Read Online Breakheart Pass by Alistair MacLean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alistair MacLean
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and shivered at the same moment, then gestured towards the window. 'He's like the ice in that river.' He moved to one side as O'Brien pushed by. 'Heart, I'd say, sir. Looked as if he slipped away peaceful, like.'
Claremont rose and paced up and down in the narrow confined space available to him. 'Good God! This is dreadful, dreadful.' It was clear that Claremont, apart from the natural shock at the news of Molyneux's death, was aghast at the implications it held: but it was left to the Reverend Peabody to put it into words.
'In the midst of life â¦' For a person built along the lines of an undernourished scarecrow Peabody was possessed of an enormously deep and sepulchral voice that seemed to resonate from the depths of the tomb. 'Dreadful for him. Colonel, dreadful to be struck down in his prime, dreadful for those sick and dying souls in the Fort who were depending upon him, and him alone, to come to their succour. Ah, the irony of it, the bitter irony of it all. Life is but a walking shadow.' What was meant by the last remark was not clear and Peabody, it was equally clear, was in no mind to elucidate: hands clasped and eyes screwed tightly shut, Peabody was deep in silent prayer.
O'Brien entered, his face grave and set. He nodded in reply to Claremont's interrogative glance.
'Died in his sleep, I'd say, sir. As Henry says, it looks like a heart attack, and a sudden and massive one at that. From his face, it seems that he never knew anything about it.'
Deakin said: 'Could I have a look?'
Seven pairs of eyes, including those of the Reverend Peabody, who had momentarily interrupted his intercession with the hereafter, immediately turned on Deakin, but none with quite the cold hostility of Colonel Claremont's.
'You? What the devil for?'
'Establish the exact cause of death, maybe.' Deakin shrugged, relaxed to the point of indifference. 'You know that I trained to be a doctor.'
'Qualified?'
'And disbarred.'
'Inevitably.'
'Not for incompetence. Not for professional misconduct.' Deakin paused then went on delicately: 'For other things, shall we say? But once a doctor, always a doctor.'
'I suppose so.' Claremont was sufficiently a realist to allow his pragmatism to override his personal feelings. 'Well, why not? Show him, Henry.'
A profound silence enveloped the dining compartment after the departure of the two men. There were so many things to be said, but all those things were so obvious that it appeared pointless to say them: by common consent they avoided the gaze of each other and seemed to concentrate on objects in the middle distance. Even the advent of Henry with another pot of fresh coffee failed to dispel the funereal atmosphere, if for no reason other than the fart that Henry was a natural for the chief mourner at any wake. All seven pairs of eyes withdrew their gazes from the far distances as Deakin returned.
Claremont said: 'Heart attack?'
Deakin considered. 'I guess you could call it that. Kind of.' He glanced at Pearce. 'Lucky for us we have the law aboard.'
'What do you mean, sir?' Governor Fairchild looked even more distraught than he had the previous evening: with what was possibly very good reason, he now looked positively distressed.
'Somebody knocked Molyneux out, took a probe from his surgical case, inserted it under the rib cage and pushed up, piercing his heart. Death would have supervened pretty well immediately.' Deakin surveyed the company in an almost leisurely fashion. 'I would say that it was done by someone with some medical knowledge, at least of anatomy. Any of you lot know anything about anatomy?'
Claremont's voice was forgiveably harsh. 'What in God's name are you saying?'
'He was struck on the head by something heavy and solid â like a gun butt, say. The skin above the left ear is broken. But death occurred before there was time for a bruise to form. Just below the ribs is a tiny blue-red puncture. Go see for yourselves.'
'This is preposterous.' Claremont's
Claremont rose and paced up and down in the narrow confined space available to him. 'Good God! This is dreadful, dreadful.' It was clear that Claremont, apart from the natural shock at the news of Molyneux's death, was aghast at the implications it held: but it was left to the Reverend Peabody to put it into words.
'In the midst of life â¦' For a person built along the lines of an undernourished scarecrow Peabody was possessed of an enormously deep and sepulchral voice that seemed to resonate from the depths of the tomb. 'Dreadful for him. Colonel, dreadful to be struck down in his prime, dreadful for those sick and dying souls in the Fort who were depending upon him, and him alone, to come to their succour. Ah, the irony of it, the bitter irony of it all. Life is but a walking shadow.' What was meant by the last remark was not clear and Peabody, it was equally clear, was in no mind to elucidate: hands clasped and eyes screwed tightly shut, Peabody was deep in silent prayer.
O'Brien entered, his face grave and set. He nodded in reply to Claremont's interrogative glance.
'Died in his sleep, I'd say, sir. As Henry says, it looks like a heart attack, and a sudden and massive one at that. From his face, it seems that he never knew anything about it.'
Deakin said: 'Could I have a look?'
Seven pairs of eyes, including those of the Reverend Peabody, who had momentarily interrupted his intercession with the hereafter, immediately turned on Deakin, but none with quite the cold hostility of Colonel Claremont's.
'You? What the devil for?'
'Establish the exact cause of death, maybe.' Deakin shrugged, relaxed to the point of indifference. 'You know that I trained to be a doctor.'
'Qualified?'
'And disbarred.'
'Inevitably.'
'Not for incompetence. Not for professional misconduct.' Deakin paused then went on delicately: 'For other things, shall we say? But once a doctor, always a doctor.'
'I suppose so.' Claremont was sufficiently a realist to allow his pragmatism to override his personal feelings. 'Well, why not? Show him, Henry.'
A profound silence enveloped the dining compartment after the departure of the two men. There were so many things to be said, but all those things were so obvious that it appeared pointless to say them: by common consent they avoided the gaze of each other and seemed to concentrate on objects in the middle distance. Even the advent of Henry with another pot of fresh coffee failed to dispel the funereal atmosphere, if for no reason other than the fart that Henry was a natural for the chief mourner at any wake. All seven pairs of eyes withdrew their gazes from the far distances as Deakin returned.
Claremont said: 'Heart attack?'
Deakin considered. 'I guess you could call it that. Kind of.' He glanced at Pearce. 'Lucky for us we have the law aboard.'
'What do you mean, sir?' Governor Fairchild looked even more distraught than he had the previous evening: with what was possibly very good reason, he now looked positively distressed.
'Somebody knocked Molyneux out, took a probe from his surgical case, inserted it under the rib cage and pushed up, piercing his heart. Death would have supervened pretty well immediately.' Deakin surveyed the company in an almost leisurely fashion. 'I would say that it was done by someone with some medical knowledge, at least of anatomy. Any of you lot know anything about anatomy?'
Claremont's voice was forgiveably harsh. 'What in God's name are you saying?'
'He was struck on the head by something heavy and solid â like a gun butt, say. The skin above the left ear is broken. But death occurred before there was time for a bruise to form. Just below the ribs is a tiny blue-red puncture. Go see for yourselves.'
'This is preposterous.' Claremont's
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