Chapter 5 – [1]
Several days later Al was at Ruth's apartment working on her computer. The old lady's desktop machine seemed to need fixing quite frequently and Al had Ruth's computer all taken apart. He was changing a malfunctioning board inside and, to take advantage of the opportunity, he was giving it a general upgrade to make it faster.
"Are you sure you can put it all back together again?" asked Ruth perplexed, as demolishing the desktop computer so completely would never have occurred to her.
"Yeah, this is all rather straightforward, Ruth. Once you learn how these machines work they are all the same. Very predictable. Unlike women."
"Ah… are we talking about Morwenna now?" asked Ruth.
"Yep."
"Why, what seems to be the problem?"
"Oh, you know… I thought I had made myself clear, that I mean to marry her, but… maybe she never got that."
"So you do mean to marry her?" asked Ruth.
"Yes, of course! So even you had not figured that out?"
"Well… I suspected, but you never really said. You might have told the poor girl though."
"Poor girl? Why? I didn't do anything to her!" said Al rather miffed.
"You have been keeping her waiting a long time."
"I thought she knew," protested Al. "But… the doc says I probably mumbled and never really proposed."
"You had a talk about your… love life with Martin!?" Ruth was rather astonished.
"He is a man, you know, and he also has had some problems talking to Louisa."
"Some problems, right, I'd say that's quite the understatement…" commented Ruth with her lopsided grin, "and that's precisely why I can't see how Martin would be of help in this."
"Well, he was helpful. He said I should propose… you know… traditionally, with a ring."
"Right, that does sound like Martin."
"I would like to buy a ring for Morwenna, but… I have never bought any rings… Say Ruth, would you help me pick one in Truro?"
"I'm not sure I know about engagement rings any more than you do."
"But you have such good taste, you can help me choose. Please?"
"Fine, if it will make you move along with Morwenna, yes I can help you choose."
"Thank you Ruth! You are wonderful!"
The doorbell rang in a sort of Morse code message and Ruth said: "Must be James." She opened the door and her great nephew smiled joyfully and said: "Hello Aunt Ruth! Here's your bag of groceries. It weighs a ton, but I've got muscles! Oh, hello Al!"
"Hi there, James."
Ruth and Al exchanged a concerned look when they saw the scratches still very visible on James' face. James noticed their expressions and said: "It doesn't hurt that much anymore. Dad says there probably won't be any scars on my face. Too bad, I'd like at least one small scar, I'd be like a pirate!"
"Oh James," said Ruth, "what happened to Jasmine Rowe was not a game."
"I know, sorry…" apologized James, who had not meant to reduce Jasmine's misfortune to an adventure of sorts. Then he added sadly: "She's not coming to school anymore."
"You have to be patient James, it will probably take a few days for her to recuperate," explained Ruth, "hopefully she'll come back in a little while."
"I hope so, she's really nice."
Then James whistled when he saw all the computer parts scattered over the table. James was genuinely fascinated by all things electronic, and not just colorful touchscreens and games, but especially the hardware. He was as taken by the interiors of computers as his father was by those of human bodies and clocks, and was practically drooling at the opportunity to watch Al do this work, and perhaps help a little.
"Aunt Ruth, do you think I could stay and watch what Al is doing? I want to learn how to fix computers too."
James was given permission to stay and he quickly went to Al's side to watch. Al taught James what the various parts were about, motherboard, video card, audio card, hard drive and the like, and where each part was to be connected. Al let James insert two of the cards, tighten some screws, and re-attach most of the connecting cables.
One item Al was fixing was the sound system, so when they were done reassembling the computer they had to test both the microphone and the speakers. That was when things got funny. Al downloaded a voice changing application. They spoke into the microphone in turn, saying silly things, and then played them back with a variety of voice modifications: male, female, monsters, squirrels, devils, robots, aliens, and everything in between. James had several giggling fits, especially when he found a voice that, he thought, should have been labeled "Doc Martin," and he made it say "You idiot!" several times: it sounded so much like Martin that he was already plotting how to use that one for a practical joke on… mum probably. At some point James recorded: "Ruth Ellingham! Give us scones, or your computer will always talk like this!" and he played it back in the voice of "Evil Lord." Poor Ruth did jump up at that, but said: "That's fine, I'll keep that voice for the postman, so at least I won't have to give him any scones in the morning… Can we record: "Leave the post outside, and me alone"?"
"Sure," replied James laughing.
"But you can have a scone James, you'll find one in the kitchen… Say Al…" asked Ruth in a thoughtful manner, "…could one change a voice like this through a microphone, in real time?"
"Yes, with the right equipment, though you have more of a choice of voices with these computer or smartphone applications."
"Smartphone? You can do this voice changing with a mobile?"
"Yes, you can record or write something and the mobile can play it back with all these different voices."
Ruth shook her head. "When I was young we could not even have imagined something like this, it's as much amazing as it is frightening."
"It's a lot of fun!" said James with his mouth full of scone, which made him sound rather like one of the altered computer voices, and that made him laugh again and almost choke.
"Al, this gives me an idea for the King's Mart village meeting. I think it would be… productive to help Louisa along in her rebuttal of whatever Ms. Williams will have to say," announced Ruth with her typical lopsided grin. "Top secret boys, understood? Rather innocent, but it will work only if it stays among us. What should we call it James? Operation… Greek Chorus, I think."
