Chapter 4: Wenn Hall
Monday Morning
When surgery opened up for the day, Martin was feeling rather good. The Lexus looked like new again, the shaggy grey dog that usually hung about outside was nowhere to be seen, even the seagull that had plagued him over the weekend appeared to have departed. The odious duty he had agreed to perform was still a week away and his schedule for the day looked light so he would have a chance to catch up with paperwork.
In reception, there were no patients waiting yet. Pauline was at her desk reading a celebrity gossip magazine.
"You're supposed to be putting the patient files back in order," he said.
"All done," she said. "There was a call, you're wanted out at Wenn Hall."
"House calls are for emergencies only, you know that."
"Mrs. Wenn said it was an emergency, sort of. They think it's something toxic in the house. Wenn Hall is open for tours two days a week, so it could be a public health matter."
"Well, I'm not going out that way. Got stuck in a bloody traffic jam caused by some film crew on the moor road on Saturday."
"Oh, the crew's not on the road now. That was the weekend schedule. Today they're actually set up at Wenn Hall. The grounds are large enough, there should be plenty of room to drive in and park."
"How do you know this?"
"The location shooting schedule is always posted at least a day ahead at the Village Hall so people can avoid the blocked roads. Mind you, some actually head for the filming on purpose."
"Whatever for?"
"To watch, of course!" she said. "To see Jago Powell and Wynnie Barlow in the flesh. He was voted Hello Magazine's Most Attractive Male last year. And she's just so glamorous, but they say her marriage to rock star hubby Carl Michaels is on a rough patch, and rumour has it Jago Powell was the cause. I can't wait till they start filming down at the Platt, I want to get some autographs."
"Why people waste their time on this claptrap is beyond me. What's the nature of this supposed emergency?"
"Don't know. Something toxic, that's all she said. She sounded worried."
Grumbling to himself, Martin headed out.
At least he had the Lexus back and it was a lovely day for a drive. Martin had begun to enjoy driving in the open countryside lately, now that the problem of people trying to run him off the road had been solved. The two fishermen responsible had turned up at his door separately, one desperate to find the cause of his young daughter's urticaria and the other quite embarrassed by a bout of erectile dysfunction.
Once he addressed their complaints, the men were satisfied, even grateful for his help and their aggression toward him ceased. Martin could never understand why some people simply seemed to have it in for him. Aunt Joan had attempted to explain that the fact that he wore fine suits and drove a quality automobile didn't sit well with the largely working class residents of the village, but that made no sense to him. His clothing and mode of conveyance were a mark of his professionalism, if anything they should inspire confidence in his competence.
Martin knew where Wenn Hall was located but he had never actually seen it. It took 20 minutes to reach the entrance to the grounds but the house itself was not visible from the road. He drove up to a set of high wrought iron gates where he pressed a button and spoke his name into a microphone. The gates swung open wide to admit him to the long drive beyond.
The gate shut with a crash behind him, the drive twisting and turning ahead of him. It was scarcely wider in places than a path, flanked by a colonnade of trees, whose branches intermingled with one another above, making an archway like the roof of a church. The sunlight would not penetrate the interlacing of those green leaves, only little flickering patches of warm light occasionally dappled the drive with gold. It was very silent, very still. Even the quiet engine of the Lexus seemed muffled in this atmosphere. As the drive descended a gentle slope the trees came in closer, great beeches with lovely smooth white trunks, and other trees, trees he could not name, coming close, so close he could have touched them with his hand from the driver's window if he had wanted to. On he went, over a little stone bridge that spanned a narrow stream, and still the drive twisted and turned like a ribbon through the dark and silent woods, penetrating even deeper to the heart surely of the forest itself, and still there was no clearing, no space for a house.
The length of it began to nag at his nerves. Suddenly he saw the clearing ahead, and a patch of sky, and in a moment the dark trees had thinned and he drove into a corridor of crimson hedgerows, reaching high above the Lexus on either side. They were rhododendrons, a dense profusion of them. There was something bewildering, even shocking about the suddenness of their appearance. They were luscious and fantastic, unlike any variety of rhododendrons he had ever seen before, and he couldn't help but feel uneasy passing by those blood-red flowering walls.
The drive broadened, and he turned the last corner and so came to Wenn Hall. The great square Gothic stone house, flanked with tall towers at the corners, flew the Cornish flag from a mast on the roof. It was set in a hollow of smooth grassland and mossy lawns, the terraces sloping to the gardens, and the gardens to the sea. As he parked near the wide stone steps, there were a number of equipment vans already there and he could see through one of the mullioned windows that the front of the house was full of people. He went in the open front door. Inside the front parlour, people were pointing cameras and holding microphones and lights over a dark-haired man of about 35 and a very pretty and blonde younger woman, both of them in 1930s clothing. They were seated by a fireplace, with a pair of cocker spaniels crouched by the fire.
