Thorn by Sarah Rayne Page B

days with only a trough of water and no proper sanitation or anything. And to think that Lucienne was once—’
    â€˜Dilys, it would have been very different in Lucienne’s time,’ Thalia pointed out.
    â€˜Is it National Health Service now?’ asked George, and hoped this did not sound as mercenary as he feared.
    â€˜Oh yes.’
    It was at this point that John Shilling suddenly saw that although he had never been of much service to Eloise during her life, he could be of service to her now. He could save his untouchable and untouched lady from the prurient curiosity of the world, and in the process he might save her daughter as well. Gaol or Broadmoor. Or Thornacre. Dear God, Aunt Dilys was right about that. Wherever else Imogen went, she must not go to Thornacre. Royston would not have wanted it, and Eloise, so fastidious, so
private
, would not have wanted it either.
    Within John Shilling’s slightly sottish, slightly self-indulgent soul, an impulse reared up that was almost entirely selfless, and very nearly akin to medieval knight-errantry. He would do it. If he could not risk a bit of discomfort for Eloise, it made his devotion seem a very threadbare emotion indeed. His mind began riffling through acceptable causes of unexpected death. Pericarditis? Viral pneumonia? No, there had been that massive effusion of blood, that ought to be taken into account; it ought almost to be made use of. What about perforation of a stomach ulcer?
    Clearing his throat to get their attention, he said, ‘I’ll do what you want. I think I see a way.’
    Every head turned to him. ‘You will?’ This was Flora.
    â€˜What will you do?’ asked Rosa.
    â€˜How will you do it?’ demanded George.
    John said, ‘If I were to give the cause of death as a perforated stomach ulcer—’
    â€˜But Eloise never had a twinge even of indigestion in her life!’ exclaimed Rosa.
    â€˜Do be quiet, Rosa,’ said Thalia. ‘Let him finish. Go on, Dr Shilling.’
    John said, ‘It will mean making several fictitious entries on Eloise’s medical records.’ The word ‘fictitious’ pleased him; it sounded better than false. He went on more easily, ‘There would have to be several entries, some history of pain after eating. Even bouts of vomiting.’ He paused, thinking hard. A trial prescription for something like Lo-Sec would have to show on the records as well, and maybe a note to consider a gastroscopy.
    â€˜Would you make such entries?’ asked Thalia.
    â€˜Yes,’ said John, surprised to hear his voice sounding so positive.
    Cousin Elspeth wanted to know if that in itself mightn’t look suspicious to somebody somewhere. ‘Things written in or crossed out on a card—’
    â€˜Elspeth, darling, everything’s on computer these days,’ said Juliette. And then, suddenly doubtful, ‘Isn’t it?’
    â€˜Oh yes.’ This had been in John’s mind while forming the plan. ‘Yes, I would only have to call up Eloise’s file and key in several extra entries. A couple of consultations, backdated, of course. I don’t think anyone could possibly tell that they had been added later.’
    â€˜Or if they could, you would only have to say you were updating the disk from a handwritten memo,’ said George.
    â€˜Exactly.’
    â€˜And you’re prepared to do that?’ asked Rosa.
    â€˜Yes. Yes, I am.’ And he thought: for you, my lady, my love, I’m prepared to do it.
    Rosa said, ‘Why a stomach ulcer? Why not a heart attack, like Royston?’
    John took a moment to reply, and then said, carefully, as if sorting his own thoughts, ‘Because of the blood. Several of you saw it. And it’s possible that however scrupulous the cleaning-up process, traces will remain. We should allow for the possibility of an inquiry – a thorough police search that might pick those traces up.