Читать книгу In the Night Wood - Dale Bailey - Страница 20

“Erin?”

Alone in the breakfast room — Mrs. Ramsden had gone about her duties, whatever they were — Erin closed the sketchbook and looked up. The Klonopin had kicked in. She stood outside her emotions, aware of them but detached, an observer of her own inner life. The meds insulated her from her grief and anger, nothing more.

“Dr. Colbeck is here,” Charles said from the door.

Indeed he was. He towered over Charles, a gaunt, ginger giant: ginger hair, ginger beard, all knobby elbows and knees. Six-three or -four, at least, and vastly underfed. Ichabod Crane, she thought. Ichabod Crane was to be her doctor.

“Dr. Colbeck.”

The ginger stranger actually bowed slightly. He put a black medical bag on the table and took in the rows of pill bottles arrayed in front of Erin without expression.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up.”

To his credit, Colbeck ignored this witticism. He smiled. “Please, call me John,” he said. Then: “So you’re the Americans who’ve inherited Hollow House. You’ve been much anticipated hereabouts.”

“Warmly, I hope,” Charles ventured.

“Of course. You’ll find the natives friendly enough, I think.”

“Did you grow up here?” Charles asked.

“Born and bred. My training eroded my accent somewhat; for good or ill I am uncertain.”

“Then you knew our benefactor?” Erin asked.

“Only in a professional sense. I took on Dr. Marshall’s practice ten years ago, when he retired. Mr. Hollow needed little care. He came of hardy stock. He lived to ninety-seven, and I doubt he was ill a day of it until the final crisis overtook him. He was a reclusive man. Cillian Harris attended to most of his affairs.”

“You’ll find us more approachable, I hope,” Charles said.

“I’m sure I will.” Colbeck cleared his throat. “Let’s have a look at that ankle.”

He knelt and took the ankle in question into his big hands. Erin winced, the pain brief but not insignificant. Then Colbeck was saying, “You appear to have a sprain, Mrs. Hayden, and a minor one at that. You should be up and around in a day or two. In the meantime” — he opened his bag, which, despite the rank of shiny instruments on view, disgorged nothing more sinister than an ankle brace — “in the meantime,” he said, “you seem to be doing the right things. Rest and elevation and ice, though no more than twenty minutes at a stretch. Compression” — he held up the brace — “helps as well, and you’ll need some support when you get back on your feet. Easy enough, yes? I can fetch some crutches from the car, if you like.”

“Why don’t you —” Charles started to say, but Erin overrode him.

“I think I’ll be fine.”

“I think so, too. The brace should be sufficient. Weight is the key. What your ankle wants is weight. Twenty-four hours, and then you’ll start trying to get up and around, won’t you. You can alternate paracetamol and ibuprofen for pain every two hours or so. Three or four days and you’ll be good as new.”

He leaned over to close his bag, and that was when his gaze fell on the photograph. “Oh my, she’s a lovely young girl. Your daughter, I presume.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “Our daughter. Lissa. Back home.”

The words hung in the air like undetonated bombs. Erin could not speak, but if Colbeck noticed anything, he didn’t acknowledge it. He just snapped the bag closed and stood, saying, “Nobody mentioned anything about a daughter.”