James stared at his great aunt with a very appreciative look: who could have guessed, a fellow schemer! So he said: "You can count on me Aunt Ruth, I can keep your secret operation… well, secret."
"I hope so, because you James are the smallest of us all, and thus the easiest person to conceal."
Al was puzzled, but smiling: this old lady never stopped surprising him, she seemed to keep finding aces up her sleeve no matter what the situation at hand. Marvelous lady.
"Spill the beans, Ruth Ellingham!" said Evil Lord, without quite muffling another fit of giggles.
Chapter 5 – [2]
Martin's day was proceeding in typical Portwenn fashion. Most patients had relatively minor ailments that were quite routine: some required the usual management of chronic conditions, especially the elderly; some had coughs and colds; and children needed mostly to stay home from school or take antibiotics, and sometimes nothing except less worried parents. Then in the afternoon things took a turn for the worse, or the weird.
An old man came in shuffling his feet and carrying a parcel. He sat in front of Martin, scratched his white beard and stared.
"What seems to be the matter Mr…. Payne?" asked Martin, glancing at the patient's notes, never eager to waste his time.
"I would not have imagined that of you doc, but, you never know, do you? I guess you are what they call a dark horse, ah?"
"What are you talking about? Are you sick or not?" asked Martin losing his patience.
"No more than usual."
"What can I do for you then? I don't appreciate it when people come here for no reason at all! I should be seeing patients who are really sick!"
"Doc, it's not what you can do for me now, but what I can do for you."
"I did not ask you to do anything for me! You need to go Mr. Payne!"
But Mr. Payne had been in Doc Martin's consulting room many times over the years and knew as well as anyone in Portwenn that the doc barked a lot, but never bit. Thus the old man did not lose his composure and said: "Well, you see doc, I have these instruments, but I'm too old for them now, and I thought maybe you'd like to have them." Mr. Payne put his parcel on Martin's desk.
"What instruments?" Martin did not know what to make of the man. What was wrong with him? He made no sense at all. This patient had previously not shown any signs of dementia, but it might be a sudden onset, which could have any number of causes.
"You'll see," said Mr. Payne with a sly little smile. "Go on open it, it's for you… and the lucky lady."
Martin stared at the man for a few moments, unable to decide what was wrong with the old man. He decided to humor him to see whether he could come up with a diagnosis, or at least hasten the man's departure. Martin took out a small knife and sliced the tape holding the package together and opened it. The contents were rather puzzling: a whip as you might use on a horse, policeman's handcuffs, and various other strange-looking items the use of which Martin could not fathom. Martin concluded the man must have lost his mind and jumbled together some odd items at his house thinking they were useful instruments, as he put it, but for what?
"What are these for?" Martin asked.
"Well, this is a whip, not too big, not too small, just right. It's for whipping, of course. A little you, a little her. It works wonders! This…"
But finally understanding had flooded Martin's mind, so he straightened up and asked rather menacingly: "Mr. Payne, are you saying these are for… sexual… games?"
"Yeah, of course. They cost an arm and a leg doc, really high quality, it's a pity to let them go to waste as I cannot use them anymore…"
"Mr. Payne, wrap these items again and leave. NOW."
"You don't want them?"
"NO."
"Why not? They are used but I cleaned them thoroughly with…"
"LEAVE! NOW!"
"But Rose said…"
"NOW MR. PAYNE, NOW!" Martin grabbed the package, hastily re-wrapping the instruments of torture. He stuffed them into the old man's arms and pointed at the door unequivocally. Mr. Payne left, shaking his head and mumbling about Martin's lack of appreciation. Martin thought he needed to test the man for dementia, but not now that he had a fixation on these instruments. Later, when hopefully he would have forgotten about them.
Shortly later Mr. Twist, a rather fat middle-aged man, came in about a prescription refill and started sniggering at Martin for no apparent reason.
"Doc," said the man, "you rascal you, I didn't think you had it in you. Listen, what would you say about you, me and the lady?"
"What are you saying?" asked Martin angrily, as he didn't see how the man dared call him a rascal.
"Calm down doc, calm down. All I mean is… a threesome. How about that?"
Martin stared at Mr. Twist. This one was not old enough for dementia. What was going on today, were all the patients obsessed with weird sex? Martin turned quite red in the face, but said very, very calmly: "You, me… and the lady?"
"Yeah, would be fun, wouldn't it?"
Still preternaturally calm Martin asked, now with a very dangerous edge in his voice which the man did not perceive: "What lady?"
If the man had answered "Louisa, of course," it is possible Martin would have jumped up from behind his desk and manhandled the man on the spot, but Mr. Twist said: "Ms. Williams, of course. I'm sure she'd go for it. The threesome I mean."
"Leave," said Martin very calmly and very coldly, with such a savage look on his face that the man got up and said: "Alright, never mind then, I guess you are not interested."
"NO!" yelled Martin whose cold anger was about to explode full force now. "GO AWAY!"
"Too bad, Rose said…"
"NOW!" And, in a repeat of the previous encounter with Mr. Payne, Mr. Twist left shaking his head and mumbling about missed opportunities.
