Laugh Out Dead Page 2

  “Oh yes. I have carved out rather a lucrative niche for myself. Fascinating too. If you are interested, you are welcome to sit in with me during my forthcoming consultations.”

  “I would be delighted,” I replied.

  And thus did our acquaintance turn to friendship.

  ◆◆◆

  2. HE WHO LAUGHS LONGEST

  Sunday 22nd October 2006

  As always, it started with a death.

  It was a typically cold, drizzly October evening, and I was sitting upon the living room sofa reading a gentlemen’s periodical when Urban-Smith burst in, obviously in a state of considerable arousal.

  “I have just received the most intriguing e-mail,” said he. He threw himself into his favourite armchair and, unbidden, began to read.

  “Dear Mr Urban-Smith, I need to see you as a matter of the greatest urgency. I have no doubt that you read with sadness in the notices of the recent death of Professor Trofim Gorshkov of the Neuroscience Research Centre at St Onker’s University, London.

  Trofim was my colleague and mentor, and shocked as I was by his death, I am even more shocked by the manner in which it occurred. The more I consider the circumstances, the more convinced am I that his death was not one of natural cause.

  I beg permission to visit you at your residence this evening, perhaps around six. Please e-mail me your agreement.

  Your humble servant.

  Dr Herman Grove.”

  He brandished his laptop triumphantly. “What do you make of it, Rupert?”

  “It certainly raises more questions than it answers. Do you know anything of this chap’s death?”

  “Indeed I do, for I have found his obituary on The Daily Chromatic online. According to this, Professor Trofim Gorshkov died unexpectedly whilst out dining with his wife and work colleagues. I think we can safely assume from this e-mail that one of these colleagues was Dr Grove. The Professor apparently left a widow and a daughter.”

  Urban-Smith rotated his laptop to show me the photograph from the late Professor’s obituary page. Although a reasonably handsome man with clear, intelligent eyes and a good head of hair, he sported an extremely severe expression, not softened in the least by his short grey beard and round, metal-rimmed spectacles.

  “He seems a rather stern type,” I said. “Were you and he acquainted?”

  “Not directly, though we had corresponded by e-mail on several occasions. Have you read any of my published research on the mapping of underground river distributaries via the resonant frequencies of surrounding bedrock?”

  I flipped through the pages of my magazine.

  “They seem to have omitted it from this month’s issue of Naughty Nymphos.”

  “Well, Rupert, you’ve missed a treat. Anyway, the Professor’s earliest work was in the use of narrow-spectrum radiotherapy to target specific tumours according to their resonant frequency. I referenced several of his papers in my own work. But I digress; our visitor should be here at any moment.”

  And indeed he was. As I looked to the mantel clock which read six o’clock precisely, there came a sharp rapping at the front door.

  “Ah! Right on time.”

  We listened to the stealthy footfall of Mrs Denford upon the stair and then the sound of brief introductions, followed a few moments later by a knock at the living room door.

  “Fairfax, there’s a gentleman here to see you.”

  “Thank you very kindly, Mrs Denford.”

  “Shall I make tea?”

  “That would be delightful, thank you, Mrs Denford.” Urban-Smith indicated a chair. “Please have a seat, Dr Grove.”

  Dr Grove was a middle-aged gentleman of medium height and build, dressed in a thick knitted jumper, blue denim jeans and plain brown boots. He wore an inexpensive digital wristwatch on his left wrist, and I noticed the absence of a wedding ring. Bloodshot, brown eyes peered out from beneath unruly, dark curls, shot through here and there with grey. Fatigue etched his features as he gratefully lowered himself into an armchair.

  “Thank you, Mr Urban-Smith.”

  “Please call me Fairfax. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Rupert Harker.”

  I leaned forward and shook our visitor’s hand. Dr Grove looked anxiously at Urban-Smith, who smiled reassuringly.

  “Rupert has my utmost confidence,” said Urban-Smith. “You may speak freely in front of us both.” He steepled his fingers against his chin. “I perceive that although you live locally, you have chosen to travel by taxicab and are fearful of having been followed.”

