What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery
"Khyber Love" and its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Poppyfield Productions. We are grateful to Ramint Slunec and his lovely wife, Tabiha Wire Alipphi, for allowing us to play about with their brilliant story.
Chapter 4 - The Safranschou Code
Between my concern over Phoebe Nielsen's odd medical history and Louisa's enchantment with this "Khyber Love" business, I had little sleep the last few nights. Each time I nodded off, my wife thought it appropriate to awaken me in a futile attempt to further discuss a niggling detail of the show. No, I did not recall how Simon and Jennifer met. Yes, of course, I remembered how Louisa and I met. Certainly Simon was a bit thoughtless in telling Fenella she was becoming pudgy. Yes, Louisa had shifted the baby weight and now looked quite fit. "Desirable, even alluring," I finally conceded after Louisa's peppered me with adjectives she felt I should apply to her body.
Wednesday morning I was surprised to awaken alone in our bed, thinking that Louisa would need a bit more sleep before seeing to James Henry. My senses were assaulted, actually tantalized, by a pungent aroma wafting from the kitchen. Without donning my dressing gown I made my way to the kitchen where Louisa was pulling a tray from the cooker.
"Oh, Martin, you're here then. I wanted to make breakfast for you. With all this brouhaha over 'Khyber Love,' you've been quite understanding. Phoebe gave me this recipe for 'lussebulle' which she learned to make in Minnesota."
"What are they," I asked suspiciously. "Some sort of American biscuit? They have 50 states. Do they have a biscuit for each state? A Biscuit50?"
"No, they're Swedish. A bit like our Cornish saffron buns but with raisins instead of sultanas."
James Henry's olfactory perception was apparently stimulated by the smell as a stream of droll trickled down his chin, wetting his jumper. Otherwise, he seemed clean and ready for the day. "Chipper," Auntie Joan might have said. Joan! I closed my eyes against the painful thought that she had not lived to see my son. She would have adored him.
To banish the thought I busied myself making coffee and switching on the kettle for Louisa's morning tea. Ordinarily, I wanted only an egg and toast for breakfast, perhaps a bit of fruit. But I did not want to disappoint Louisa by refusing her delectable buns. Carbohydrates were part of a balanced diet she had forcefully argued.
Taking the first bite from the small cake, I wrinkled my nose at its unusual taste. Aromatic, almost hay-like, but flavourful. "Louisa, what's in this?"
"The tiniest bit of saffron, Martin. Couldn't have more than a pinch. Saffron's quite pricey. Ruth had a vial she brought from London. It's difficult to find around here. Do you like it?"
Before I could answer, there was a thump on the back door followed by the grating voice of Pauline Lamb Large bellowing: "Doc, you gotta help me. Doc open the door!"
I remained seated, content to ignore this early morning interruption. Not Louisa. She threw open the door, full of concern for what I knew would be trouble. Pauline rushed into the kitchen bearing two large carriers filled with barking creatures.
"Get them out, Pauline. We're having breakfast."
"No, Doc. Please help me. Mr. Barfdom will have my head when he learns what's happened. You see, Mrs. Dingley gave Jennifer and Fenella dogs from her shelter and pasted photos of them on donation tins. She's collecting money from the tourists to feed her cats and dogs."
"Pauline, I don't want to be part of that woman's scheme. Remove those animals immediately."
"Oh, Martin, look at this one. His nose is all bloodied." Louisa had crouched on the floor to look into the carriers. "Couldn't you lend a hand?"
Glancing forlornly at my unfinished meal and increasingly cold coffee, I stood: "Very well, then. Go through to the surgery."
In my exam room, I stopped Pauline from blathering on about the fight between the two unfortunate dogs left in her care. "Quiet. If you want my help, you may not talk."
Oblivious to my request, Pauline pulled a small dark creature from the first crate saying, "Snowsie, this is Doc Martin. He'll see to your nose."
Reluctantly I placed the cur on my exam couch, reminding myself to thoroughly disinfect the spot. He did get the short end of the stick with a deep scratch on his nose, crusted with coagulated blood. I applied a disinfectant, causing him to whinge and nearly break from Pauline's grasp.
"Doc, let me turn him over. He's got a tear on his tum, tum, don't you lovey?"
Indeed, the skin was broken on the tender belly area and required closure. I applied Centrimide and did a simple straight stitch to close the wound. After wrapping a gauze around the animal's mid-section, he licked my hand, which I pulled back in disgust. It was one thing to treat a dog, but no gratitude was needed.
Just as Pauline was pulling the second dog from its carrier, Morwenna entered the room. Seeing me clad in pyjamas and her nemesis, Pauline, her eyes widened as if prised open by a speculum. She silently backed out of the room, and I couldn't really blame her. I was as dumbstruck as she by my current predicament.
