Lay Her Among The Lilies

and it’s locked to the bed. If the bed wasn’t fastened to the floor I might have tried it.”

“What’s the bed got to do with it?” I asked, spreading marmalade on thin toast. It wasn’t

easy with one hand.

“The spare key of the handcuff is kept in that top drawer,” he explained, pointing to a chest

of drawers against the opposite wall. “They keep it there in case of fire. If I could move the

bed I could get to it.”

I nearly hit the ceiling.

“What! In that drawer there?”

“That’s right. No one’s supposed to know, but I saw Bland take if out once when he lost his

key.”

I judged the distance between the foot of my bed and the chest of drawers. It was closer to

me than to Hopper. If I was held by the ankle I imagined I could reach it. It would be a

stretch, but I reckoned I could just do it. But handcuffed as I was by the wrist made it

impossible.

“How is it you’re fastened by the leg and I by the wrist?” I asked.

“They fastened me by the wrist at first,” Hopper said indifferently, and pushed his tray

aside. “But I found it awkward to read so Bland changed it. If you ask him he’ll change

yours. You don’t mind not talking any more, do you? I want to get on with this book.”

No, I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all. I was excited. If I could persuade Bland to unfasten

my wrist, I might reach the key. It was a thought that occupied me for the next hour.

Bland came in a few minutes to eleven o’clock carrying an enormous vase of gladioli

sprays. He set it down on top of the chest of drawers and drew back to admire it.

“Pretty nice, ugh?” he said, beaming. “That’s for the councilmen. It’s a funny thing how

these guys go for flowers. The last bunch never even looked at the patients. All they did was

to stand around and yap about the flowers.”

He collected the breakfast-trays and took them away, and returned almost immediately. He

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surveyed us critically, straightened Hopper’s sheet, came over and smoothed out my pillow.

“Now keep just as you are,” he said. “For Pete’s sake, don’t get yourselves untidy. Haven’t

you a book?” he asked me.

“You haven’t given me one.”

“Must have a book. That’s another of these punks’ fads. They like to see a patient reading.”

He charged out of the room and returned a little breathlessly carrying a heavy volume

which he slapped down on my knees.

“Get stuck into that, baby. I’ll find you something with a little more zip in it when they’ve

gone.”

“How do I turn the pages with only one hand?” I asked, looking at the book. It was entitled

Gynecology for Advanced Students.

“Glad you reminded me, baby.” He took out his key. “We keep the cuffs out of sight. These

punks are softhearted.”

I watched him transfer the handcuff to my ankle, scarcely believing my good luck. It was

quite a moment in my life.

“Okay, baby, mind you behave,” he went on, as he re-tidied the bed. “If they ask you how

you like it here, tell them we’re looking after you. Don’t let’s have any back answers. They

won’t believe anything you say, and you’ll have to talk to me after they have gone.”

I opened the book. The first page I came to made me blink.

“I don’t know if I’m old enough to look at this,” I said, and showed him the page.

He stared, sucked in his breath sharply, snatched the book away from me and gaped at the

title.

“For crying out loud! Is that what it means?” and he went shooting out of the room with it,

returning breathlessly with a copy of the parallel translation of Dante’s Inferno. I wished I

had kept my mouth shut.

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“That’ll impress them,” he said with satisfaction. “Not that the punks can read, anyway.”

A few minutes past eleven o’clock the sound of voices came down the corridor, and in

through the half-open door.

Bland, who had been waiting by the window, straightened his jacket and smoothed down

his hair.

Hopper scowled and closed his book.

“Here they come.”

Four men came into the room. The first was obviously Dr. Jonathan Salzer: the most

distinguished looking of the four; a tall, thin man with a Paderewski mop of hair, as white as

a dove’s back. His tanned face was set in cold, serene lines; his eyes were deep-set and

thoughtful. A man, I imagined, on the wrong side of fifty, still powerful, his body as straight

and as upright as a cadet’s on passing-out parade. He was dressed in a black morning-coat,

striped trousers and was as immaculate as a tailor’s dummy. After you had got over the shock

of the mop of hair, the next thing you noticed about him was his hands. They were quite

beautiful hands; long and narrow, with tapering fingers: a surgeon’s hands or a murderer’s

hands: they could be good at either job.

Coroner Lessways followed him in. I recognized him from the occasional photographs I

had seen of him in the press: a short, thickset man with a ball-like head, small eyes and a

fussy, mean, little mouth. He looked what he was: a shyster who had spent all his life pulling

fast ones.

His companion was another of the same breed, over-fed and tricky.