Colin Watson - The Flaxborough Crab

After a while, she began to type. Her typing, though punctuated by periods of thought, had the grace, speed and accurary typical of an old and hard school of secretarial training. Ah, yes, the Bishop (she would have explained to an admiring onlooker) had always insisted upon his pastoral letters being absolutely clean.

Friend, (her manifesto ran)

I am extremely sorry that you have been disturbed by certain newspaper references to Our Product. Our legal advisers, needless to say, are already taking certain action, in the outcome of which we have complete confidence; but I am writing to you in the meantime to point out certain facts which you, as an intelligent person, are fully entitled to interpret for yourself.

Firstly, I must reveal to you that the medical practitioner who saw fit to make the disparaging remarks in question has since died suddenly. We do not, of course, claim this ununfortunate occurrence to have been divinely engineered in vindication of Nature’s Way. You might well wonder, however, whether a man so signally unsuccessful in maintaining his own life span was qualified to throw doubt upon the health-winning methods of others.

Secondly, I would point out that Moldham Meres Laboratories have never pretended that Our Product is incapable of being misused. There is no Gift of Nature which cannot be turned to a wrongful purpose. Our Product is a natural concentrate of the Life Force. Therefore it cannot fail to increase the Vitality of the user and thus greatly to improve the performance of all Natural Functions.

You will readily appreciate, of course, that only those who temper their enjoyment of life with Self Control and respect the confines of Matrimony are suitable candidates for the advantages offered by Our Product.

If, for any reason, you feel that your own Personal Standards do not meet this condition, we shall be happy to refund your money on receipt of Proof of Purchase.

Miss Teatime withdrew the sheet from the machine and carefully read it through. From time to time she nodded to herself. Plenty of capital letters. Excellent. Devotion to upper case, she had noticed, was one of the more consistent characteristics of Life Force enthusiasts.

She put the letter aside. She would make the stencil later, then Florrie could start running off some copies.

It was now quite dark outside in the Close. There stood out from the blackness opposite an arched multi-coloured glow. It was the stained glass window of the chapel where choir practice was usually held. Miss Teatime gazed fondly at the night-framed mosaic of indigo, ruby and saffron. How timelessly dependable it looked, this lovely survival of mediaeval self-confidence.

She re-filled her cup and carried it to a small chintz-covered armchair near the fireplace. Close to the chair was a telephone on a low table. She set down her cup, lowered herself into the chair and reached for the phone. She asked for a Welbeck number and waited, leaning back into the comfort of the cushions.

“Bernard?... This is Lucilla—Lucilla Teatime.”

“Lucy! My dear, how lovely to hear you again! Where are you?”

She smiled smugly to herself and stroked with one finger the outline of a flower in the patterned chair cover.

“I am a long way from London, and not a bit sorry. Flaxborough suits me admirably.”

“Where and what in God’s name is Flaxborough?”

“Now, Bernard,” she said reprovingly, “I thought better of you. To pretend that civilization stops at North-west Three is the least endearing of the Londoner’s parochial affectations. Flaxborough is not merely an exceptionally charming town; it is a good deal more stimulating than that elephantine combination of a clip joint and knocking shop that you are pleased to regard as the centre of the universe.”

“All right, Lucy, all right. Just tell me what you are doing.”

“A number of things. All interesting.”

“And rewarding? Your talents are sadly missed, my love.”

“I really believe you mean that. But you need not worry. This is a town of many opportunities.”

“Which you are in the process of seizing, no doubt.”

“I glean where I may, Bernard. With a little help, of course.”

“Oh?”

“At the moment—and I know you will be interested to hear this—it is being given by an old friend of yours. You did not know, did you, that Brother Culpepper is here with me?”

“Good Lord! Holy Joe?”

“You had not heard that he was in retreat?”

“Well, I did gather as much from the newspapers.”

“No, no, Bernard—I mean in an ecclesiastical sense. Out here he is isolated from the demands of the world. He tells me it is a great relief not to feel sought after all the time. And of course the open air life is working wonders for him.”

“Never mind Joe. I want to hear about you, Lucy. What are you doing with yourself?”

“I have acquired a herb farm.”

“A what ?”

“A herb farm. Now, please do not interrupt, Bernard: this call is going to cost rather a lot of money, and you will have to listen carefully if you are to understand what I wish you to do for me. There is one thing I must be clear about before I begin. Am I right in assuming that your—what shall I say?—your professional lustre is undimmed?”

There was a slight pause.

“If you mean what I think you mean, the answer is yes.”

“Oh, I am so glad. In that case, I am sure you will be able to do me the favour I have in mind. It will require a little research—nothing terribly difficult. Now then, Bernard, are you ready? You will probably wish to make a note or two.”

“Carry on.”

“Firstly, I wish to know what you can find out about a Dr Augustus Meadow, who is in practice in Heston Lane, Flaxborough. Or was, rather—he happened to die this evening.”

“Oh, Lucy, you surely haven’t got yourself mixed up in...”

“Certainly not. As far as anybody knows, he collapsed and died in a perfectly respectable manner and in his own surgery. It was by sheer coincidence that I was waiting to see him at the time. The annoying thing is that I shall not now be able to learn from him what I wanted.”

“What sort of information are you after, anyway? Career? Background? Whatever I can unearth down here is bound to be pretty sketchy. Why don’t you see what you can find in the files of the local paper? I assume there is a local paper?”

“I am not writing a biography, Bernard. My interest is in the man’s professional activities and I have reason to think that some of them may have been specialized in a way that would gain notice. His receptionist tells me that he conducted certain clinical trials, or helped to conduct them, on behalf of a drug firm called Elixon. According to her, he published findings in the medical press. I suggest that back numbers of the British Medical Journal might be revealing. Unfortunately, that is not the sort of literature one finds knocking about in Flaxborough public library, or I might not be troubling you.”

“All right, I’ll cast around. Anything else?”

“Yes. Have you heard of a drug called ‘Juniform’?”

“I have.”

“Is it well known?”

“Not in my field, no. But then it’s scarcely likely to become part of the armoury of the obstetrician.”

“Oh, Bernard! You are sweet. Obstetrician.... So you are!”

“Now look, Lucy—do you want me to help you or don’t you?”

At once Miss Teatime quelled her trill of amusement. “Bernard, I am sorry. No, you were saying...?”

“I was saying—or about to say—that ‘Juniform’ is what you might call an over-sixties drug. I’ve no personal experience of it, but I do know that it is being very assiduously pushed.”

“But how exciting! Like heroin, you mean?”