And it only became worse as Pauline handed the squirming dog to me. At my command, she held the dog's mouth firmly shut so that I could prod its thick grey coat for injuries. Soon I discovered that the feisty smaller dog had nipped at the buttocks area of this patient. No stitches were required, but a good deal of ointment and dressing was needed. It was a difficult area to bandage. I could not cover the anus or penal area and interfere with the dog's waterworks and evacuation pathway. I had no hope the bandage would remain in place once the dog left the carrier, so I gave Pauline two tubes of ointment and a packet of gauze to clean the bites.
"Now, that wasn't so bad, Declan," Pauline cooed as she stuffed the squealing dog back into the carrier. You see he was named after a Celtic saint, Doc. Mrs. Dingley found him wandering near the Irish Sea and thought it appropriate. Declan is a saint, just like my Al."
"Enough, Pauline. Get them out. The next time you need help with an animal take it to the veterinary surgery where you worked."
"Of course, doc. That's zackley what I'll do." Pauline displayed less gratitude than the barking canines in her charge.
I opened the door to the reception area for Pauline and encountered several startled patients. Morwenna looked brightly from her desk: "Why don't you go off to dress, then, Doc. Please let me know when the first patient may go through." My receptionist was proving to be unflappable while her predecessor was merely a nuisance.
Twenty-two minutes later the first patient entered my exam room and proffered his hand rather than a packet. "David Rhys. I'm registered with Dr. Hashim in Saffron Walden. Just a visitor to your village for the 'Khyber Love' convention. Phoebe Nielsen told me you're quite good."
Closing my eyes with a sigh at the thought of treating yet another tourist with the lurkey, I demanded: "What is it you want."
"Only a few minutes of your time. I had a pacemaker implanted following a slight heart scare during my last trip to Bihud. Something seemed a bit off this morning, and Dr. Hashim suggested I have a word with you. Might need an adjustment."
At least it wasn't the typical complaint, so I asked the visiting patient to remove his shirt and have a seat on the exam couch. Carefully I examined him and asked that he wait in the reception area for at least an hour. I wanted to make certain his earlier twinges were not replicated.
"Bihud," I asked as he buttoned his shirt, "isn't that in Iran?"
"Yes, 'tis. I'm a spice trader and much of the world's saffron is produced in a few hectares nearby. I've tried to retire, but I still travel to Persia twice a year. As a strict adherent to the Safranschou Code, the overlords and mullahs trust me to never adulterate Bihudi saffron. And they're a tough lot, I'd say. That's how I came to be interested in that bloody 'Khyber Love.' Well, more because of Phoebe. She enticed me into writing Fan Fiction as well. I'm 'Dari David,' by the way."
"Yes, Dr. Nielsen – uhm – mentioned you," not quite believing that a man who honored the Safranschou Code would bother writing romantic drivel.
"Oh, what did she say? We had quite a row before coming here. I really put my foot into it this time. I'm not sure she'll ever forgive me. She only talks to me now because of the writer's convention. All because I belittled her plan for the end of Khyber Love."
"Uhm, yes. Please wait in the reception area," I wanted to dismiss this man and move on to my next patient. But I was not successful.
"You see, Dr. Ellingham, I am quite convinced that Simon is going to marry Fenella. Of course, he's half British but half Afghan as well. I know those chaps. They always go for the British lasses. Look at his father. He found himself an English baroness, didn't he? You know the warlord and I would have been at Cambridge about the same time. I matriculated in 1964. We're the same age. I feel almost like a father to Simon."
I could only blink at the spice trader and wonder if I should consider having him sectioned under the Mental Health Act. Did he really believe he had been at school with a fictional character and had an affection for the man's imaginary son? Ruth, Phoebe and the tourists invading Portwenn were caught up in this "Khyber Love" nonsense, but this man seemed so intelligent. Normal - until a few moments ago. What was this mysterious sway the show had over people?
Not wanting to pursue the answer, I escorted Dari David – erh David Rhys – to the reception area. There, Morwenna pounced on the poor sod, eager to discuss "Khyber Love" for the next while. Before lunch I checked his pacemaker and pronounced Mr. Rhys physically fine. I was less certain of his mental state as he blathered on about his misunderstanding with Dr. Nielsen.
"Since the death of Phoebe's husband, I've been quite enchanted with her. But she doesn't see it. Thinks I'm too introspective. Not willing to share my feelings. What does that even mean, Dr. Ellingham? Why do these women want us to natter on so. It's not that she's a psychiatrist either. Those bloody Fan Fiction writers spend more time with chat than getting down to it. I know what to write about Simon and Fenella. No need to analyse every nuance. They over-think everything, wouldn't you say?
"Uhm, perhaps. But off with you now. I've patients to see."
Actually, I was only anxious to ring Tom Giddins of the North Cornwall Water Authority about the water supply to our home.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Ellingham. Mr. Giddins is not in office. He's at your Aunt Ruth's farm testing the water. Her farm manager said there's a putrid smell near the well. Ruth and her friend are quite ill. Didn't they tell you?"
Less than ten minutes later, my car was roaring down the lane to Havenhurst Farm where I was greeted by Al Large. Rubbing his face in duress, Al mumbled that Giddins found the water clear. But Ruth and Dr. Nielsen were not well at all.
