Colin Watson - The Flaxborough Crab

Heineman pretended to find the interruption incomprehensible. He turned upon Malley a look of sweetly helpful inquiry: it implied that the sergeant was Dr Thompson’s keeper and was trained to translate his utterances into rational language.

Thompson frowned. “You do not suggest, do you, doctor, that the injuries you have been describing were contributory to this man’s death? That is all I am asking.”

Heineman looked at the ceiling, then at Inspector Purbright. He gave Purbright a knowing smile, glanced back to his notes, and went on with the report as if no one else had spoken.

He was now happily exploring the complex world of Winge’s cranium.

Purbright understood singularly little of this part of the pathologist’s evidence, but as he listened and looked to see what others were making of it, two things became clear. Heineman had made some discovery by which he was genuinely intrigued. And Meadow—who up to then had affected absolute indifference—was paying careful attention to what Heineman was saying.

Mr Scorpe, too, seemed gravely interested, but since that particular expression was habitual with him—it had been called his ‘working face’—Purbright could not be certain that he really found the matter significant.

Dr Thompson offered no further interruption. Only when the pathologist had sat down, beaming his congratulations to the audience on their having enjoyed such a marvellous lecture, did he enquire, with malevolent ingenuousness, whether Dr Heineman was not in a position to suggest a cause of death.

Heineman’s eyes popped with amused surprise.

“Cows of dith? But drownink! What ilse?”

“Thank you, doctor. You might have mentioned it earlier.”

The deputy coroner wrote something on the sheet before him. He looked up.

“Would anyone like to ask Dr Heineman any questions? Inspector?”

Purbright shook his head.

“Dr Meadow?”

Meadow declined. Fastidiously.

“Mr Scorpe—you represent the family of the deceased, I understand...”

Scorpe bobbed his great solemn head. “ If you please.”

“Is there anything you would care to ask the witness?”

Scorpe rose menacingly and re-arranged some of his books, like sandbags before a redoubt. “A couple of points, doctor, if you wouldn’t mind...”

“Pliss!”

Scorpe looked down at the carbon copy of Heineman’s report with which the helpful Malley had provided him.

“You say that you found clear indications of a certain neurological condition known as Grosserbayer’s Syndrome.”

Heineman nodded. He looked very affable.

“This condition being, in the language of the layman, a disturbance of the brain...”

“Of the cintral neerwus system,” Heineman corrected, one finger raised.

“ If you please. A disturbance of the central nervous system. Thank you.” Mr Scorpe swept off his great spectacles. “And could you tell us, doctor, what are the special characteristics shown by a person suffering from this, ah...” On went the spectacles again, but just long enough to consult notes. “...this, ah, Grosserbayer’s Syndrome?”

Dr Heineman bowed. “Of course!” He prepared to make a count of his fingers. “One—he will hev drobbles controllink the belence...”

“Trouble controlling his balance, yes.”

“...particularly in moments of striss or enkziety. At such times. You see? Two—very probably he will hev parapsychotic re-ektions to sixual stimuli. Three—a well-ricogniced sympton of Grosserbayerism is the patient’s euphoric, I could even say halucinaaaatory, estimaaaation of his own physical potintial.”

Mr Scorpe silently digested this for some seconds before attempting a translation.

“In other words, doctor, the unfortunate man not only would lack what we sometimes call moral control, but would have an exaggerated idea of his own vitality?”

“Igsectly! But igsectly!”

“So might it not be fair to say that a man suffering from this, ah, most distressing condition would be less, far less, responsible for his actions than if he was not thus afflicted?”

“Ye-e-es, I might egree with thet—within certain limits, you unterstend...”

Scorpe’s spectacles swung upwards to scythe off any qualifications that might have been on their way.

“ If you please. Now, doctor, one more question only. Are the symptoms of Grosserbayer’s Syndrome sufficiently obvious and well-defined for the condition to be diagnosed without undue difficulty?”

The pathologist grinned indulgently at such lawyerly innocence.

“My dear sir! A men sufferink Grosserbayerism is es obwiaus es...a dronken policeman—if the inspector will pardon the igsprission. Even the most incompetent—but yes!—in com petent general prectice fellow could not fail to see it.”

“ If you please.” Mr Scorpe sat down. He looked well satisfied.

Purbright wondered if Malley had not slightly underestimated the intentions of the Winge family. Their solicitor certainly was here to put what whitewash he could on the late alderman. But not only that, surely. He was looking for a scapegoat. It was not in the tradition of the Winges to suffer the results of their own actions if someone else could be made to pay.

The deputy coroner indicated to Dr Heineman that he was now free to leave. He did so in high humour and with almost athletic dispatch.

“And now, Dr Meadow: you also have other matters to attend to, I dare say. You are under no obligation to offer evidence unless you think it will help the inquiry. Do you wish to be sworn?”

Dr Meadow, looking round dubiously, was caught in the iron regard of Widow Winge. He shrugged and accepted the testament from Sergeant Malley.

The deputy coroner began his questions. He felt rather proud of having overcome his initial nervousness and was even playing with the pleasant idea of making Meadow look a fool.

“How long had Mr Winge been a patient of yours, doctor?”

“Oh, many years. Perhaps twenty or more.”

“You are, in fact, the family physician?”

“That is so.”

“Had you, in general, considered him a fairly healthy man?”

“With minor exceptions, yes.”

“Right up to the time of his death?”

“He exhibited no symptoms of serious illness.”

“How serious, Dr Meadow, would you consider the condition defined by the last witness as the Grosserbayer Syndrome?”

“That would depend on context.”

“Very well—in the context of Mr Winge, then.”

“I am not convinced that it would be proper to divulge findings arrived at in the privacy of a consulting room.”

“You have heard of the Grosserbayer Syndrome, doctor?”

“I think I may say that I am as familiar with the condition as you are, doctor.”

“In that case, I need not ask you if you pursued the appropriate medical regimen.”

“You need not.”

“Did Mr Winge lately complain specifically of having difficulty in keeping his balance?”

“As I have indicated already, I am not prepared to divulge professional confidences.”

“As you wish, doctor. May I put this to you, then? Were you surprised to hear Dr Heineman refer to the symptom of imbalance in connection with Mr Winge’s complaint?”

“I should be surprised by nothing Dr Heineman saw fit to propound. Whether I agreed with it or not is quite another matter.”

“There is one further question which it is my duty to ask you, Dr Meadow. Was Mr Winge undergoing—to your knowledge—any form of medication at the time of his death?”

“He was.”

“Of what kind?”

“I am not prepared to say.”

The deputy coroner regarded him narrowly. “I could press this matter, you know, doctor.”