The Night Calls by David Pirie Page B

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    At once I thought of Samuel and moved quickly through the crowd, for they were gathered around something. I had to push past several people until I came to the front. Samuel’s body lay on the cobbled stones before me, utterly stiff and lifeless. The beggar’s hand was stretched out as if clawing the pavement and his poor face stared up at the sky just as it had when he played. But now it bore an expression of intense pain, all the features contorted.
    I turned away in shock. A policeman stood talking to a grey-suited man, who was evidently a doctor, and I moved quickly to them with my questions.
    ‘See for yourself,’ answered the policeman rather impatiently, as if he were discussing a broken horse-trough. ‘Old Samuel has had some sort of seizure. Drank far too much than was good for him. They say he was in agony.’
    ‘Aye,’ nodded the doctor. ‘Alcoholic poisoning is what I surmise. Somebody gave him a bottle.’
    ‘Where is the bottle?’ I said abruptly, for I could make no sense of this. My tone evidently irritated the doctor for he spoke quite sharply.
    ‘I don’t know. Ask them. They’ll know right enough.’
    He indicated a group of street-urchins, some quite filthy, who stood laughing across the way. ‘But I smell no alcohol,’ I said. ‘And he was no great drinker. You’re sure the death is as you say?’
    The policeman stared at me. ‘Aye, and what do you ken about it?’ he said with an officious air. Behind him the body was at last being decently covered.
    I tried to keep calm. ‘I do not think it is likely he died from alcohol poisoning and I am a medical student,’ I said with as much dignity as I could. But it was a mistake, for both of them smiled.
    ‘Well awa’ and pester someone else,’ the policeman said. ‘He hasnae been attacked and why would a soul hurt him? They didna even take his pennies.’
    He was quite right, for now I saw the beggar’s pathetic pile of coins lying on the edge of the pavement. For some reason Samuel had stacked them neatly in a gleaming little pyramid and the urchins were already eyeing them greedily.
    The doctor was not to be outdone. ‘I advise you to get back to your studies, young man. This is a common enough occurrence. He was just a drunken beggar.’
    And they turned away without offering me the chance of another word. I tried appealing to the people around me, especially the nearby stallholder who had served us, who knew quite well Samuel was no drinker. But even he slunk away and I could not blame him. For in those days the minor officials of medicine and justice were frequently peremptory, insular and vindictive. Once Opinion had been issued they would never allow an inferior to challenge it on any grounds. No doubt the stallholder had reasons to avoid the police, and certainly he would not risk his livelihood by opposing them.
    Finally, knowing Bell was away examining, I presented myself at the nearest police station and made as much noise as I could about the matter. The old detective with a long moustache and whiskers, who came out to talk to me was not unsympathetic, writing down my views solemnly in an ancient red notebook. But he was honest enough to admit that he doubted anyone would investigate further.
    I returned home, still feeling angry and upset. And in due course, after talking to my mother, a feeling of intense apprehension drew me to my father’s study. The kind of death I had witnessed in the street was, after all, the death we all feared most for him: that he would be found in a gutter somewhere with a bottle.
    At first I was pleasantly surprised to find my father seated in his chair, a little sleepy it was true, but calm. And he seemed to recognise me. His cup of tea was getting cold before him so I took it to his lips. He drank and, for a wonder, thanked me. But then, as ever, the door opened and Waller was there.
    I looked up at him. My father was dozing again. ‘He seems better,’ I said eagerly. Perhaps I