Читать книгу Bloody Good - Georgia Evans - Страница 12

“Good heavens.” Alice looked up from reading the afternoon mail. “Gran, you’re not going to believe this. We’re getting a first aid assistant.” She went on, reading the typewritten page. “‘In view of your increased workload with the influx of evacuees and the government security installation at Brytewood Heath, we are appointing an assistant with some medical training to oversee first aid at the installation and supplement civilian services in the Brytewood area.”

“Gran, it’s a godsend. Gloria is stretched thin with the extra schoolchildren, and we’re all doing double duty since Rob Abbot in Leatherhead was called up.”

Her grandmother refilled her cup as Alice read on. “‘It will be the responsibility of your local evacuee committee to find convenient accommodation for him, and to provide a bicycle.’”

“Why not see about billeting him with Howell Pendragon? He’s alone in that cottage, too old to cope with children but I think he really misses his son. A young man would lift his spirits a bit.”

“We don’t know much about him, or even for that matter if he’s young. I wonder what training he has, probably three weeks when he was thirteen in the Junior Red Cross.” She looked back at the letter. “Mr. Peter Watson will be arriving in Brytewood Sunday afternoon to assume duties 9 AM Monday morning…’”

She broke off at recognition of the name. Nonsense! Had to be a coincidence. Peter and Watson were common enough names. Heck, the village was full of Watsons. Had to be a cousin or someone posted near home.

“Peter Watson?” Gran asked, setting the topped-off cup in front of Alice. “Wasn’t that the name of that young ambulance driver?”

Gran darn well knew it was. There was nothing wrong with her memory. “The CO. Yes.”

“Didn’t he say he’d started training as a vet?”

She couldn’t hold back the laugh. “That will make him popular with the farmers.” She stopped herself, smiling at the thought. She did not want to work with that coward.

Seemed Gran could read her thoughts. “You asked for help, Alice. You’ve been given it. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If it is the same man, he’s intelligent and energetic and will be so relieved not to be working under that snirpy Sid Mosley he’ll bend over backwards to oblige.”

Gran had a point. “But he’s a CO!”

“Yes, dear, and you’re half Pixie—doesn’t stop you doing a good job taking care of the sick of the parish.”

Why, in the name of reason, was Gran forever harping on about that? Alice had long ago chosen science, reason, and the provable as her view on reality; Gran’s talk of magic and power and auras just didn’t add up to anything real or logical.

“Don’t shake your head at me, my girl. Time will come you’ll need what’s tamped down inside you. You mark my words!”

“Yes, Gran.” Alice stood and drank down the last of her tea. “And time has come for me to get to the surgery and take care of the piles, nits, and aches and pains of the parish.” Feeling oddly guilty, not that she had any reason to, Alice crossed the kitchen and kissed her grandmother. “Shouldn’t be too many this evening. They’re showing The Prisoner of Zenda in the parish hall. Only the achiest and the sorest will forgo Ronald Colman for the tattered magazines in my waiting room.”

The prospect of a closely packed crowd in a darkened room was too filled with opportunities to ignore. Gerhardt Eiche left Jane Waite’s bedside in callous haste—she was mere mortal and eventually disposable after all—and ignoring the option of a crowded bus, set off cross country at vampire pace and arrived in Brytewood in plenty of time to detour to the wretched pig farm. The run had sapped his energy and he intended to be in prime fettle for the evening. First the parish village entertainment, then he intended a run in the opposite direction, toward Guildford, to sniff out Schmidt.

It was time the vamps set their own path.

But first a visit to the pigsties.

The sow squealed as Eiche dug his fangs into the fleshy neck. Straddling her to hold her still, he clamped her snout shut. She struggled and fought but soon collapsed in the mud as he sated his hunger. Standing, he looked in irritation at his now-soiled clothes. Damn! And with Jane Waite incapacitated and unable to see to his laundry. Maybe he’d call that servant back to take care of these matters or find some washerwoman to see to things.

That could wait.

“Hey! What you doing here?”

Eiche turned.

A short, shabby little mortal stood at the wall of the sty, righteous indignation oozing over his ruddy face.

Not what he’d planned on. At least not yet, but…

“Did you hear me?” the little pip-squeak demanded.

Eiche stood and bared his fangs.

The shock and horror in the man’s face was quite satisfying. Eiche watched the peasant goggle and splutter for a few seconds, then leapt the wall toward him. The shriek of horror died in an instant as Eiche’s fangs pierced his neck. He held tight, grasping the man’s shoulders as he sucked. Little muffled gasps soon gave way to silence as the man fainted. Eiche held on, drinking fast. This was what he’d missed since his arrival—the last he’d fed from a sentient creature was that Fairy in the castle. She’d struggled and fought and sweetened the feed, but this creature’s abject and petrified terror was even better.

The peasant was dead before Eiche realized. Unfortunate. Remembering the poster by the village hall exhorting the populace to “Waste Not, Want Not,” Eiche drained him and left his limp and used-up body lying in the mud.