Fortunately the next few patients behaved relatively normally considering they all lived in Portwenn, though there was indeed an unusual amount of giggling the whole rest of the day.
At mid-afternoon they received an urgent call from Arthur Davis' sister Beth Holmes.
Martin took the call immediately. He had been very worried about Arthur Davis. The man had stoically accepted two injections of his new treatment despite the fact that the side effects were horrendous. Too weak to sit on his wheelchair, Arthur had been in bed for several days now, almost completely paralyzed: he could move only his head and, intermittently, his left arm. He had a fever and was nauseous. He was definitely much, much worse than he had been the first time Martin had seen him.
"Ellingham! What is it?"
"Oh Martin," said Beth, "Arthur is really not himself. He is even worse than when you saw him yesterday, and… he is also delirious now, doesn't seem to know where he is, or when. I'm really scared. Can you come?"
"Yes, I'll be there in about fifteen minutes." Martin grabbed his bag while instructing Morwenna, and left.
Upon arrival Martin followed Beth straight into the barn that had been modified into a spacious apartment, complete with wheelchair ramps, lifts to move Arthur in and out of his wheelchair, bed, bathroom and armchair. Martin had marveled at how well-appointed the place was, and had not been surprised to learn that the design had been done by Arthur himself.
Arthur lied over his bed in a feverish state. He was sweating profusely, despite the fact that the nurse, a big blond woman of about forty, had wisely removed all blankets and covered him only with a sheet.
"I gave him some paracetamol, doctor," said nurse O'Malley, "to bring the temperature down, but it does not seem to be working. And his temperature is not so high as to justify this delirious state."
"What was his temperature when you gave him the paracetamol?" asked Martin.
"38.8," answered the nurse.
"It's high for him. With MS the body cannot regulate its internal temperature accurately, so the patient can feel excessively hot or cold at temperatures that do not bother healthy people. It is impossible to say what 38.8 means for him exactly, but judging from his state I'd say it's equivalent to a 40 or more."
"I see," said the nurse, "my patients usually have terminal cancer, this is my first MS case. I'll read up on it."
"You should," replied Martin rather coldly, and added: "I'll give him an injection that will bring the temperature down faster," and he extracted the necessary syringe and medicine from his bag. Once he had administered the shot Martin sat next to the bed and tried to talk to Arthur.
"Arthur, how are you feeling?"
"Who is this?" asked Arthur feebly.
"Martin Ellingham."
"Who's that?"
"Doctor Ellingham, your GP."
"No, Doctor Marshall is my GP," mumbled Arthur.
"Doctor Marshall was your GP in London, you are in Portwenn now."
"Portwenn?... Dad, is that you? How am I in this wainscot paneled room?"
They all looked at each other, puzzled: there was no wainscot paneling in the apartment.
"Wainscot?" asked Martin.
"This is such a nice room Paula," said Arthur, smiling, "you chose the best room in this hotel I think."
"Who's Paula?" asked nurse O'Malley.
"His ex-wife," answered Beth.
"She left him?" asked the nurse in a surprisingly angry tone.
"Yes."
"Oh, poor man! You'd be surprised how many people divorce when they get seriously ill. Some people are sh… " the nurse controlled herself in time, and added: "Sorry, it just makes me mad."
Arthur somehow was still smiling, but he had now transferred his admiration for the nonexistent wainscot panels to nurse O'Malley.
"Come here Paula," he said sweetly, "give us a kiss."
The nurse smiled and, to Martin's astonishment, sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down and planted a kiss on Arthur's forehead.
"There, better now?" she asked Arthur jokingly. Arthur nodded with a beatific smile and drifted off to sleep.
"Do you always kiss your patients?" asked Martin, who did not know quite how to react to this highly unprofessional behaviour.
"No, never before," answered nurse O'Malley simply, "Arthur's special. I never had a patient before who could make me laugh so much, he has the most amazing sense of humor, especially for someone who is as sick as he is. A great spirit."
Martin found he had no desire to reprimand this nurse, as he perceived she was just being kind to Arthur, if very unconventionally, and left it at that with an incomprehensible mumble. He turned to Beth and said: "When he wakes up the fever will be under control, and he should recognize you both again. Nurse, we need to keep him hydrated, so add at least one liter to his daily dosage of water, more wouldn't hurt. As the temperature goes down he should start feeling better, probably within the hour. See, there isn't much more we can do, these are the side effects of his medication. The only remedy is to stop administering it."
"But he so insisted to let him have it despite the side effects," replied Beth sadly.
"I know. I think I'll try to consult with another neurologist in Truro. I don't like the state Arthur's in at all," replied Martin. "I have to get back to my patients at the surgery, but I'll call back in an hour and you'll take his temperature again then, nurse. Understood?"
"Yes, doctor," said nurse O'Malley who had been told by Beth always to do exactly as Martin instructed. Martin left.
While driving back to the surgery, Martin reflected that he had been specifically told by Arthur himself to keep administering the drug regardless of the side effects. Martin had serious doubts now, however, and not just about the fact that the drug might not help Arthur at all, but that it might harm him long-term instead. Martin was concerned that the havoc wrought by the drug would not be reversible, that Arthur would not be able to regain even the modicum of independence and the clear intellectual ability he had had before.
