The MagicianMaugham, W. Somerset (William Somerset)
General
The Magician
Maugham, W. Somerset (William Somerset)
Magic -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Fiction
“I’m not inclined to be cross-examined,” he burst out, suddenly making
up his mind to be angry. “As a surgeon I daresay your knowledge of
cardiac diseases is neither extensive nor peculiar. But this was a very
simple case, and everything was done that was possible. I don’t think
there’s anything I can tell you.”
Arthur took no notice of the outburst.
“How many times did you see her?”
“Really, sir, I don’t understand your attitude. I can’t see that you
have any right to question me.”
“Did you have a post-mortem?”
“Certainly not. In the first place there was no need, as the cause of
death was perfectly clear, and secondly you must know as well as I do
that the relatives are very averse to anything of the sort. You
gentlemen in Harley Street don’t understand the conditions of private
practice. We haven’t the time to do post-mortems to gratify a needless
curiosity.”
Arthur was silent for a moment. The little man was evidently convinced
that there was nothing odd about Margaret’s death, but his foolishness
was as great as his obstinacy. It was clear that several motives would
induce him to put every obstacle in Arthur’s way, and chief of these
was the harm it would do him if it were discovered that he had given a
certificate of death carelessly. He would naturally do anything to
avoid social scandal. Still Arthur was obliged to speak.
“I think I’d better tell you frankly that I’m not satisfied, Dr
Richardson. I can’t persuade myself that this lady’s death was due to
natural causes.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried the other angrily. “I’ve been in practice
for hard upon thirty-five years, and I’m willing to stake my
professional reputation on it.”
“I have reason to think you are mistaken.”
“And to what do you ascribe death, pray?” asked the doctor.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Upon my soul, I think you must be out of your senses. Really, sir,
your behaviour is childish. You tell me that you are a surgeon of some
eminence …”
“I surely told you nothing of the sort.”
“Anyhow, you read papers before learned bodies and have them printed.
And you come with as silly a story as a Staffordshire peasant who
thinks someone has been trying to poison him because he’s got a
stomach-ache. You may be a very admirable surgeon, but I venture to
think I am more capable than you of judging in a case which I attended
and you know nothing about.”
“I mean to take the steps necessary to get an order for exhumation, Dr
Richardson, and I cannot help thinking it will be worth your while to
assist me in every possible way.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind. I think you very impertinent, sir.
There is no need for exhumation, and I shall do everything in my power
to prevent it. And I tell you as chairman of the board of magistrates,
my opinion will have as great value as any specialist’s in Harley
Street.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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