The brunette saw the tall man press the sponge-band round his brow, tied there to absorb sweat, and while she guessed what it must be like to work in a temperature of over seventy degrees, which it had to be, she thought that the tall figure had a strangely attractive air about him, even behind the robe and mask.
It was nearly over. The anaesthetist leaned back in his chair. He grinned up at his assistant. ‘He’s all right, now,’ he said, in a whisper, ‘But there’ll be no keeping this one under while the chief nips out for coffee.’ He smiled at the recollection. Nobody ever believed him. But it was true. He’d held a patient under while the chief surgeon, who had been operating for eight hours, went to get a quick cup of coffee. Then the chief returned, to resume the operation, which lasted another four hours.
The trembling ward nurse had crept closer. She took a long, steady look. Then her eyes caught those of the tall figure and she saw a glint of humour in them, as if he knew that she would feel different now, she wasn’t likely to pass out now. She was over the worst. She would advance one step along the road of cool, unemotional efficiency which is the nurse’s stock-in-trade.
The chief replaced the part of the skull which had been removed, then stitched back the scalp.
There was a moment of relaxed stillness. Then the chief stepped back from the table. He began to take off his rubber gloves. Turning to the students he elaborated several of the points he had made during the operation. While he talked the patient was wheeled out of the theatre. Back to the ward. Back to life.
In the students’ gallery there was the unheard movement as students got up, stretched cramped limbs and began to discuss notes. The brunette student turned away from the man who had been beside her, to watch the tall figure pull down his gauze breathing-mask and take a deep unrestricted breath. For some odd reason a thrill ran through her as she saw that he looked even more attractive than she had pictured he might be. It was a pale, aquiline face with a sardonically curved mouth above the strong chin. She wondered who he was. She asked the man next to her, and he said he thought he’d seen the face before, but couldn’t place it. The girl saw the short man whom she knew to be Sir Trevor Kirkland turn to the tall man and speak to him. She wished she could hear what he said.
‘Don’t know about you, Dr. Morelle, but I could use some coffee,’ Kirkland was saying. Dr. Morelle nodded and they went out of the operating-theatre and turned along the corridor in the direction of Sir Trevor Kirkland’s office. In the office the neurologist seemed a different man. Divested of the white boots, long green gown, white linen trousers, and seen in his normal tweeds, he looked almost homely. His once-sandy hair was sparse, his eyebrows, also sandy, were bushy. They hid keen eyes that sparkled with intelligence. The lines of his face were heavy and he was fresh-complexioned. He produced an old pipe from his pocket and began to fill it from a tobacco-tin on the mantel-piece.
A nurse brought coffee and he stirred his quickly, his pudgy fingers, a gardener’s fingers, handling the spoon as delicately as if it was an artery forceps. He waved his hand at the nurse to take away the robe and trousers, boots and masks he and Dr. Morelle had discarded.
Dr. Morelle wore a dark grey worsted single-breasted suit and a dark bow tie; an inch of silk shirt cuff showed at his sleeves.
Kirkland indicated the bowl of roses that stood on the table. ‘Aren’t they fine? Cut them myself this morning, before I left home. Yesterday morning, I should say,’ he glanced at his watch, which showed one-thirty a.m. ‘It’s a good year for roses. Mine have never been better.’ He waved his spoon in the direction of the operation-theatre. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘The new techniques he demonstrated were remarkably impressive.’ Dr. Morelle said.
The other nodded enthusiastically and plunged into a technical résumé of what had transpired on the operation-table, ending up by asking Dr. Morelle if he would like to join him in a discussion with the surgeon himself. But Dr. Morelle declined politely, explaining that he was leaving early for the South of France.
‘I heard you were going,’ Kirkland said. He opened the hand-finished silver cigarette-box on his desk and offered it to Dr. Morelle.
‘I will smoke my own, if you don’t mind.’ And Dr. Morelle took out and lit a Le Sphinx. Smoke curled up as the two men talked. Sir Trevor questioned Dr. Morelle about his forthcoming trip. He expressed envy that Dr. Morelle should have had a villa in Monte Carlo lent to him so opportunely.
Dr. Morelle nodded. ‘It is fortunate. I was beginning to find it difficult to obtain the peace I need, in London. Like you, I suffer from too many consultations.’
‘I thought the famous Miss Frayle guarded your privacy,’ the other said humorously.
A faint frown contracted Dr. Morelle’s eyebrows. He said coldly, ‘Miss Frayle left my employ some time ago. She wished to widen her experience and education. She is studying at the Sorbonne.’
‘Miss Frayle in Paris, eh? Is she enjoying it?’
‘I believe so.’ Dr. Morelle turned away. He appeared to be studying the roses in the bowl. Then Kirkland saw his glance drift to the clock on the office wall and he made a movement towards the door. ‘Must you go? I hoped you might have time for a talk with his nibs.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Dr. Morelle said. ‘I have to pack for the plane.’
The two men walked to the door. As Dr. Morelle went off down the corridor, Sir Trevor called after him, wishing him a comfortable trip, but Dr. Morelle didn’t seem to hear him. He didn’t turn back.
CHAPTER TWO
Despite the warmth of the day the room was cool and restful. Bookshelves flanked one side of it, encasing a library of medical works. There was nothing clinical about the room, only the heavy folding screen and the surgical couch indicated its true purpose. The deep Persian carpet harmonized with the plain comfortable furniture and the rich draperies of the large window. A bowl of roses stood on the oak gate-legged table. Sunlight streaming through the window slanted across the big mahogany desk, glowing on the antique surface of the wood.
Sir Trevor Kirkland had been writing his notes and now he pushed back the swivel chair to avoid the strong sunlight. He relaxed his elbows on the arms of the chair and clasped his short-fingered pudgy hands together. There was little about his hands to indicate his profession, except the extreme cleanliness of the nails. He stared thoughtfully at the screen across the room, behind which his patient was dressing. His face was unlined, as fresh and untroubled as a countryman’s.
Ian Laking straightened the knot of his tie and slipped into his Savile Row jacket. Instead of coming out from behind the screen he stood staring at his reflection in the oval mirror. He saw a once-handsome face, a face with the flesh drawn tightly over the cheekbones, there were dark hollows under the eyes. His hair was as thick and dark as it had always been, but there was more grey at the temples.
He stared at himself in the glass, stared into his dark, curiously lifeless eyes. With a conscious effort he stepped out from behind the screen into the pool of sunlight flooding the room. He didn’t feel the warmth of the sunshine, didn’t sense the sympathy the other man was extending to him.
Kirkland indicated the leather armchair in front of his desk. Laking sat down. He said nothing, just waited, watching. Sir Trevor looked down at his notes. He had already made up his mind who could best treat Laking, and it appeared the arrangement would work out very well. He fixed his gaze on Laking’s face.
‘I want to assure you, Mr. Laking, that my thorough examination of you reveals absolutely nothing physically wrong with you. The X-ray plates showed nothing, and I have satisfied myself there is no organic disease. Every bodily function is working normally.’ He leaned forward, said deliberately, ‘It is the state of your mind which causes the distress. You should undergo a course of psychiatric treatment.’
‘Is it really necessary?’