ones—as if staring into blinding stage lights. He spoke nasally, clinically. A computer nerd of medicine.
Theodore Ryder died of a pulmonary sarcoidosis, a disease which, when left untreated, attacks the function of the lungs. What was at first puzzling to us was the apparent speed of the onset of the disease, pushing glasses up the nose, since according to the family Theodore exhibited none of the traditional symptoms associated with the onset of sarcoid, such as fatigue. Even up to the night before —here the doctor checked his notes— Theodore Ryder’s next-door neighbor reported him apparently in perfect health. Andrew reddened, flush with a combination of relief—it wasn’t drugs! it wasn’t a murder!—and mortification. He would have given anything not to be mentioned today. Just leave me out of it , he pleaded.
“Suh?”
A hand shot up. Electric bolts shot up Andrew’s back. What would this boy ask? Would it be about him? The doctor looked around, disoriented.
The headmaster rose in a billow of gown. “The boys are encouraged to ask questions,” he reminded Dr. Sloane. “Thank you, Mr. Clegg-Bowra. Please.”
The boy rose. “Sir, what was Theo doing on Church Hill?”
Piers Fawkes stood quickly to explain the place-name in the doctor’s ear. The place where he was found. Up on the hill .
“I am a pathologist and not a psychiatrist,” replied Dr. Sloane with a smile, unctuously; “therefore I cannot explain any motivation Theodore Ryder would have had for walking to a certain spot. But from a medical perspective . . . perhaps we can find a motivation.
“Time of death I place between seven and nine in the morning. Let us assume therefore Theodore died while walking to breakfast. His lung volume would have been greatly reduced by the presence of granulomas and swollen lymph tissue. They would be hardened, unable to stretch. He would have experienced shortness of breath. Then difficulty breathing. He would have experienced acute distress. As this difficulty became urgent, then life-threatening, panic would have set in. If such an event transpired at the hospital, we would at this point take emergency measures such as inserting an endotracheal tube to force the patient to breathe . . . but of course Theodore was not in hospital. So he did, I would suspect, what is natural—again, conjecture,” another incongruous and wholly inappropriate smile, “—which is to seek high ground, associating an open environment with open air. More oxygen. Which he would have badly needed since he was, in effect, suffocating.”
Colin Jute had grown intensely uncomfortable throughout this long-winded and depressing answer. He had invited the doctor to provide clinical reassurance, not to frighten the boys and add his own colorful terms. Another hand shot up. Jute leapt to his feet and pointed, hoping the question was not a medical one.
“So there were no drugs involved?” barked a red-haired boy.
“We tested for drugs and found nothing,” responded the doctor nasally. “But that might be a question better answered by the police . . .”
The headmaster had had enough of the doctor. He took back the podium. The police, he thundered, had investigated thoroughly and found absolutely no sign of drugs, or crime of any kind. Theodore Ryder died of natural causes. He delivered these words in a scolding voice implying And just let me hear any more nonsense to the contrary . This was not turning out to be the outpouring of emotion he had planned, and he was willing to force the discourse back into line if necessary.
“More questions,” the headmaster commanded.
There were several. Was the infection contagious? The doctor redeemed himself here. Not in the slightest . . . sarcoidosis is actually a fairly mysterious disease whose causes and development are poorly understood by science; but one thing we do know is that it is not communicable . . . and so on. The headmaster sniffed. Not communicable was
Theodore Ryder died of a pulmonary sarcoidosis, a disease which, when left untreated, attacks the function of the lungs. What was at first puzzling to us was the apparent speed of the onset of the disease, pushing glasses up the nose, since according to the family Theodore exhibited none of the traditional symptoms associated with the onset of sarcoid, such as fatigue. Even up to the night before —here the doctor checked his notes— Theodore Ryder’s next-door neighbor reported him apparently in perfect health. Andrew reddened, flush with a combination of relief—it wasn’t drugs! it wasn’t a murder!—and mortification. He would have given anything not to be mentioned today. Just leave me out of it , he pleaded.
“Suh?”
A hand shot up. Electric bolts shot up Andrew’s back. What would this boy ask? Would it be about him? The doctor looked around, disoriented.
The headmaster rose in a billow of gown. “The boys are encouraged to ask questions,” he reminded Dr. Sloane. “Thank you, Mr. Clegg-Bowra. Please.”
The boy rose. “Sir, what was Theo doing on Church Hill?”
Piers Fawkes stood quickly to explain the place-name in the doctor’s ear. The place where he was found. Up on the hill .
“I am a pathologist and not a psychiatrist,” replied Dr. Sloane with a smile, unctuously; “therefore I cannot explain any motivation Theodore Ryder would have had for walking to a certain spot. But from a medical perspective . . . perhaps we can find a motivation.
“Time of death I place between seven and nine in the morning. Let us assume therefore Theodore died while walking to breakfast. His lung volume would have been greatly reduced by the presence of granulomas and swollen lymph tissue. They would be hardened, unable to stretch. He would have experienced shortness of breath. Then difficulty breathing. He would have experienced acute distress. As this difficulty became urgent, then life-threatening, panic would have set in. If such an event transpired at the hospital, we would at this point take emergency measures such as inserting an endotracheal tube to force the patient to breathe . . . but of course Theodore was not in hospital. So he did, I would suspect, what is natural—again, conjecture,” another incongruous and wholly inappropriate smile, “—which is to seek high ground, associating an open environment with open air. More oxygen. Which he would have badly needed since he was, in effect, suffocating.”
Colin Jute had grown intensely uncomfortable throughout this long-winded and depressing answer. He had invited the doctor to provide clinical reassurance, not to frighten the boys and add his own colorful terms. Another hand shot up. Jute leapt to his feet and pointed, hoping the question was not a medical one.
“So there were no drugs involved?” barked a red-haired boy.
“We tested for drugs and found nothing,” responded the doctor nasally. “But that might be a question better answered by the police . . .”
The headmaster had had enough of the doctor. He took back the podium. The police, he thundered, had investigated thoroughly and found absolutely no sign of drugs, or crime of any kind. Theodore Ryder died of natural causes. He delivered these words in a scolding voice implying And just let me hear any more nonsense to the contrary . This was not turning out to be the outpouring of emotion he had planned, and he was willing to force the discourse back into line if necessary.
“More questions,” the headmaster commanded.
There were several. Was the infection contagious? The doctor redeemed himself here. Not in the slightest . . . sarcoidosis is actually a fairly mysterious disease whose causes and development are poorly understood by science; but one thing we do know is that it is not communicable . . . and so on. The headmaster sniffed. Not communicable was
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