  Dr Grove was very much taken aback.

  “How could you know such a thing?” he demanded. “I have barely spoken a word since my arrival.”

  Urban-Smith threw back his head and gave a single bark of laughter.

  “Ha!” he barked. “My dear Dr Grove, the evidence for my assertion is laid as bare as the young ladies in Dr Harker’s reading material. As you entered, I was immediately struck by the smell of cigarette smoke on your clothing, yet your fingers show that you yourself are no smoker. Had you travelled by public transport or in your own car, you would not have been exposed to it.

  “That you live locally is evident from your ability to judge your arrival time to the very minute, demonstrating a familiarity with local traffic routes and volume.

  “As for the fear of being followed, I have already deduced that you travelled by taxi, yet I heard no car door closing. In addition, your hair is mildly damp, as are your boot soles and trouser bottoms. I presume that you asked the driver to drop you at the end of the street so that you could check for suspicious activity before revealing your destination.”

  “You are correct on all counts, Sir.” Dr Grove allowed himself a slight smile. “Perhaps I am being overcautious, but there is something about this affair that has filled me with a loathsome dread that dogs my every waking moment.”

  Urban-Smith reached for a pencil and sketchbook.

  “Do not mistake my doodling as a sign of disinterest,” said he. “It preoccupies the right hemisphere of the brain, allowing the left hemisphere to process information without distraction.” He indicated the copious canvases, brushes and tubes of artist’s paint which littered the room. “It is for the same reason that I paint, especially when I have a weighty problem bearing upon me. Pray, continue with your tale.”

  “Thank you, Sir. As I have intimated in my e-mail, Trofim and I were work colleagues and friends. We spoke daily, and I would socialise regularly with him and his wife, Ulyana.

  “The sixth of October was the night of the St Onker’s Staff Annual Dinner and Dance. The event takes place on the first Friday of October every year, and for the last few years, it has been hosted at the Ritz. About two hundred people generally attend, and the celebrations continue into the small hours. Trofim and Ulyana were in the habit of staying overnight at the hotel.”

  “What about you, Dr Grove? Did you also book a room?”

  “No. I prefer to sleep in my own bed. I have always been of an insomniac disposition due to a long-standing malady of the spleen, which I inherited from my father.

  “That evening, I met with Trofim and Ulyana in the bar to enjoy a restorative before the start of dinner. Trofim seemed his usual self, talkative and lively, and I was relieved because he had appeared distracted for a week or two. You see, Trofim had not long since lost his mother to cancer, following which our department had been burgled and much of Trofim’s research taken.”

  Dr Grove sighed wearily. “The whole affair proved most dreadful and vexatious to all.”

  “What precisely was stolen?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “His laptop computer, his desktop computer hard-drive and an infrasonic polytone generator. It was not a great pecuniary loss, but the computer data was irreplaceable. Trofim’s research was set back months.”

  “Were any other departments burgled?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  Urban-Smith continued to scratch away with his pencil. “Would you be abl
e to obtain for me a copy of the Professor’s Curriculum Vitae and a list of his published research?”

  “Of course. I’ll e-mail it to you. As I say, Trofim’s mood had lightened considerably, and we were all enjoying ourselves thoroughly. As the evening progressed and the wine flowed, Trofim seemed to become more animated and, during a particularly sensational anecdote, managed to spill Merlot over his jacket and shirt. Once our laughter had abated, he excused himself to his hotel room to change his clothes.”

  Urban-Smith briefly looked up from his drawing pad. “Did Mrs Gorshkov accompany him?”

  “She rose to do so, but he asked her to remain. When he returned, I observed that he wore a clean, white dress shirt and had managed to remove the worst of the stain from his jacket, though a little remained upon his lapel.”

  “Of this last fact, you are sure. It was the same jacket?”

  “Indeed it was.”

  “Apart from the fresh shirt, did you perceive any other alteration in the Professor’s appearance?”

  “No, Mr Urban-Smith. None whatsoever.”

  “What time did the Professor leave the table?”