What bothered Martin most of all was Lahm's cavalier attitude about Arthur's condition. Martin had talked to Lahm again the day before, but the neurologist insisted that side effects, even severe, were to be expected before positive results could be seen. At Martin's insistence that Arthur's condition counseled stopping the experimental drug, Lahm had almost laughed at him for having no backbone. Lahm had practically hung up on Martin, again. What to do when Arthur had signed papers authorizing the drug's administration for four weeks and the responsible specialist, Lahm, insisted that they should continue?
Then there was Martin's gut feeling that told him something was terribly wrong with this drug trial. It was a warning that derived from the hasty way in which Arthur had been accepted into the drug trial, and from Lahm's unwillingness to discuss any aspects of it. Martin did not really want to think the worst of a colleague, to think that Lahm was in some hitherto unproven way conducting an unethical experiment, but Lahm's modus operandi felt exactly that way. How could Martin discover the truth? He thought about his contacts in Truro. There was an older neurologist there, close to retirement, to whom Martin had referred a number of patients over the years. The man was not brilliant, but definitely very competent. He might have some additional information on Lahm. At worst he would have nothing to say, so there was no harm in trying to talk to the man.
Once back in his consulting room Martin scrolled through his contacts and then touched his finger on "M. Jeffreys." After a couple of rings a receptionist answered: "Jeffreys' neurology clinic!"
"Doctor Ellingham, Portwenn. I need to consult with Doctor Jeffreys about one of my patients."
"Yes Doctor Ellingham, can you hold? I will see whether Doctor Jeffreys is available."
After a few minutes Martin heard some clicks and then his colleague's voice: "Jeffreys here. What's it about Ellingham?"
"Hello Jeffreys. A new patient, just moved back here from London, was referred to Bernard Lahm. Patient has secondary-progressive MS, is confined to motorized chair, has feeding tube and catheter, and until recently could move both arms and torso, and was perfectly lucid. Lahm admitted him to his experimental drug trial on the spot, as soon as he saw him, and we have administered the drug two times, one dosage every three days. He is supposed to continue this regimen for a month, but the side effects are devastating." And Martin went on to describe the very poor state of Arthur.
Utter silence greeted Martin at the end of his explanation, till he said: "Jeffreys, are you there?"
"Yes, Ellingham, I'm here… Sad to say, I am not overly surprised to hear this, though I am shocked about the rapidity with which this case has proceeded. Lahm has been testing this drug for a couple of years and rumour has it it's not proven effective. Side effects though were described merely as temporary and not as extensive or devastating as what you describe… Maybe I'm too suspicious, but Lahm… is the sort to seek results at all cost."
"I figured as much," replied Martin.
"Between you and I… I would not be surprised if Lahm had decided to resort to unscrupulous methods."
"But Jeffreys, whatever methodology Lahm is using he cannot be using it on my patient only. It stands to reason he would need others."
"Right… You know… two patients of mine with advanced cases of secondary-progressive MS were supposed to see me for regular check-ups last month, but they cancelled their appointments. I was not too surprised because, poor souls, when they get to that stage even getting out of the house is a chore, so it happens they don't show up… I did not refer them to Lahm, but they may have heard of his supposedly miraculous drug and gone to see him. You never know, I'll check and… I'll contact a couple other colleagues here in Truro tomorrow to see whether they have heard anything more concerning Lahm's trial."
"Thank you Jeffreys, that's very helpful. Do let me know as soon as you hear anything. We have to decide whether to administer the next dosage to my patient. I will strongly counsel him and his family against it, but they may decide otherwise, I'm not sure."
"I understand. I'll call you tomorrow. Thank you for alerting me to this situation, Ellingham."
"Had to, Jeffreys, I smell a rat," and they hung up.
At the end of this conversation Martin felt vindicated. Then there was a knock on his door.
"Come in!" he said.
Morwenna came in: "I was about to leave doc, but Mrs. Tishell came by. She says she needs to see you."
"About a medical complaint?"
"I don't know. Should I let her in?"
"Oh, fine, send her in."
Mrs. Tishell then came in and sat across Martin's desk, looking at him with big round eyes and a knowing air, but not saying anything.
"Mrs. Tishell? What is it?" inquired Martin rather impatient.
"Doctor Ellingham… have you been feeling well?"
"What? Yes, what business is that of yours?"
"I am…ehm… ehm… writing an article."
"You are writing an article?"
"Yes, I am. Is that so strange?"
"No, I guess not, you're always on about articles…" said Martin dubiously.
"Doctor, have you had… unusual… feelings lately?"
"Mrs. Tishell!... What is this article about?"
"Mid-life crisis."
"Ah. And you want to consult with me on that?" Martin found this rather irritating, but on the other hand writing an article might help keep this lunatic woman half-way sane.
"No. I want to… interview you."
"Me?"
"Yes. You are middle-aged, are you not?"
"Yes. You expect me to be a subject in your study?" Martin raised his voice in annoyance.