In the kitchen Ruth was at the cooker, lethargically stirring a steaming pot emitting an acrid odor. "Sorry, Martin, trying to open my nasal passages. Both Phoebe and I are quite congested. She hasn't left her bed this morning. I thought we'd be better. Didn't want to bother you."
Then came a loud crash from above.
"Phoebe," Ruth weakly called, but I gained the stairs faster than she. Upstairs, Dr. Nielsen was prone on the floor, eyes open but bloodshot, her face flushed.
"Is that you, David," she gasped. "It's all fuzzy - the room looks wavy – the windows are moving to and fro. Something bad's about to happen."
Ruth soon joined me and we were able to place Phoebe on the bed. She began to cough and Ruth reached for a cup of tea on the side table. I noticed a small cake as well. It was similar to the lussebulle Louisa baked this morning.
After we calmed her cough, Dr. Nielsen began to jabber about whirling trees, jiggling lights and the GriffinStar, whatever that might be. Her pulse and heart rate were elevated and may have caused her confused, agitated state. I suggested we have an ambulance transfer her to the Royal Cornwall; something seemed neurologically amiss. Ruth asked me to examine her thoroughly as Phoebe hated hospitals and physicians. Couldn't we sort it out here?
I started with the obvious by asking Ruth what Dr. Nielsen had eaten in the last day or so. Phoebe had eaten only two of the buns last night and another two this morning. That and tea were all she could keep down. Ruth had brought another cake with tea, hoping she could manage it for lunch.
Looking more closely at the lussebulle, it was much darker than the bun Louisa made. I pulled it apart and recoiled at the strong stench Ruth identified as nutmeg. The bun was thick with it.
"Ruth, did you eat any of these cakes?"
"Yes, I had one last evening. With my cold I couldn't taste it, so I didn't bother with another.
"Where did you buy them," my suspicions mounting.
"Phoebe brought them from the Khyber Love convention. She distributed the recipe to the writers, and several people brought freshly baked treats for her. I'm not sure who gave her these cakes. She'd know, of course.
Examining the bun, it was redolent with nutmeg, a myristicin intoxicant which likely caused the tachycardia, palpitations and facial flushing displayed by Dr. Nielsen. Perhaps dehydration from her cold contributed to the hallucinations and epigastric pain she experienced. After a telephone consultation with Dr. Mumpsimus at the Royal Cornwall A&E, I agreed that Phoebe could remain in Ruth's care. I would return when surgery was finished to examine the patient.
"I feel stupid for not spotting this," Aunt Ruth lamented. "Nutmeg use was rampant at Broadmoor. Pods from New Guinea were easily smuggled in, and prisoners crushed and swallowed them for a quick high. But I can't remember anyone being as ill as Phoebe. I'll make certain she's hydrated and re-assure her that nothing bad will occur. That's the worst of it. The feeling of impending doom.
"We always knew when the Vauxhall Vampire had gotten his hands on nutmeg. He became very melancholy and would cry over his lost rats. Phoebe was talking him down from a nutmeg high when he attacked her."
"Aunt Ruth," I began, not certain how to broach the matter, "Phoebe's friend, David Rhys, had an appointment with me just now. He seemed upset about a row they had. Could he have given her the nutmeg-laced buns?"
"David, oh absolutely not! He's quite mad about Phoebe. Has been for years. The poor man is desperate to marry her, but Phoebe won't have him. Shame, really, they complement each other quite well.
"No, David wouldn't harm Phoebe. And he'd never adulterate food in any way. The Safranschou Code, you see. It's probably one of those doolally women who can't imagine Simon with anyone but themselves. Phoebe has been hinting that Simon will marry neither Jennifer nor Fenella in her story. Instead he will do something shockingly different.
"The Fan Fiction writers are convinced that Phoebe has an in with the show's creator, Ramit Slunec, because she treated his brother at Broadmoor. Now, the writers believe Khyber Love will have a dramatic plot twist suggested by Phoebe. She has created more than a few enemies these last days.
"Talk to Tessa Tutor, Urdu Ursula or any of the women here for the filming. They have a good deal of emotional energy invested in the show's ending. Who knows what they might do to stop Phoebe. In my opinion it is a clear case of cherchez la femme."
Cherchez la femme, indeed!
To be continued . . . .
Author's note - with a nod to the British love of anagrams:
Ohn Jyn Barfdom, the location manager for Khyber Love, did not admonish Pauline about the dog fight. He was too preoccupied with a problem created by the actors who play Jennifer Mitchell and Fenella Quirk. An important filming sequence had to be re-scheduled because they failed to return from London on time.
The women were in London attending a birthday celebration for Amanda Abbington, who will portray someone's bridesmaid in the "Khyber Love" wedding. Following the birthday party, Amanda's partner, Martin, brought them to a second party with Benedict Cumberbatch. They were thrilled but missed the last train to Bodmin Parkway.
Khyber Love's creator, Ramit Slunec, was not pleased. The show's producer, Tabitha Wire Alipphi, was envious.