  “A little before ten o’clock, I think, though I did not notice the exact time, for I was engrossed in conversation. However, I am certain that it could have been no more than ten minutes later when Trofim rejoined us. It was then that the evening took a dark and ghastly diversion.”

  As he uttered these words, a sudden change came upon Dr Grove. His skin became alabaster pale, his hands shuddered and heaved, and he slid down in his chair, a wretched look in his eyes.

  At times like these, one’s training takes over. I sprang to my feet, reached for my discarded periodical and began to roll it into a stiff funnel.

  “Mrs Denford!” I shouted. “Bring me a pound of butter, three hot towels and a mallet.”

  “No, no!” Our guest raised his hand in protest. “Just allow me a moment to regain my clarity.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, somewhat disappointed.

  Dr Grove nodded frantically. “Please. I will recover presently.”

  At this juncture, Mrs Denford arrived with a tray of tea and buns. “Here you are, gents.”

  “My dear Mrs Denford,” cried Urban-Smith. “You are a lifesaver. Quickly, Dr Grove; you must eat something.”

  “Yes, yes,” mumbled the good doctor. A little colour was seeping into his face, and it seemed that the fit had, for now, abated. “I have no desire to become incomprehensible, for there is yet much to tell.”

  The three of us paused awhile to drink tea and eat buns, and in due course Dr Grove regathered his former resolve.

  “I am sorry, gentlemen,” said he. “My splenic infirmity has taken its toll this afternoon, but I now feel capable of resuming if you consent.”

  With our approval, Dr Grove spun his tale.

  *

  Having spilt red wine upon his shirt, Professor Trofim Gorshkov excuses himself from the table to return to his hotel room. In his absence, it falls to Dr Grove to entertain his dining companions, whom he regales with tales of his grandfather’s gout until Gorshkov reappears.

  Although he has only been absent for a few minutes, his wife, Ulyana, greets him with a hug and a kiss, and Dr Grove is touched by the strong affection that the couple still have for one another after so many years of marriage.

  Professor Gorshkov takes his seat at the table, but no sooner has his weight settled when his phone rings. Even over the music and chatter, the tone is quite clear; a Russian anthem that Dr Grove does not recognise. Gorshkov rummages in his jacket pocket and withdraws his phone, fumbling with it for a few moments before successfully accepting the call and raising the phone to his ear.

  At this precise moment, Dr Grove is stricken with a most fearful dread and foreboding, as if some dastardly misfortune is to befall him. His mouth becomes dry, yet his palms run with sweat, and the bile rises from his liver into his throat.

  The Professor’s face is ashen, his eyes betraying no consciousness and his mouth locked in an absurd rictus. There issues forth a soft chuckling which turns into a gleeful chortle and then an insane guffawing. All within earshot are transfixed as he brays and roars like a madman, yet the effect is in no way joyful.

  His wife shakes him and shouts his name, but he does not acknowledge. Foam collects at his jowls, his eyes roll upwards into their sockets, and his arms and legs become rigidly extended.

  An eruptive fit throws him bodily from his chair, and as he thrashes to and fro, the air fills with the screams of terrified onlookers until, after a minute or so, he becomes still, silent, waxen.

  There is no hope.

  *

  “Despite our best efforts to resuscitate, we were unable to revive him, and his earthly spirit left him at precisely ten-oh-six on the sixth of the tenth.”

  “Hmm,” murmured Urban-Smith, “most palindromic. Was there an autopsy undertaken?”

  “Indeed there was. Ulyana advises me that the cause of death was deemed to be a stroke.”

  Urban-Smith looked to me. “What is your diagnosis, Rupert?”

  “Well,” I said, “although a little atypical, a stroke seems the most likely explanation. It is the commonest cause of a seizure in the elderly.”

  “And would this account for the paroxysms of mirth, so competently described by Dr Grove?”

  “I have not come across it before,” I admitted, “but two possible explanations spring to mind. One would be that the stroke triggered a seizure within the temporal lobe, the part of the brain responsible for perception. Excessive stimulation here could produce feelings of intense amusement and good humour, hence the laughter. It would also explain the subsequent convulsion, complete with jerking of the limbs, foaming at the mouth and collapse.”