"I would like to… interview all the middle-aged men in Portwenn." Mrs. Tishell had come to the surgery with no plan, so she had to improvise. She had no intention of interviewing anyone, but she continued: "Many men, including my Clive, have mid-life crises. They ask themselves "Is this all there is in life for me?" or "What do I want to do before I become too old for it"? And sometimes men act upon these sudden desires, as if it was their last chance. So I ask you again doctor, have you had any unusual feelings or desires lately?"
He was staring at her thinking she had no business asking these questions, but in the interest of science he said: "No."
"You feel completely satisfied?"
"As satisfied as I think it's possible for me to be, yes. I am NOT having a mid-life crisis."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!"
"No thoughts about… ehm… other women?"
"NO!"
"No… ehm… unusual, deviant sexual desires?"
"MRS. TISHELL! That's quite enough! What in the world is this article about?!" exploded Martin. Why did they all have kinky sex on their minds today?
"Mid-life crisis, doctor, I told you!"
"And does it have to have so many questions about… about women and… sexual desires? You might be better off putting together a written, anonymous survey questionnaire you know, rather than asking these personal questions face to face!"
"But doctor, I am concerned!"
"About?"
"Your health! Are you feeling strange or sick? There is counseling you know if you have unusual wants…"
"Mrs. Tishell, that's ENOUGH! I am NOT answering any more questions! Put together an ANONYMOUS questionnaire and I'll fill it out… send it by mail to all the middle-aged men. That will provide you far more reliable data. Goodbye Mrs. Tishell!" and he got up and opened the door for her.
"À tout à l'heure," said Mrs. Tishell, rather satisfied: she could definitely put together an anonymous written questionnaire which she would send only to Martin.
Chapter 5 – [3]
That evening Martin went to the kitchen and saw that James and Joanie were playing a game in the living room, and that Louisa was ready to go out again.
"Going out?" asked Martin surprised.
"Yes Martin, I told you this morning that I'm having dinner at Beth's tonight. Don't you remember?"
"No. I forgot."
They looked at each, both knowing that Martin had forgotten because he wanted to forget all about the "No King's Mart in Portwenn" committee.
"Well, we need to do some more committee work," explained Louisa. "Arthur is in no condition poor man, and Beth wants to be near him as much as possible."
"Right," said Martin in his usual reticent way, and with a long face.
"Martin… don't be like that, please. The King's Mart issue won't last forever, just a little longer. Maybe we can take a vacation at the end of term, a few days away somewhere with the kids."
"Maybe, we'll see... I'll cook the veal scaloppini then, the children seem to like it."
"Good idea."
Louisa walked to Martin, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek which he did requite with one of his own, but she could see that his displeased mien at her departure did not change. She sighed and said: "Bye children!"
"Bye mum!" both children replied at once.
"Do entertain your father children, if you can, he is moping there in the kitchen as if I were going far, far away on a long, long trip."
"Ah, daddy always misses you mum, because he really, really loves you!" said Joanie smiling. James, always the practical one, rolled his eyes and sighed: "We'll figure something out to make him stop moping mum, don't worry."
"Thank you James. See you later," and she left.
James sat there thinking what they could do to cheer up their father who was starting dinner. Not something medical, no fun at all. Clocks were not so bad, but not half as entertaining as computers. What then? Dad had only a handful of interests in his life: Louisa and his children, medicine, clocks, healthy cooking, more Louisa after hours… and nothing else. So it was time to broaden his horizons. Perhaps some detecting, in Sherlock Holmes' style would interest him? Would dad play with James' Sherlock Holmes board game? He had done it before.
After a while there was a knock at the back door. Martin, who was wearing his apron and cooking the meat, sighed and opened the door. It was Joe Penhale.
"Penhale! Not an emergency, I hope."
"I'm not sure doc. Ms. Williams of King's Mart. Have you seen her?"
"Thankfully, no."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure!"
"Well, she's missing."
"Missing?"
"Yes. Her office has been calling her hotel room and her mobile for quite some time, but there is no answer. I thought she might be here."
"Here? Why?"
"'cause everyone says that she… she fancies you, doc."
"Penhale! That's none of your business, and I certainly don't fancy her!"
"Well, I just asked, didn't I? I did not mean to imply any inappropriate behaviour."
"Maybe she's gone somewhere and her mobile's battery is dead," said Martin turning the veal slices in the pan.
"Ah, the case of the missing Cruella!" said James, triumphant.
"Yes. I suspect foul play," said Penhale slightly squinting as he imagined a detective would do.
"Why?" asked James.
"Blood."
"What blood?"
"On her pillow."
"A clue!" said James
"Exactly," said Penhale
"Nose bleed," said Martin
"Or foul play."
"Penhale, how much blood are we talking about?" asked Martin.
"Three areas, about one centimeter square each."
Martin rolled his eyes: "That's a nose bleed, and a small one at that."
"But nobody can find Ms. Williams."
"She'll turn up," shrugged Martin, "James, Joanie, here's the veal scaloppini."
"Smells good doc," said Penhale.
"Why don't you eat with us Joe?" piped up Joanie very sweetly. "Daddy, can Joe have mum's sclapini, since she's not here?"
Martin rarely found any reason to be displeased with Joanie, he was so biased that she could hardly do anything wrong in his eyes. But inviting Penhale to dinner?!
"Your mother might want it later," said Martin sternly.
