“You have seen the post-mortem report.”
“Of course.”
“You could tell me if it squared with your own knowledge of Winge’s condition.”
“Heineman has certain bees in his bonnet. Some of his interests are rather obscure.”
“The what’s-its-name syndrome, for instance?”
“That, yes. I have said that I am not a neurologist. If I have a special field, it is geriatrics.”
“Treatment of the old?”
“You could call it that. Winge was getting on. Active, but getting on. I prescribed accordingly.”
“Tonics—that sort of thing?”
“Well, the modern equivalent. Vitality is quite easily regulated nowadays by an appropriate drug regimen. The process is well proven.”
“Is there no danger of such drugs having unwanted effects?”
Meadow laughed. “You must beware of popular superstition, inspector. The very word ‘drug’ still conjures up visions of opium dens. But any medicinal substance is, by definition, a drug.”
“These particular medicinal substances, then—can they not operate harmfully in certain circumstances? By overdose, say?”
“Every drug has side effects that are undesirable in greater or lesser degree. Every single one. It is a matter of balancing good against bad. Would you rather have polio than risk a vaccination rash?”
“No, what I am driving at...”
“What you are driving at, inspector, is this—and correct me if I am wrong—Was I prescribing something for Mr Winge that turned him into a randy old goat?” The inspector looked pleased.
“Ah, now we are getting near the nub of the matter. May I phrase the question more delicately? Was there any possibility of Mr Winge over-doing his treatment—taking too many tablets, capsules or whatever—and thus stepping up his vitality to a degree that might land him in trouble?”
“None whatever. I know you do not mean to imply irresponsible prescribing, so I shall not read into your remarks as much as I might. But let me put your mind at rest, Purbright. The treatment I considered necessary for Mr Winge was strictly controlled on a week-to-week basis. That is my invariable practice. It is also a rule of mine—and of other doctors, I do not doubt—to make use only of such drugs as have been subjected to exhaustive clinical trial and are manufactured by a reputable house. I might add that in my own field of geriatric medicine I have done some contributory work on the clinical side—work that has received recognition rather farther afield than you might think. I am not likely to put at hazard either my patients or my reputation by taking the slightest risk of any kind you seem to have had in mind.”
It was a speech of reproof and dismissal, and Purbright was not misled by the amiable tone of Meadow’s cultured, beautifully modulated voice into hoping that he might gain from the interview.
But perversely he tried.
“The man who assaulted Brenda Sweeting—have you no idea of his identity?”
“None.”
“Could he possibly have been Alderman Winge?”
“I did not see his face.”
“But can you assert definitely that it was not Winge? As a patient, he must have been familiar to you.”
“That possibility did not occur to me at the time. Why should it? My only concern was to save the girl further distress. Once he had run away, the obvious thing to do was to make sure she had not been injured.”
“Do you happen to know a man called Walter Grope, doctor?”
If the switch of subject surprised Meadow, he gave no sign.
“Grope?” he repeated levelly. “I do have a patient named Grope. Walter, though...I couldn’t be sure without checking.”
“A man of sixty-odd. He moved here recently from Chalmsbury. A retired cinema commissionaire.”
“I believe he is, yes. What about him?”
“I have advised his wife to have a talk with you about him. His behaviour has been worrying her.”
“Behaviour? What sort of behaviour?”
“Something, I gather, along the same lines as Mr Winge’s little weakness. An excess of vitality.”
“You surely cannot expect me to comment on that, inspector. If Mrs Grope sees fit to seek my professional advice, that is up to her. I cannot discuss with you or anyone else some hypothetical marital problem that even my own patient has not mentioned.”
“The problem might not be purely marital,” said Purbright. “The law could well become involved.”
“Ah.”
Meadow rose to his feet. He walked in his easy, athletic way to the window and looked out, his hands clasped loosely behind him.
“As to that,” Purbright heard him say, “I should prefer to hear no more, if you wouldn’t mind. It is the physical welfare of my patients that concerns me, not their relations with the law.”
“Crime concerns us all, doctor—if you will forgive the triteness of the sentiment.”
Meadow turned to face the room.
“Policemen,” he remarked pleasantly, “do not have a monopoly of social conscience. When next I see Mr Grope committing a crime, I shall assuredly remonstrate with him. All right?”
He stepped to the door. The smile he directed upon the inspector was as warm as a car salesman’s.
Purbright stood. He glanced behind him at the chair. It’s splendid satin had regained its creaseless convexity.
“I hope you haven’t found my intrusion too tiresome, Dr Meadow.”
“My dear chap! What an idea!”
One slender, immaculately clean hand was drawing open the door. The other was extended in a gesture at once courteous and peremptory. (He’s a great one for showing out, Purbright said to himself.)
The inspector was almost through the doorway when he stopped suddenly, looked at Meadow, snapped his fingers and said: “Salad.”
Bewilderment—a very rare visitor to the doctor’s handsome and confident features—was certainly upon them now.
“Salad,” Purbright said again. “Samson’s Salad. I nearly forgot to ask you about that.”
Meadow shrugged, apparently still doubtful of what Purbright was talking about.
“At the inquest, you spoke of Winge’s indulgence in self-medication. You mentioned a specific herbal preparation. Wasn’t that its name? Samson’s Salad?”
“Oh, that. Yes, so I understand. Why?”
“What do you know about it?”
“Only that Winge claimed it did him good.”
“You didn’t investigate it yourself—have it analysed, or anything?”
“Good lord, no. Patients are always putting that sort of rubbish into themselves. I advised against it, naturally, but I don’t suppose he took any notice.”
“Might something of that sort have produced the symptoms we were talking about before? The loss of balance, for instance?”