  “Thank you, Rupert. What was your second hypothesis?”

  “Well,” I continued, “there is a rare condition called gelastic epilepsy which presents as unprovoked laughter or crying. It is usually associated with the presence of a tumour rather than a stroke, but it is not unusual to have areas of haemorrhage within a tumour, causing rapid expansion.”

  “Could laughter have induced the fit?”

  “It is possible, but exceptionally rare. A stroke is far more likely.”

  “Dr Grove,” said Urban-Smith, once more addressing our guest, “my friend and colleague has provided us with a perfectly reasonable explanation of the events that have so troubled you. Are you satisfied?”

  Dr Grove was not. “Please do not take this as a slight upon your expertise, Doctor,” said he, “but my unease has not lifted. It may be simply coincidence that Trofim succumbed to his stroke as he answered his phone, but how does that account for my discomfort and affliction as he did so?”

  “Further coincidence,” I stated bluntly. “You have already demonstrated your vulnerable constitution. I fear you could be blighted by further attacks at any given time.”

  “One moment, Rupert,” interjected Urban-Smith. “The Professor appeared to fumble with his mobile telephone. Does that not strike you as peculiar?”

  “I can’t say that it does. Would a man who had drank sufficiently to upset his wineglass not struggle to manipulate a telephone?”

  “Perhaps so, but is the recent theft of the Professor’s research also mere coincidence?”

  To that, I had no answer.

  “Tell us, Dr Grove,” said Urban-Smith, “what was the nature of Professor Gorshkov’s research?”

  Dr Grove sat a little straighter in his chair, clearly relieved that the conversation had become less confrontational. “Trofim was endeavouring to identify those parts of the brain which show decreased function at times of anxiety and fear. He was hoping to treat phobia sufferers by using infrasound to stimulate those areas.”

  “I have one final question for you, doctor,” said Urban-Smith. “It is perhaps the most pertinent of all. Have you ever seen a ghost?”

  Dr Grove’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed and his hands balled
into fists upon his lap. “You mock me, sir?”

  “In no way,” replied Urban-Smith calmly. “Please answer me honestly.”

  “I suppose the truth can do no harm to the innocent,” said Dr Grove, shuffling in his seat and smoothing down his trouser fronts. “Yes, Mr Urban-Smith. On more than one occasion.”

  “Thank you, Dr Grove.” Urban-Smith rose from his chair, and Dr Grove and I did likewise. “I will investigate this matter to my fullest capacity. Please send me the Professor’s Curriculum Vitae at your earliest convenience, and I shall contact you within a few days.”

  Urban-Smith rubbed his hands cheerfully as we watched Dr Grove depart. “This case presents several truly singular conundrums that I wish to pursue. Are you able to get hold of a copy of Professor Gorshkov’s post-mortem report?”

  “Surely you cannot suspect foul play?” I protested.

  “I have not yet formulated my opinions. Perhaps you would care to inspect my notes?” He handed me his sketchpad, in which he had drawn a most unflattering caricature of our guest recumbent upon a hospital bed, an intravenous drip in his arm, an oxygen mask over his face, and a ‘nil by mouth’ sign above his head.

  “That poor man is a martyr to his spleen,” observed Urban-Smith. “Please remind me, Rupert; upon which side would one locate one’s spleen?”

  “The inside.”

  ◆◆◆

  3. PROFESSOR GORSHKOV LAID BARE

  Monday 23rd October

  I spent the following morning giving evidence at Coroner’s Court. It was an open and shut case of suicide by strangulation, but what made it somewhat irregular was that the victim had placed a noose around his neck and then succeeded in lassoing the ten-forty train to Ipswich.

  “A very poor choice,” lamented my housemate when I related the story to him that evening. “The eleven-fifteen to Brighton is a far superior selection. In many stretches, the scenery is quite breathtaking.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass your comments to the coroner, Fairfax. As a matter of fact, it surprised me that you didn’t take an interest in the case.”