"Dad! Mum is eating out, she's not going to eat again when she comes home!" said James very decisively, "She doesn't want to get fat, and we can discuss the case of the missing Cruella with Joe… or Lestrade."
"Well, that's very nice, thank you," said Penhale sitting down, to Martin's chagrin. "Who's Lestrade?"
"He's the policeman in Sherlock Holmes. He always needs Sherlock's help to solve his cases," explained James.
"Ah, a dynamic duo, like me and the doc," said Penhale enthusiastically, but then thought of Martin's steadfast refusal to be part of any such duo, and added sadly: "Or maybe not."
"It's a trio, actually," said James. "There's Doctor Watson too. Haven't you read or seen Sherlock Holmes on the telly, Joe?"
"Yes but… a long time ago, I don't remember that much."
"Well, at Christmas I got the Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective Game. Then, when we went to London for dad's conference last month, mum took us to Baker Street and bought me a deerstalker hat and a pipe at the souvenir store. So I'll be Sherlock," said James chewing his veal, "you Joe are Lestrade, and dad of course is Doctor Watson."
"And who am I?" asked Joanie.
"You can be… Miss Watson, Doctor Watson's daughter," answered James.
"OK, I can do that."
"The case of the missing Cruella?" tried James. "I don't like that. What should we call it Lestrade?"
"I'm not very good at names Ja… Sherlock."
"The missing… minx!" exclaimed James "That's it, mum calls her that. Sounds right. The case of "The Missing Minx"."
"Sherlock… what's a minx?" asked Joanie.
"Not sure really, but if mum says it about Cruella, it can't be good."
"Are you all out of your right minds?" intervened Martin, nonplussed by this conversation. "Minx means impudent, or shameless, cunning… or flirting… never mind! Can we forget Cruella?"
"Doc, we cannot really ignore a missing person, can we?" observed Penhale. "Excellent meat by the way, doc, I should eat here more often."
"Yeah, it's a free restaurant!" said Martin, fuming. "And I'm not convinced anyone is missing."
"That's what everybody said when you were missing, doc, all those years ago, and it was Louisa who insisted we come looking for you. So now I know, don't wait, do go look for missing people, they might have been kidnapped…"
"Or murdered!" said James gleefully.
"James! That's not funny!" scolded Martin.
"I did not say murder is funny, Watson. But it's a case! The game's afoot!"
Martin rolled his eyes, sighed and kept eating.
"Lestrade, give me all the facts you have," James asked Penhale.
"Like?"
"Well, of course Lestrade, what's the last time and place anyone saw the Missing Minx?"
"All I know is that she left the hotel this morning after breakfast, around 10:00."
"In the limousine?"
"No Sherlock, she sent the limousine back to London and hired a car more practical for these parts."
"With chauffeur? "
"No, she's driving herself. "
"What car and what colour Lestrade?"
"Range Rover Evoque Convertible. Green."
"I see, Cruella treats herself well."
"James…" started Martin.
"Sherlock."
"What?"
In a whisper: "C'mon dad! We're playing Sherlock Holmes, call me Sherlock, don't confuse Lestrade."
"Who?"
"Joe. He's playing Lestrade."
A long suffering look from Martin who then said: "Eat your vegetables… Sherlock."
"Will do, Watson…" putting a piece of carrot in his mouth, "Lestrade, do we know where the Missing Minx had planned to go today?"
"No."
"That you might be able to ask at her office in London," interjected Martin.
"Brilliant Watson!" said James. "Lestrade, do you have her office number?"
"No."
"The hotel should have her business numbers," said Martin.
"I'll ask," said Penhale, and he moved to the living room to make his calls.
"Good work Watson," said James, "now we are getting somewhere."
"How much longer do we have to play this game?" asked Martin, who despite himself had stopped thinking about Louisa and King's Mart, and was in fact not moping any more.
"Until we find the Missing Minx, of course."
"Mmm, let's hope we can do it by your bedtime, then… Sherlock."
"That's the spirit, Watson."
Penhale came back.
"We have some information. Ms. Williams' secretary, who is quite worried by the way, says she was going to visit the proposed site for the King's Mart hypermarket."
"That's why she needed the off road vehicle! Good work Lestrade!" exclaimed James.
"Ready for fruit tart?" asked Martin.
"We have fruit tart daddy? That's my favorite, thank you!" said Joanie with a big smile.
Martin cut four pieces of tart and said very seriously: "We need to fortify ourselves if we are going out to look for the missing woman at the King's Mart site."
"We are? Excellent Watson, thank you!" declared James with a big smile for his dad.
"Thank you, doctor," said Penhale, "but let's finish this tart first, it's delicious."
They quickly put the dishes in the dishwasher, and Martin said: "Jam… Sherlock, can you write a note to… Mrs. Watson to tell her where we are going? I think I'll take my bag just in case."
James took a piece of paper and wrote:
Dear Mrs. Watson,
We are solving the case of The Missing Minx (you know who). We (Doctor Watson, Miss Watson and I) are going out searching with Lestrade (guess who?).
Sherlock
Then James ran quickly to his room and came back with his deerstalker hat and pretend pipe. They all boarded the police car and left.
"Sherlock… what makes you think Ms. Williams might still be at the King's Mart site?" asked Penhale.
