Dandy Gilver and a Deadly Measure of Brimstone by Catriona McPherson Page A

since it was first hung there many years ago. On the chimneypiece there was a perfectly conventional clock flanked by two perfectly conventional vases, but behind the clock, numerous bills and chits threatened to push it forward to smash in the grate, and more of them bloomed in the vases instead of posies. A bunch of keys and a couple of syringes, still with their needles attached, threatened to crack a delicate Staffordshire bon-bon dish with their weight, or at least scratch its beautiful pattern with their sharp edges.
    I turned my attention away from the disorder and back to Dr Laidlaw again, thinking that although my impression had been that she was dowdy, seeing her in her lair like this she seemed a daisy on a dung heap. She had noticed me looking around and apologised again.
    ‘Not to worry,’ I said. ‘They’ve been wrapped up and snoozing in deckchairs all afternoon. I’m sure it’s done them a world of good to rest without interruptions.’
    ‘I— You are very gracious,’ she said. ‘But it won’t do. I could see them now. My consultation hours are over, but to make it up to you – a shocking lapse. That is to say, there was an emergency. But I should have sent a message. I could see them right now.’
    I considered it. Specifically, I considered Donald’s lungs breathing in the dust and dirt of this frowsy chamber and, although I truly did think she was making a fuss over nothing, I decided to turn it to account.
    ‘What would make up for it,’ I said, ‘would be if you could manage a house call instead. Might I trouble you to examine the boys at home in the morning? Come and have coffee,’ I finished lamely. I can sometimes manage to be grand, but not often.
    ‘Most gladly,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
    ‘I see that the emergency ended well,’ I said. I am not naturally Machiavellian, never was, but detecting has changed me.
    ‘It did,’ said Dr Laidlaw. ‘Thankfully, yes it did. But how did you guess?’
    ‘Just that surely you would not be back in your study absorbed in reading had it not,’ I replied with a smile.
    ‘Of course, I see, yes of course,’ she said. ‘Yes, my work is absorbing. Not that the patients are not my work. What I mean to say is that when a paper comes under review and the reviewer …’
    ‘Gosh, so you are a researcher, Dr Laidlaw, are you?’
    ‘I am,’ she said, gesturing around the piles of books and scribbled-on papers.
    ‘Do you then not
do
house calls?’ I said. ‘I mean to say, you
are
a doctor, aren’t you? Hydropathy being your specialism?’
    ‘My poor father would turn in his grave to hear it,’ she said, ‘but no. Hydropathy is not exactly … that is to say … on the Continent …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I have an MD from Edinburgh, Mrs Gilver. In short, yes, I certainly am a doctor and as for your house call I certainly shall do it. Happy to.’
    ‘Excellent,’ I replied. ‘It’s good to know that there is someone right here on the premises should anything go wrong. Moffat is a step away and – between you and me, my dear – I’ve heard some things about one of the
local
doctors, from a friend, you know.’
    Her face, blanching to the colour of putty, told me that she did indeed know. I felt a heel but I did not let that stop me.
    ‘A friend who used to come here. Before she died.’ Dr Laidlaw considered this, as one would consider a rattlesnake in one’s bed with one.
    ‘Can you give me any idea as to what ails your sons?’ she said, in a wavering voice, as I stood and brushed the dust from my coat. ‘So I know what to bring, you know. I don’t travel with a Gladstone bag every day like Dr Ramsay.’
    ‘Pleurisy and pneumonia after flu,’ I said. ‘Nothing serious like weak hearts or anything. In fact, let’s not pander to them with a house call after all. What was I thinking? I, like you, Dr Laidlaw, believe in fresh air and exercise. And yes, it
was
Dr Ramsay. How did you know?’
    The putty had faded to