Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin

walked back towards my ward and spotted the old porter, Mr Osburn, pacing the corridor. As he saw me, he waved with both arms and came running.
    ‘What is it?’ I barked and immediately regretted my harsh behaviour.
    ‘’E’s dead, in’ ’e?’ he said anxiously, pointing through the door.
    ‘Yes, he died. Did you know him?’
    ‘Oh, no!’ said Osburn, shaking his head, his large ears almost flapping. ‘Didn’ know ’im. Foun’ ’im on the street, jus’ in front of ter gate.’
    ‘What?’
    He was about to repeat himself, but I cut him off with a flick of my hand. ‘Did you see who dropped him off?’
    ‘No, docter. Am sorry, didn’ see nuffink.’
    ‘No one walking away? Or a cab driving off?’
    He was thinking hard, staring at my shoes and pinching his earlobe. It made him look fragile and I realised I felt sorry for the man. He looked a little shrivelled, was friendly and forthcoming, but lonely in his porter house and probably even more so at home.
    After a long moment, he pulled himself together and answered in a clear voice, ‘Now that yer mention it, I heard ter crack of a whip. Then ter whinnyin’ of a horse, jus’ a minute afore I heard ter gasping of a man, tha’ man, yer know, and then I found ’im. An’ got ’im here.’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone that you’d brought him in?’ I tried to say it friendly, but failed.
    He started stammering. ‘Am sorry, am sorry, I didn’ know what ter do. ’E were a dyin’ man, yer know, and I jus’… I jus’…put ’im ’ere. An’ Billy from ter disinfectors helped, and we didn’ see no docter and no nurses and didn’ know what ter do! I ran around and didn’ find no one, all ter time thinkin’ about tha’ poor man dyin’. And then I came back and you were ’ere an’…an’… ’E were dead.’
    The old man had tried his best to help and I behaved like a snot-nose. ‘My apologies, Mr Osburn,’ I mumbled, ashamed. He stammered something unintelligible in response and hobbled back to his porter house.
    Before I returned to my patients, I asked a nurse to send the body to the anatomy lecture hall and to announce a presentation at four o’clock for students of medicine and bacteriology.

    ~~~

    The contorted corpse on top of the marble slab was the centre of the hall, sticking out like a sore navel. Behind it were several semi-circular rows of students, with each row one step higher than its predecessor — almost like an inverted pyramid. Most of the men were familiar to me and the few new ones in the front rows would soon push back. The room was packed; murmurs and the scraping of feet filled the air.
    I coughed and most faces turned into my direction. The ones who knew the rules elbowed the new students who were about to light their cigarettes or pipes, resulting in a moment of confusion and muttering.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ I announced. It was my private bold joke, as only male students were admitted, not to mention male lecturers. After a short while the hall fell quiet. My reputation here was such that students obeyed the few rules I set: no talking and no smoking or they would have to leave immediately. But they also knew that there wouldn’t be a dull moment in the next hour and a half.
    ‘Today around noon, this man was found at the entrance gate. He had severe muscle spasms and was unable to walk. He was brought into the ward for infectious diseases and died within minutes. Can anyone tell me something about the cause of death?’
    After a moment, a new student from the front row squared his shoulders and cried, ‘Tetanus!’
    As expected. I shook my head and smiled. ‘You might be wrong there.’
    His face fell. ‘With all due respect, Dr Kronberg—’
    ‘I do hope so, Mister, but I fear you forgot to introduce yourself.’
    ‘My name is Wallace McFadin.’
    ‘A Scot! Very well, then! I like your music, Mr McFadin; do you play the bagpipes well?’
    ‘Er… I’m… I don’t play bagpipes.’
    ‘But you are Scottish?’
    ‘Yes, I am.’ His face had grown a little reddish.
    ‘So if you are a Scot, why don’t you play the bagpipes?’
    ‘Just because I’m a Scot doesn’t mean I play bagpipes!’ He slammed his hand on the table in front of him.
    ‘Exactly!’ I cried and saw that I had lost him. ‘My apologies, Mr McFadin, I used you for a demonstration. When you meet a Scot he doesn’t necessarily play the bagpipes. The same is true for Mr Unknown here.’ I pointed to the man on