Free A Late Phoenix by Catherine Aird Page A

one night and didn’t come back.” The receptionist was still keeping an eye on her notes. “You haven’t forgotten that the Caduceus Club meets tonight, Doctor, have you?”
    William clapped his hand to his forehead. “I had. Tell me about them again …”
    â€œIt’s a club for all the general practitioners in Berebury,” explained Miss Tyrell patiently, “and they’ve invited you to go along tonight. Caduceus …”
    â€œYes?” said William humbly. It was when classical and historical allusions flew about that he was most conscious of the terrace house from whence he had sprung.
    â€œCaduceus was the name of Mercury’s wand. You know, Doctor, the one which has the two snakes twined round it …”
    The only Mercury William Latimer knew to be associated with healing was the small quantity in the bulb of a clinical thermometer but he did not say so.
    â€œThe Caduceus Club meets once a month at the Feathers Hotel at 8:30 P . M . That’s so that everyone’s had a chance to finish their evening surgeries, Doctor.”
    â€œI see.” William resolved to start his own very sharply indeed. It would take him a little while to find the Feathers for the first time.
    When he went out on his visiting round again he noticed that the monster yellow digger was still parked in Lamb Lane. He looked across at the almost deserted site and reflected that the only thing he—and perhaps anyone else—knew for certain about the identity of the skeleton so far was that it wasn’t called Marjorie Simmonds née Draycott.
    â€œGood morning, gentlemen.” Dr. Dabbe greeted Sloan and Crosby in the post-mortem room of the hospital. “And how have you been getting on?”
    â€œSlowly,” said Sloan. “We’ve seen one of the Waite sons but not the other. And we’ve had a look at the local paper.”
    The issue of the Berebury paper for the Friday after the Wednesday could only be described as coyly reticent on the subject of the bombing of Berebury.
    â€œSomewhere in England” had been about as far as the paper had been prepared to go at the time by way of location.
    â€œThe community suffered severely” was their spare comment on casualties: “A number of houses were completely demolished” the taut observation by the reporter on damage.
    Sloan cleared his throat. “It wasn’t a great deal of help to us, Doctor. I should think there was pretty stringent censorship on newspapers at the time.”
    â€œWalls have ears,” murmured Dr. Dabbe, getting into his surgical gown.
    â€œBe like Dad, keep Mum,” Sloan was surprised to hear himself responding.
    How from whereabouts in the dim recesses of his own mind had that phrase been dredged up? It must have been lurking there dormant all the long years since the war. He hadn’t even known that he knew it, still less remembered it.
    Sloan had fingered the fragile wartime paper stacked away in the basement of the newspaper office, read its faded yellow columns and replaced it on the shelf. Probably the next time someone got it out would be for one of those reminiscent newspaper features “Forty-Four Years Ago”…
    Dr. Dabbe pulled on his rubber gloves, glanced at his assistant, caught his secretary’s eye and began dictating …
    â€œTo Her Majesty’s Coroner for West Calleshire, with copies to the Chief Constable and Dr. William Latimer. Head it ‘Report on unknown human remains found under the site of 1, Lamb Lane, St. Luke’s …’”
    â€œDoes that mean, Doctor,” interrupted Sloan, “that—for the record—the coroner’s bound to ask—there was no identity disc on or near the body?”
    â€œIt does, Inspector.”
    â€œIn spite of its being wartime?”
    The pathologist grunted. “I assure you that there was no such disc near the neck or either arm nor in the