A fitting resting place for such a menial creature.

Eiche stood up, threw back his head, and howled at the moon before racing toward his safe house.

Fifteen minutes later he’d washed, changed into the interesting wardrobe supplied by Jane Waite, closed the door of the cottage behind him, and headed for the village entertainment.

Alice had guessed right. Only a few regular patients and a couple of perennial hypochondriacs skipped the adventure in Ruritania for her waiting room. She was writing out a prescription for stomach powder for old Mr. Harper when Gran put her head around the door.

“Sorry to interrupt dear, but when you finish, PC Parlett wants a word with you. He said it was urgent.”

Alan Parlett had played cricket with her brothers on the village team. The ashen-faced policeman waiting in the front hall had little in common with the bright-eyed young man who’d bowled out the Bookham team captain back in the summer of 1939. A lifetime ago.

“What can I do for you, Constable?”

“Sergeant’s compliments, Dr. Doyle, but would you please come up to Morgan’s Farm? There’s been an accident.”

Alice grabbed her bag and asked Gran to warn the remaining two patients it might be some time before she returned. With luck they’d leave and come back tomorrow. Taking her keys off the hall table, she led PC Parlett out of the front door.

He’d ridden his bicycle. “Why not toss it in the back and I’ll drive you down there?”

“Righto!” he replied, settling his long legs into the passenger seat.

“What happened?” she asked as she headed toward the outskirts of the village and beyond.

“Don’t rightly know. Mrs. Morgan called us. Fred had gone out as he’d heard a noise and then a little while later she heard a howl. Went out to investigate and found him lying in one of the pigsties. Sergeant thinks it might have been a heart attack. Fred Morgan was getting on, after all.”

But otherwise hale and healthy. The only things she’d seen him for were chilblains every winter. “He’s definitely dead then?”

“Not a doubt. I saw him.”

So it was just a routine death certificate. They’d need to call in one of the doctors from Leatherhead since she hadn’t seen Fred Morgan since the previous winter. “And poor old Muriel found him. Must have given her a nasty shock.” No doubt she’d be needing professional services more than poor old Fred.

“Right upset she was on the phone. Can’t blame her. Here she was all worried about her sister and the bombing in London and it’s the old man cops it.”

But he wasn’t that old. Not compared to her gran, old Mother Longhurst, or Sergeant Pendragon. Heavens, Sir James was close to eighty. Fred Morgan wasn’t much over fifty. Not that death was any respecter of age or youth.

They’d carried him into the farmhouse and now he lay stretched out on a sheet on the kitchen table. Muriel was sitting in the dim parlor, quietly sobbing with another woman. Sergeant Jones gave Alice a worried nod. “Thought you’d best have a look at him, Doctor,” he said. “Looks like just a heart attack or something, but Mrs. Morgan is certain she heard a loud scream. That was what brought her out to look for him.”

He’d hardly have been screaming that loud if he was doubled over with a heart attack. “I’ll have a look. Then see Mrs. Morgan.”

Poor Fred Morgan showed no blueness around the mouth or fingertips, and his body seemed lighter and more shriveled than she remembered. But it had been months. She’d run into him a few times in the village but…something seemed wrong.

Picking up one of his hands, the fingers seemed just skin and bone. Certainly not the hands of a man who’d labored for pretty much all of his life. She couldn’t throw off the sense of unease. “I think we need to call the coroner.”

Sergeant Jones nodded. “I thought so, too. Something just not right about him. Don’t rightly know how to tell poor Muriel.” He looked Alice in the eye.

“I’ll talk to her.”

Alice regretted her hasty offer three minutes after she met Muriel Morgan’s red-rimmed eyes.

“Doctor,” the widow began, “what happened to my Fred?”

“Now, now Muriel,” the woman with her said. “Don’t get yourself upset.”

Alice bit back the comment that a woman unexpectedly and suddenly widowed was entitled to be a bit upset. “Mrs. Morgan,” she said, pulling up a chair and sitting next to her, “I’ve been talking to Sergeant Jones and we both want to call in the coroner.”

“Why?” There was belligerence and fear in the swollen eyes.

“We’re not sure of the cause of death. We’ll need another opinion anyway since Mr. Morgan wasn’t under my care.”

“I thought he had a heart attack.” She looked up at the other woman. “Didn’t you say he had, Wendy?”

“I said it looked like one, Muriel.”

Heaven save her from amateur diagnoses.

“Wasn’t it then, Doctor?” Muriel Morgan asked. “Why the coroner? That means they’re going to cut him up, doesn’t it?”

“That depends.” Scant comfort but…

“Doctor, I don’t want him cut up. He’d hate that!” She broke down sobbing and Alice, loathing this part of the job like poison, handed over her own laundered handkerchief.

Muriel sobbed into it while Wendy muttered, “There, there, Muriel,” and treated Alice to a definite scowl. “Is that really necessary?”

“We believe so.”