"Well, we need to check there first because it's our only clue right now."
"You know," said Martin, "the proposed King's Mart site is close to where I was literally thrown off the road, on purpose, by two lunatics my first week as a GP here in Portwenn. There is absolutely no cell phone reception in that area, and I had to wait in the car for hours before PC Mylow found me."
"So we may have two suspects then, throwing people off the road on purpose. Why?" asked James.
"They just didn't like me," answered Martin, "London man who didn't belong."
"There we have our motive Lestrade," observed James. "Nobody likes Cruella, she is from London, does not belong here at all, and wants to build the hypermarket. Enough reason to send her off the road and into the mud."
"Only for the nutters of Portwenn," mumbled Martin.
They reached the part of the road that coasted the proposed King's Mart site, and stopped.
"We have less than an hour before dark," said Martin. "I don't see any car from here."
"It's a green car Watson, hard to see from here in all this greenish moorland," observed James. "Do you have binoculars, Lestrade?"
"Of course, Sherlock."
James took the binoculars, adjusted them and began scanning the area. After a minute or two he said: "Might be better if a taller person did this. You try Watson."
Martin took the binoculars and began to scan the area thoroughly. After a while he saw it, definitely a green convertible, almost straight ahead.
"I see it!" he said. "Sherlock, you wait in the police car with… Miss Watson. We have to get there and back quickly before it gets dark, and Miss Watson could not keep up, even if you might."
James was disappointed, but understood. He nodded.
Martin and Penhale walked as quickly as they could manage on the uneven ground toward the stranded car, looking through the binoculars from time to time to make sure they kept in the right direction. When they reached her Ms. Williams was asleep, much as Martin had been when he had suffered a similar fate a dozen years before. Penhale shook her a little and she woke up.
"Finally!" she exclaimed, "Took you long enough constable… Oh, Doctor Ellingham…"
"Are you hurt?" asked Martin.
"Not really, no, but I couldn't manage more than a few steps out here with my swollen knee and these shoes… not for hiking …"
"Wearing those high heels with that knee is…"
"Idiotic, I know," she had the grace to admit, and Martin nodded.
"Now, what happened here?" asked Penhale.
"Later Penhale, we need to make it back to the car before it gets dark," said Martin.
"I have a flash light."
"Penhale! My children are in the police car and it will be dark soon. We are going back now. Can you walk?" he asked Ms. Williams.
"No. I tried to get to the road, but as soon as I started to walk my knee gave way again and I had to limp back to the car the best I could. Can you take a look at it again?" this question Ms. Williams asked in a sensual voice full of innuendo which Martin, as ever, did not notice. Penhale did though, and started sniggering under his breath.
"What's funny now?" barked Martin, irritated.
"Nothing," replied Penhale standing at attention.
Martin knelt down and, much as he had done that first day at the beach, he inspected Ms. Williams' knee by getting hold of her leg, moving it various ways and feeling around the knee. And much as had happened at the beach, the feel of his large, warm hands on her bare leg immediately renewed her desire. Despite the fact that her knee really hurt again, she let a small sigh escape, which provoked another suppressed giggle from Penhale.
"Well, she really can't walk Penhale. Can you carry her? We can take turns if needed."
So they covered the distance with Penhale carrying Ms. Williams on his back. Martin felt a little sorry for the constable, but he did not offer to help again because he really did not want that much physical contact with the woman, in case Louisa was right and Cruella was really flirting with him. Penhale fortunately managed, as he kept in good shape, exercising and lifting weights regularly.
When they arrived at the car Penhale put Ms. Williams down, but as he was tired he did it with less control and more abruptly than he had intended. As a consequence Ms. Williams would have crashed to the ground had Martin not caught her in time. Thus an awkward situation developed where Ms. Williams was in Martin's arms, clutching his neck, while he was holding her up by the waist. Ms. Williams liked this immensely. Instead of letting go as soon as she reacquired her equilibrium, she hung on tighter, so that her face got quite close to Martin's. Had Louisa been there she might well have been tempted to slap the woman. As it was, the only other Ellingham… woman present was Joanie, and she did not like this little scene at all. As we all know, children can have an uncanny ability to read through adult affectations, and this was one of those times, as Joanie instinctively recognized Ms. Williams' body language for what it was: shameless flirting.
"You let go of my daddy!" yelled Joanie with an angry frown on her beautiful little face, grabbing Martin's sleeve to pull him away.
Martin did not help the situation when he simply replied: "Joanie, I was just preventing a fall."
"She was not preventing anything though, was she? Min…" and here luckily Martin was quick enough to close Joanie's mouth and clear his voice loudly, as his daughter was obviously about to say "Minx!" Joanie stopped talking but kept looking daggers at Ms. Williams, and then stuck her tongue out at that lady when she wasn't looking.
In the car Ms. Williams sat in front with Penhale, and the Ellinghams in the back.
"So what happened then?" asked Penhale.
"Two… two criminals!" exploded Ms. Williams. "They were dressed in some yellow raincoats, in a muddy pickup; they drove me off the road at a considerable speed. I lost control of the car and was able to break fully only as far from the road as you saw. Two tires blew, no mobile reception, and I could not walk at all on that very uneven and muddy terrain. I figured at some point my secretary, or someone else from the office, would realize I was missing. The architects are coming to visit the site tomorrow morning."
