Hugh Lambert

Hugh Lambert is 49 and has looked after the health of two hundred workers since the factory opened its infirmary. He was born in Surrey, the son of a clergyman and a pianist, and qualified as a doctor in London with distinction, which he mentions when convenient and often when it isn't. He served in the army as a medical officer, married once, divorced once and chose the village for the promise of a quiet life and a steady salary. He speaks consulting-room Latin even when nobody asked for a translation.

He lives in a stone house with a walled garden on the edge of the village, where he keeps a study with walls lined with leather-bound books and a collection of pocket watches he buys at auction. He has a housekeeper who comes three days a week and a green leather armchair from which he does not rise before noon on Sundays. He plays the cello badly, but he plays. His dog, a red setter, walks around the house with more dignity than most visitors.

He has thin brown hair, carefully combed to one side, a trimmed mustache and the reddened cheeks of someone who likes a good dinner. He wears a brown tweed jacket over a waistcoat, a stethoscope hanging around his neck and a plaid pocket handkerchief folded with precision. He speaks slowly, in long sentences, and treats the detective like a stubborn patient, with feigned patience and a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

About the factory's illness, his account is that of one who knows the chart: on the stockroom chief's certificate, he wrote inflammation of the nerves, a polyneuritispolyneuritis Inflammation of several nerves at once, causing pain, tingling and weakness, usually in the limbs., because his legs ached and his fingers tingled. In the last week, his hair fell out in handfuls, which is rare, but happens. He estimates about forty sick in all, with vomiting, cramps and tremors, most improving within a week. The water was tested twice and was as clean as a church's.

Hugh knows that the factory doctor is the first one asked why so many people fell ill with no one knowing the reason. When the detective demands an explanation, he resorts to the diploma on the wall and a phrase in Latin, and his voice grows louder than the doubt. It may be the vanity of a professional wounded in his competence. It may be someone who prefers pomp to silence because silence reveals more. The detective will have to decide which.