I have never seen such a happy and productive place! It buzzes with the Glory of Our Lord!
Seeing that the area around Fulda was fairly secured by the good work of the monks, I asked Sturm where he thought our mission would be most useful. He suggested that since the travelling season was nearly over, we should winter here. In spring we could head south, to the Danube, where Christianity is less established.
I talked the matter over with Duggo and Dettic. They agreed with him, and reminded me that they had heard as much in Frisia over the last few years. I made up my mind to stay, and told the men my decision. They were delighted.
It is now early spring. The men are in high spirits. We have spent the winter practising our battle play, and learning the various German dialects from the monks. Some of the unlettered escorts have learned the rudiments of reading, so as to be of more help to me. It is most touching. And of course, we have all pitched in to aid Sturm wherever we can, partly to repay him for his hospitality, but mainly because we are so inspired.
We shall leave in a week. I hope this letter finds you well, and I ask that you pass my love to Eulalia.
Ohthere
12
“I am the scalp of myself, skinned by my foeman:
robbed of my strength, he steeped and soaked me,
dipped me in water, whipped me out again,
set me in the sun.”
The Bible, a riddle from The Exeter Book, c. 970 AD
Once more, Nielsen had read my translation without a word. I let him finish before I spoke. “Is this what you wanted me to call you about last night?”
“Yes.” Nielsen tapped his finger on the notes. This time, he seemed disappointed.
“What was so urgent about it? It doesn’t say anything particularly special.”
“I cannot tell you, sir.”
“Why not? I’m helping you.”
“Because I cannot.” Coolly, the detective lit a Woodbine. Smoke filled the air between us. “I may need you again today, Mr Haye. Where can I reach you?”
My headache worsened as the smoke reached me. I wanted to go home and sleep, but I had a mountain of things to do at work that day, and could not put them off. “If I’m not in my office, I’ll be somewhere around the college. Ask at History Reception. I’ll leave word of where I am.”
Nielsen got up. “You do not look well. Would you like to see the doctor?”
The thought of something to alleviate the headache was very appealing. “Yes.”
“My doctor will see you now,” said Nielsen. The detective opened the door and said something I did not hear to someone in the corridor. Then in walked Dr Deborah Caraman.
Her blue eyes, determined and intelligent, glowed with their usual fire beneath her spectacles. Her dark brown hair was pinned tightly behind her ears. Deborah looked typically serious. “Mr Haye, good morning.”
She had been calling me Mr Haye instead of George for nearly a year.
“Good morning, Doctor. I thought you worked at the Prince of Wales Hospital.”
“I do, Mr Haye. But today I’m working for the police.” I couldn’t look her in the eye. Dryly she enquired: “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” I replied, lying by omission. “But nothing a good sleep won’t fix. Don’t call me Mr Haye.”
Deborah ignored my remark and shone a small electric torch into my eyes. It hurt, but she held my eyelids open and I didn’t want to force them closed. “You are in shock, Mr Haye. Now open your mouth, please.” I opened it and she peered in, but said nothing.
“Undo your top three shirt buttons, please.”
A cold stethoscope was pressed against my chest, and she leaned forward to listen. “You have a strong heart, Mr Haye. It’s beating … well. Have you had any headaches?”
“Yes, but they’ve been tolerable.”
“Are you cut anywhere?”
My palms had several superficial cuts on them, acquired either from the bottle that was smashed on the cupboard or from the broken window. I showed them to her and she cleaned them with a swab and bottle of antiseptic that she took from her doctor’s bag. In my hands, which are large, hers looked delicate and nimble.
Deborah finished and began packing her equipment back into her bag.
“Mr Haye is fine apart from a mild case of shock,” she said to Nielsen.
“Thank you, Dr Caraman. You may leave now.”
Deborah shook his hand. And she left without saying goodbye to me.
* * *
Nielsen took me into his office, which was not as spotless as it had been the day before. Several of the filing cabinet drawers were open, and there were half a dozen manila folders on his desk, some spilling papers. It was then I noticed the tired lines around his eyes, and wondered if he’d been working without sleep since I saw him yesterday. As he sat down, there was a knock at the door. “What is it?”
A uniformed police inspector opened the door and leaned into the room. “Mr Joyce needs to see you right away, sir.”
“I will join you outside my office in a moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
The inspector left and Nielsen turned to me. “Please wait here, Mr Haye. I shall return shortly.”
He left the office, and I heard the footsteps of both men fade down the corridor.
Alone in the stuffy room, I leaned back in the chair and exhaled. I felt drained, and considered how difficult it would be to think clearly at work today with my hangover. The documents were irritating me. Nielsen’s refusal to answer my simple questions about them irritated me. And seeing Deborah irritated me.
She was still punishing me for what had happened, that much was clear. In some ways, it was fair enough, too: I had been heavily committed to work and several sports, and should have spent more time on our friendship. But it wasn’t my fault that she had been so difficult, especially since early on I’d very clearly explained the importance of my schedule. What right had she to act so damned self-righteously? Late in the piece, her moods had been especially hard to understand. But for God’s sake, how could I deal with someone who went from perfectly happy to irrational and petulant in the blink of an eye? How could she still blame me?
The clock ticked loudly on the wall. I looked out of the window onto Crawford Road, where more heat gathered, ready to boil my aching brain.
Pictures of the dead old man returned to my mind. That settled it. I was sick of seeing them. I had lost patience. I was going to demand answers from Nielsen. That would at least make me feel as though the whole night hadn’t been a meaningless hell. I sat up and stared at the papers spread across the desk.
It did not take long to make up my mind and start reading his files.
On two of the first three pieces of paper I examined were lists which made no sense to me. The third - the detective’s handwritten stream of consciousness - sent my heart into panicked flutters.
Percy Vernon Brown. D.O.B. 18/11/1894. 5’ 6”. 145 lbs. Lives on Bagot Rd, Allminster. Since October 1925, works at The Prince of Wales Hospital