"That's almost exactly what happened to me a dozen years ago," said Martin, who felt rather sorry for the woman now, as she was clearly encountering the full anti-London wrath of the villagers. "Do you still want to build so close to Portwenn? They are all nutters around here."
"Oh, that's exactly what they are trying to do, scare us away. That's not going to happen," replied Ms. Williams fiercely.
"We are not all nutters dad," said James offended, "it's just a lot of villagers don't like people coming here from London telling us what to do. We can decide for ourselves, can't we?"
"I came here from London," answered Martin, "and I have been telling people what to do ever since, about their health that is."
"You came from London and you stayed," went on James rather passionately addressing his father, "you were not just passing by, telling everyone they're stupid and then leaving. You do tell people when they're stupid, but you stay, and you make us all better. So that's very different from building a King's Mart and then leaving. That's not going to make anyone better."
Though there was definite impudence in this speech, it sounded almost exactly like something Louisa might have said. Martin realized he had provoked it and was silent. To his surprise he did not feel angry, he felt almost proud of James for standing up for… his village! Martin was rather shocked by this consideration. Ms. Williams though said: "Is he always such a smarty-pants?"
"He's not a smarty-pants," replied Martin irritated, "just smart... and sure of himself." Martin's tone did not invite any comments and Ms. Williams thought it best to leave the doctor's son alone.
Penhale dropped Ms. Williams off at her hotel where she limped off without shoes, supported by the concierge. When they returned to the surgery it was about 20:45, time for the children to go to bed.
"Thank you Sherlock, couldn't have done it without you. And thank you too doctor. A dynamic … ehm…no," concluded Penhale lowering his eyes.
"Gladly Lestrade, gladly," replied James, "and it was a dynamic trio!"
Penhale looked up hopefully, and turned his eyes towards Martin, but Martin was busy attempting to extract Joanie from the police car without waking her. Penhale lowered his eyes again.
Right then Louisa came to the door and asked: "I just came back: where have you all been?"
"Where the doctor could not mope, Mrs. Watson," said James, and winked happily at his rather perplexed mother.
Later that night Martin and Louisa were lying close to each other in their big bed, Martin with an arm around her waist. They had just switched off the light and Louisa was tired. Martin though could not sleep.
"Louisa," he said softly.
"What?" she asked sleepily.
"Am I being unfair to you, to the children… the whole village? I had never thought of it quite this way, but… you expend a lot of time and energy for the good of the village and its people…"
"So do you, Martin."
"Only as the local doctor, just that."
"Well considering all the lives you save, and the dramatic improvement in people's health in general, I'd say it's not "just that," it's a lot."
"What I mean is you do what you do because you are committed to the village and its people. You belong here and… so do James and Joanie. All I ever seem to notice is the idiocy of my patients … When I was a surgeon, before the haemophobia… you were right… I did see patients more as bodies to be fixed than as people… Not anymore, now I do see them as people, though often as morons who could prevent half the harm they cause themselves. But James said something tonight… that I complain about the villagers' stupidity like a Londoner who doesn't belong, yet I do not leave... But what does that make me? A fool for staying among morons, or a fool for not knowing how to belong among them? Am I being unfair to you and the children by… obstinately refusing to belong here?"
Louisa turned around to face Martin, though she could not see him in the dark, rather moved by this speech. She caressed his cheek and hair and said: "You know, I think you rather belong here by now, though in your own odd way. You cannot feel like those of us who grew up here, no… But, think about it… you have always been happiest here in Portwenn, when you came as a child and as an adult with your Portwenn family, even if your life's experience in London makes you see a lot of people around here as idiots. It's just… we are all different, the village certainly has its share of oddballs. In that sense… you fit right in, or one can say that the villagers actually do accept you because a touch of bodmin is what they expect."
"Meaning… I can belong because there's a large number of oddballs like me around here?"
Louisa could almost hear a smile in Martin's voice.
"Right," she confirmed
"Right… but it does not change the fact that in some measure it is as if I was alienated from my own family, because I do not feel enough a part of what you three belong to… the village. Louisa… I didn't want to say this, to worry you…"
"Oh, Martin! How many times do I have to tell you NOT to try to protect me by bottling everything inside you? You must know by now that only makes it worse, don't you?"
"Yes… I did not tell you that… I have had a recurrence of my haemophobia."
"Really? It's been a long time since your last episode."
"Yes… I think this is the problem this time, feeling this gulf… this distance from you and the children, about being or not being part of your… your world really."
She felt his anxiety keenly and sought to relieve it by holding him closer and rubbing his back.
"Well… You may never become totally part of the village, but Martin you are nonetheless one-hundred percent part and parcel of our family, don't you ever think that's not true. You can only be what you are, and I love you for it Martin. You are not being unfair to us at all, you are just being yourself. Just don't you EVER, EVER keep it all inside again, you need to tell me how you feel, understood?" she concluded rather sternly.
"Yes… mum," he joked.
She laughed a little at that and said: "Sorry."
She kissed him then, and he held her close and whispered his thanks. It was easier to fall asleep after that.