The Magician by W. Somerset Maugham (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

instead of to her husband. He will be able to tell you all that you wish to know.”

“I came to you as a fellow-practitioner,” answered Arthur. “I am at St. Luke’s Hospital.” He pointed to his card, which Dr. Richardson still held. “And my friend is Dr. Porhoët, whose name will be familiar to you with respect to his studies in Malta Fever.”

“I think I read an article of yours in the B.M.J.” said the country doctor.

His manner assumed a singular hostility. He had no sympathy with London specialists, whose attitude towards the general practitioner he resented. He was pleased to sneer at their pretensions to omniscience, and quite willing to pit himself against them.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Burdon?”

“I should be very much obliged if you would tell me as exactly as possible how Mrs. Haddo died.”

“It was a very simple case of endocarditis.”

“May I ask how long before death you were called in?”

The doctor hesitated. He reddened a little.

“I’m not inclined to be cross-examined,” he burst out, suddenly making up his mind to be angry. “As a surgeon I daresay your knowledge of cardiac diseases is neither extensive nor peculiar. But this was a very simple case, and everything was done that was possible. I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you.”

Arthur took no notice of the outburst.

“How many times did you see her?”

“Really, sir, I don’t understand your attitude. I can’t see that you have any right to question me.”

“Did you have a postmortem?”

“Certainly not. In the first place there was no need, as the cause of death was perfectly clear, and secondly you must know as well as I do that the relatives are very averse to anything of the sort. You gentlemen in Harley Street don’t understand the conditions of private practice. We haven’t the time to do postmortems to gratify a needless curiosity.”

Arthur was silent for a moment. The little man was evidently convinced that there was nothing odd about Margaret’s death, but his foolishness was as great as his obstinacy. It was clear that several motives would induce him to put every obstacle in Arthur’s way, and chief of these was the harm it would do him if it were discovered that he had given a certificate of death carelessly. He would naturally do anything to avoid social scandal. Still Arthur was obliged to speak.

“I think I’d better tell you frankly that I’m not satisfied, Dr. Richardson. I can’t persuade myself that this lady’s death was due to natural causes.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried the other angrily. “I’ve been in practice for hard upon thirty-five years, and I’m willing to stake my professional reputation on it.”

“I have reason to think you are mistaken.”

“And to what do you ascribe death, pray?” asked the doctor.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Upon my soul, I think you must be out of your senses. Really, sir, your behaviour is childish. You tell me that you are a surgeon of some eminence⁠ ⁠…”

“I surely told you nothing of the sort.”

“Anyhow, you read papers before learned bodies and have them printed. And you come with as silly a story as a Staffordshire peasant who thinks someone has been trying to poison him because he’s got a stomachache. You may be a very admirable surgeon, but I venture to think I am more capable than you of judging in a case which I attended and you know nothing about.”

“I mean to take the steps necessary to get an order for exhumation, Dr. Richardson, and I cannot help thinking it will be worth your while to assist me in every possible way.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind. I think you very impertinent, sir. There is no need for exhumation, and I shall do everything in my power to prevent it. And I tell you as chairman of the board of magistrates, my opinion will have as great value as any specialist’s in Harley Street.”

He flounced to the door and held it open. Susie and Dr. Porhoët walked out; and Arthur, looking down thoughtfully, followed on their heels. Dr. Richardson slammed the street-door angrily.

Dr. Porhoët slipped his arm in Arthur’s.

“You must be reasonable, my friend,” he said. “From his own point of view this doctor has all the rights on his side. You have nothing to justify your demands. It is monstrous to expect that for a vague suspicion you will be able to get an order for exhumation.”

Arthur did not answer. The trap was waiting for them.

“Why do you want to see Haddo?” insisted the doctor. “You will do no more good than you have with Dr. Richardson.”

“I have made up my mind to see him,” answered Arthur shortly. “But there is no need that either of you should accompany me.”

“If you go, we will come with you,” said Susie.

Without a word Arthur jumped into the dogcart, and Susie took a seat by his side. Dr. Porhoët, with a shrug of the shoulders, mounted behind. Arthur whipped up the pony, and at a smart trot they traversed the three miles across the barren heath that lay between Venning and Skene.

When they reached the park gates, the lodge-keeper, as luck would have it, was standing just inside, and she held one of them open for her little boy to come in. He was playing in the road and showed no inclination to do so. Arthur jumped down.

“I want to see Mr. Haddo,” he said.

“Mr. Haddo’s not in,” she answered roughly.

She tried to close the gate, but Arthur quickly put his foot inside.

“Nonsense! I have to see him on a matter of great importance.”

“Mr. Haddo’s orders are that no one is to be admitted.”

“I can’t help that, I’m proposing to come in, all the same.”

Susie and Dr. Porhoët came forward. They promised the small boy a shilling to hold their horse.

“Now then, get out of here,” cried the woman. “You’re not coming in, whatever you say.”

She tried to push the gate to, but Arthur’s foot prevented her. Paying no heed to her angry expostulations, he forced his way in. He walked quickly up the drive. The lodge-keeper accompanied