"How is it? All right? Do you think you'll like it?" said the man. He went over and leaned out the open window. A crew member holding a microphone on the end of a long boom silently moved to keep the mic just close enough to capture the actor's voice and just far away enough to stay out of sight of the camera. Martin paused to watch. Everyone around him seemed to hold their breath as the scene played out.
"I love the rose garden," the man continued. "There's something peaceful and happy about this room, and it's quiet too. You could never tell you were within five minutes of the sea in this room."
"That's what Mrs. Danvers said," the woman replied.
The man turned away from the window. "How did you get on with old Danvers?"
"She just seems a bit stiff. Perhaps she thought I was going to interfere with the running of the house."
"Don't mind her," the man said. "If she really makes herself a nuisance we'll get rid of her. But she's efficient, you know, and will take all housekeeping worries off your hands. I dare say she's a bit of a bully to the staff. She doesn't dare bully me though. I'd have given her the sack long ago if she had tried."
The young woman looked concerned and the man came over to kiss her on the top of her head.
"Let's forget about Mrs. Danvers," he said. "Come along, and let me show you something of Manderley."
The two placid cocker spaniels by the fireplace suddenly appeared to have spotted Martin. They leapt up with happy barks and ran over to him like he was a long lost friend.
"Cut!" yelled a man, the same man from the moor road Saturday. He was still wearing a baseball cap, even though they were indoors. "Who are you?" he shouted at Martin. "Who said you could be on the set? Why are you interfering with the dogs?"
In the background, the man and woman who had been so loving when the cameras were rolling scowled at each other and turned away to consult their scripts.
Martin jumped back, grimacing. "I'm not interfering with your bloody dogs, keep them away from me! Someone here called me out on an emergency!"
As the director called for the dog wrangler to restore order, a tall, gaunt woman in her 60s, dressed in grey, appeared in the hallway. She had prominent cheekbones and great hollow eyes, giving the impression of a glaring skull. "You're the doctor," she stated, as a fact more than a question. "Follow me. Mr. Wenn is resting upstairs."
Martin followed her up the grand staircase, past the gallery lined with family portraits of generations past, and through a corridor to the master bedroom. Michael Wenn, a man of about 40, with thin, hawkish features, and greying at the temples, was propped up in an antique sleigh bed. A pale young woman sat anxiously by his side.
"Nice to finally meet you, Dr. Ellingham," Wenn said, taking off his reading glasses and setting aside what appeared to be a book about ancient Egypt. "I expect you know my brother Richard already, he lives in the village, chairman of the local yacht club. Dr. Sim was a member, has Richard invited you to join yet?"
"Yes. I declined." Impatient with the small talk, Martin dropped his medical bag onto the bedside table and took a seat. Michael Wenn, obviously the eldest son and heir of Portwenn's foremost family, seemed very different from his rather more aggressive brother. He struck Martin as an introvert, his watery grey eyes betraying a gentle befuddlement.
"Sorry to inconvenience you with a house call old chap, but I don't know what's going on," Wenn said.
"He started having severe stomach pains and a temperature of 39 overnight," said the young woman.
"Have you eaten anything unusual in the past 24 hours? Been abroad recently?" Martin asked. "Pain localized to the right side of the abdomen?"
"No, nothing unusual, and I had my appendix out as a boy," Wenn replied. "As a matter of fact we were travelling for while but we've been back several weeks now. I've had a rough night but I'm actually starting to feel a bit better. My wife worries though."
Martin took the man's temperature. "Well, the fever's well on its way down now. I'll need a stool sample for some lab tests. Can you manage it now?"
The patient nodded. Martin handed him a sterile container and waited as the man rose with a groan and headed for an en suite bathroom.
There was an uncomfortable silence. "I don't suppose you, um… know anything about dogs?" Mrs. Wenn asked, shyly.
Dogs again. Martin bristled. "I'm not a vet!"
"No, of course not," she responded. "It's just that… well, Bobby turned up dead this morning. My husband's favourite Springer spaniel, they were inseparable. Seems like an odd coincidence, Michael being sick and all."
There was a flush and a rush of water from a faucet, and in a moment Wenn was back with the now sealed container.
"I was just telling the doctor about Bobby," Mrs. Wenn said.
"Yes, 16 years old, which is a ripe old age for a Springer," Wenn said. "Still, he was healthy as a horse yesterday, bit of shock for him to just keel over without warning. Wondering if you could weigh in Doctor on what might have done him in, before we give him a proper burial in the garden."
"Don't be ridiculous," Martin retorted. "I'm not doing an autopsy on a dog. In any case it's dead now, even a vet couldn't do anything for it. You need to rest, drink plenty of clear fluids, and let me know if you have a relapse. Or better yet come see me in my office. I'll contact you when the test results come back."
Martin picked up his bag for departure, irritated that the unpleasant housekeeper insisted on showing him a way out that avoided the film crew. She said nothing but seemed to be examining him with dark, sombre eyes that contrasted with her cold, white face, and her whole appearance made him uncomfortable. He was relieved to be leaving Wenn Hall behind.
To be continued...
Note: A temperature of 39 Celsius is about 102 Fahrenheit.