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Authors: Patrick Taylor
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there was nothing hectic about his watery blue eyes, nor any drip from a narrow nose that hooked over a clipped military moustache. "Right," said O'Reilly, "what seems to be the trouble this time?"
"He is very poorly, Doctor," Mrs. Fotheringham said. "Surely you can see that?"
"Oh, indeed," said O'Reilly, making space among the ranks of salves and unguents on the glass top of an ornate dressing table and setting his bag among the bottles. "But it would help if Major Fotheringham could describe his symptoms."
"Poor dear," she said, "he can hardly speak, but I think it's his kidneys."
"Indeed," said O'Reilly, pulling his stethoscope from his bag.
"Kidneys, is it?"
"Oh, yes," she said, twitching at the front of her silk dressing gown. "Definitely. I think he needs a thorough examination."
"I'd better take a look then," said O'Reilly. He stepped to the bed. "Put out your tongue, Basil."
Here we go again, Barry thought. O'Reilly had not made the remotest attempt to elicit any kind of history, and here he was barrelling ahead with the physical examination. Agree with everything I say. Well, we'll see.
"Mmm," said O'Reilly, pulling down the patient's lower eyelid and peering at the inside of the lid. "Mmm-mmm." He grasped one wrist and made a great show of consulting his watch. "Mmm." Barry watched Mrs. Fotheringham's narrow face as she stared intently at every move O'Reilly made, heard her little inhalations each time he muttered, "Mmm."
"Open your pyjamas please." O'Reilly laid his left hand palm down on the patient's hairless chest and thumped the back of his hand with the first two fingers of his right. "Mmm." He stuffed the earpieces of his stethoscope in his cauliflower ears and clapped the bell to the front of the chest. "Big breaths." Major Fotheringham gasped, in out, in out.
"Sit up, please."
Major Fotheringham obeyed. More thumpings; more stethoscope applications, this time to the back; more huffing and puffing; more mmms.
Mrs. Fotheringham's little eyes widened. "Is it serious, Doctor?" O'Reilly pulled his stethoscope from his ears and turned to her. "I beg your pardon?"
"Is it serious?"
"We'll see," said O'Reilly, turning back to Major Fotheringham. "Lie down." O'Reilly quickly and expertly completed a full examination of the belly. "Mmm, huh. I see."
"What is it, Doctor?" Mrs. Fotheringham's voice had the same expectancy that Barry had heard in children's voices when they wanted to be given a treat.
"You're right," O'Reilly said. "It could be his kidneys." And how in the world had he arrived at that diagnosis? Barry thought. No one had said anything about fever, chills, or difficulties or pain urinating, and nothing O'Reilly had done had come close to examining the organs in question.
"Told you so, dear," said Mrs. Fotheringham smugly, as she fluffed her husband's pillows. The major lay languidly, unspeaking as ever in the four-poster bed.
"Then again, it might not be," said O'Reilly, grabbing his bag. "I think a test's in order, don't you, Doctor Laverty?" Barry met O'Reilly's gaze, swallowed, and said, "I don't quite see--"
"Course you do." O'Reilly's eyes narrowed, his tone hardened.
"But-"
"In a case like this we can't be too careful. You'd agree, Mrs. Fotheringham?"
"Oh, indeed, Doctor." She smiled at O'Reilly. "Yes, indeed."
"That's settled then." O'Reilly glared at Barry, who looked away. O'Reilly rummaged in his bag and produced a bottle that Barry recognized immediately. It would contain thin cardboard strips used to detect sugar or protein in a urine sample. What the hell was O'Reilly up to?
"I'll need your help, Mrs. Fotheringham." O'Reilly handed her several of the dipsticks.
"Yes, Doctor." Her eyes were bright, her smile barely concealed. "I want you to . . ." He looked at his watch. "It's two fifteen now . . . so start the test at three. Make Basil drink one pint of water."
"A pint?" she echoed.
"The whole pint. At four give him another pint, but not until he's passed a
"He is very poorly, Doctor," Mrs. Fotheringham said. "Surely you can see that?"
"Oh, indeed," said O'Reilly, making space among the ranks of salves and unguents on the glass top of an ornate dressing table and setting his bag among the bottles. "But it would help if Major Fotheringham could describe his symptoms."
"Poor dear," she said, "he can hardly speak, but I think it's his kidneys."
"Indeed," said O'Reilly, pulling his stethoscope from his bag.
"Kidneys, is it?"
"Oh, yes," she said, twitching at the front of her silk dressing gown. "Definitely. I think he needs a thorough examination."
"I'd better take a look then," said O'Reilly. He stepped to the bed. "Put out your tongue, Basil."
Here we go again, Barry thought. O'Reilly had not made the remotest attempt to elicit any kind of history, and here he was barrelling ahead with the physical examination. Agree with everything I say. Well, we'll see.
"Mmm," said O'Reilly, pulling down the patient's lower eyelid and peering at the inside of the lid. "Mmm-mmm." He grasped one wrist and made a great show of consulting his watch. "Mmm." Barry watched Mrs. Fotheringham's narrow face as she stared intently at every move O'Reilly made, heard her little inhalations each time he muttered, "Mmm."
"Open your pyjamas please." O'Reilly laid his left hand palm down on the patient's hairless chest and thumped the back of his hand with the first two fingers of his right. "Mmm." He stuffed the earpieces of his stethoscope in his cauliflower ears and clapped the bell to the front of the chest. "Big breaths." Major Fotheringham gasped, in out, in out.
"Sit up, please."
Major Fotheringham obeyed. More thumpings; more stethoscope applications, this time to the back; more huffing and puffing; more mmms.
Mrs. Fotheringham's little eyes widened. "Is it serious, Doctor?" O'Reilly pulled his stethoscope from his ears and turned to her. "I beg your pardon?"
"Is it serious?"
"We'll see," said O'Reilly, turning back to Major Fotheringham. "Lie down." O'Reilly quickly and expertly completed a full examination of the belly. "Mmm, huh. I see."
"What is it, Doctor?" Mrs. Fotheringham's voice had the same expectancy that Barry had heard in children's voices when they wanted to be given a treat.
"You're right," O'Reilly said. "It could be his kidneys." And how in the world had he arrived at that diagnosis? Barry thought. No one had said anything about fever, chills, or difficulties or pain urinating, and nothing O'Reilly had done had come close to examining the organs in question.
"Told you so, dear," said Mrs. Fotheringham smugly, as she fluffed her husband's pillows. The major lay languidly, unspeaking as ever in the four-poster bed.
"Then again, it might not be," said O'Reilly, grabbing his bag. "I think a test's in order, don't you, Doctor Laverty?" Barry met O'Reilly's gaze, swallowed, and said, "I don't quite see--"
"Course you do." O'Reilly's eyes narrowed, his tone hardened.
"But-"
"In a case like this we can't be too careful. You'd agree, Mrs. Fotheringham?"
"Oh, indeed, Doctor." She smiled at O'Reilly. "Yes, indeed."
"That's settled then." O'Reilly glared at Barry, who looked away. O'Reilly rummaged in his bag and produced a bottle that Barry recognized immediately. It would contain thin cardboard strips used to detect sugar or protein in a urine sample. What the hell was O'Reilly up to?
"I'll need your help, Mrs. Fotheringham." O'Reilly handed her several of the dipsticks.
"Yes, Doctor." Her eyes were bright, her smile barely concealed. "I want you to . . ." He looked at his watch. "It's two fifteen now . . . so start the test at three. Make Basil drink one pint of water."
"A pint?" she echoed.
"The whole pint. At four give him another pint, but not until he's passed a
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