Muriel looked up, her eyes redder than ever, and sniffed. “Your father would have known a heart attack when he saw one. If he were here…”

She refused to be hurt by the slight on her professional prowess. “I wish he were here, too, Mrs. Morgan. I can’t sign the death certificate unless I’m completely certain. Your husband deserves better than that.”

She nodded, her eyes blank with grief and shock. “I just know he’d hate to be cut up.”

The poor man was long past being distressed by that. “I know the thought’s upsetting, but once it’s over and settled, it will be worth it.” She hoped.

“I suppose the police will pester Muriel with more questions.”

The woman was sharp-tongued. “No more than they feel necessary. I’m Dr. Doyle. I apologize for not introducing myself. I forget people outside Brytewood don’t know me.” She offered her had, which the woman took with an air of reluctance.

“I’m Wendy, I was helping Muriel with the pickles. We was busy in the kitchen when Fred went out.”

“She’s my sister. Visiting from London. I told her to come down here and get away from all those bombs,” Muriel added.

“Welcome to Brytewood and I’m sorry this happened, but I am glad Mrs. Morgan has company. Can you stay a few days?”

“I was planning on it. My house in Clapham got a direct hit last week.”

She was entitled to be a trifle acerbic. “How terrible for you.” And thousands of others. “And now this on top of it, but I’m really glad Mrs. Morgan has company for a while. This will take a few days.” Maybe longer given everyone was short-staffed.

“You’ve got more questions, I suppose.”

“I’m afraid so.” Wendy seemed to mellow a little so Alice pressed on. “What happened? You were both in the house?”

She nodded. “Bottling up a couple of recipes of piccalilli. We had plenty of vegetables and thought it might help brighten up a few meals now that rationing has started. We were all in the kitchen when Fred said he’d heard a noise outside. We’ve been bothered by a fox around the henhouse the last few nights so he went out to look.”

“He took his gun?”

Wendy shook her head. “No, just a light. Said it would scare the blighter off.”

Alice nodded, suspecting Farmer Morgan had used a saltier expression. “Was he out there long?”

“Long enough for us to fill seven or eight jars. First off we heard him shout, thought he was scaring off the fox. He didn’t come back in, then we heard this awful scream, more like a howl than anything else. We both ran out and found him in Esmerelda’s sty.” It never ceased to amaze Alice the names given animals destined to be slaughtered. “The old sow was shivering in a corner, scared to bits to see her master drop dead in front of her.”

“So he screamed before he died?”

“It wasn’t just a scream,” Muriel Morgan piped in. “It was unearthly, like a sound from a nightmare.” Even allowing the widow’s grief, the description sent a shiver down Alice’s back. “Was he in pain, d’you think, Doctor?”

Certainly sounded like it. “That’s what the postmortem will establish.”

Declining a belatedly offered cup of tea, Alice went back to the kitchen. Seemed somehow very sad that poor Fred Morgan was laid out on the very table where he’d no doubt tucked into Muriel’s generous cooking.

“What d’you think, Doctor?” Sergeant Jones asked. “Call for them to come get him in the morning?”

They were asking her, and she had no idea. Brytewood residents tended to die peacefully in their beds, not like this.

“Think we should call the detectives in from Leatherhead?” PC Parlett suggested.

The sergeant shook his head. “Not unless the doctor thinks so.”

“Do we have any reason to suspect foul play?”

Both shook their heads. Alice tamped down the feeling of unease. “Let’s see what the coroner has to say.”

Gran was waiting when she finally got home. “You’ll be needing a nice cup of cocoa. Have a seat, Alice, and I’ll warm up the milk.”

Alice hung up her coat, kicked off her shoes, and gladly accepted a couple of Osbourne biscuits and a mug of cocoa, which came, she noticed at the first sip, with a generous tot of rum. “Trying to knock me out, Gran?”

“No, love, but you looked so peaky when you came in, I decided you needed a little warm-up. Was it bad?”

Good question. “No death is easy, is it? But this was…” How the heck could she describe it? Gran waited as Alice took another drink and let her mind sort out the possible adjectives to describe the odd atmosphere up at Morgan farm. “It was…odd.” Inadequate but…

“How did he die?”

“That was what was strange. We’re calling in the coroner. Mrs. Morgan was upset about it, but I couldn’t in all conscience sign the death certificate.” She bit on one of the Osbourne biscuits and chewed, then dunked the other half and let it melt in her mouth. “Something wasn’t right, Gran.” She explained all she’d seen up at the farm and Mrs. Morgan’s account of finding him. “It just seems wrong.”

She half-expected another lecture about using her innate gifts but instead, Gran nodded. “Trust your instincts, Alice. They won’t let you down. After all, it’s not the first strange thing in the village this week.”

“You mean the disappearing man?” Of course she did. “They could hardly be connected.” Could they?

“Everything is connected, Alice. We can’t always see how. Just remember to trust your instincts, and things turn out.”

Maybe, but if she followed her instincts about her new assistant, she’d hand him the white feather.