Body in the Library - Agatha Christie [48]
Harper said:
“Then I can take it, Doctor Metcalf, that what I was told by Mrs. Jefferson was substantially correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Jefferson’s health is in a precarious state. For several years now the man has been driving himself ruthlessly. In his determination to live like other men, he has lived at a far greater pace than the normal man of his age. He has refused to rest, to take things easy, to go slow—or any of the other phrases with which I and his other medical advisers have tendered our opinion. The result is that the man is an overworked engine. Heart, lungs, blood pressure—they’re all overstrained.”
“You say Mr. Jefferson has absolutely refused to listen?”
“Yes. I don’t know that I blame him. It’s not what I say to my patients, Superintendent, but a man may as well wear out as rust out. A lot of my colleagues do that, and take it from me it’s not a bad way. In a place like Danemouth one sees most of the other thing: invalids clinging to life, terrified of over-exerting themselves, terrified of a breath of draughty air, of a stray germ, of an injudicious meal!”
“I expect that’s true enough,” said Superintendent Harper. “What it amounts to, then, is this: Conway Jefferson is strong enough, physically speaking—or, I suppose I mean, muscularly speaking. Just what can he do in the active line, by the way?”
“He has immense strength in his arms and shoulders. He was a powerful man before his accident. He is extremely dexterous in his handling of his wheeled chair, and with the aid of crutches he can move himself about a room—from his bed to the chair, for instance.”
“Isn’t it possible for a man injured as Mr. Jefferson was to have artificial legs?”
“Not in his case. There was a spine injury.”
“I see. Let me sum up again. Jefferson is strong and fit in the muscular sense. He feels well and all that?”
Metcalf nodded.
“But his heart is in a bad condition. Any overstrain or exertion, or a shock or a sudden fright, and he might pop off. Is that it?”
“More or less. Over-exertion is killing him slowly, because he won’t give in when he feels tired. That aggravates the cardiac condition. It is unlikely that exertion would kill him suddenly. But a sudden shock or fright might easily do so. That is why I expressly warned his family.”
Superintendent Harper said slowly:
“But in actual fact a shock didn’t kill him. I mean, doctor, that there couldn’t have been a much worse shock than this business, and he’s still alive?”
Dr. Metcalf shrugged his shoulders.
“I know. But if you’d had my experience, Superintendent, you’d know that case history shows the impossibility of prognosticating accurately. People who ought to die of shock and exposure don’t die of shock and exposure, etc., etc. The human frame is tougher than one can imagine possible. Moreover, in my experience, a physical shock is more often fatal than a mental shock. In plain language, a door banging suddenly would be more likely to kill Mr. Jefferson than the discovery that a girl he was fond of had died in a particularly horrible manner.”
“Why is that, I wonder?”
“The breaking of a piece of bad news nearly always sets up a defence reaction. It numbs the recipient. They are unable—at first—to take it in. Full realization takes a little time. But the banged door, someone jumping out of a cupboard, the sudden onslaught of a motor as you cross a road—all those things are immediate in their action. The heart gives a terrified leap—to put it in layman’s language.”
Superintendent Harper said slowly:
“But as far as anyone would know, Mr. Jefferson’s death might easily have been caused by the shock of the girl’s death?”
“Oh, easily.” The doctor looked curiously at the other. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know what I think,” said Superintendent Harper vexedly.
II
“But you’ll admit, sir, that the two things would fit in very prettily together,” he said a little later to Sir Henry Clithering. “Kill two birds with one stone. First the girl—and the fact of her death takes off Mr. Jefferson too