black now and spreading. He seemed to be looking through me and down a long, dark tunnel.

‘Those records…’

‘Yes?’ It crossed my mind that this case was mostly records so far, cards and files, plus a few deaths. In my mind I was already on the way to Canberra, a whole city of cards and files.

‘Those records are honest in a way that most medical records are not. Doctors cover their mistakes, they use hindsight. I’ve done it myself. But not there.’ He looked down at the box. ‘That’s my real medical career.’

‘Then you have something to be proud of.’