Читать книгу Bloody Awful - Georgia Evans - Страница 10

The Pig and Whistle might be a ridiculous name, but Bloch could forgive it, given the reception he received.

“So you’re Mr. Block,” the fat landlord said with a smile. “Welcome to Brytewood, and what may I get you?”

For this he’d been well briefed. “A pint of bitter, please.”

The landlord held a heavy glass mug under the tap and slowly filled it with rich amber liquid, easing the pressure to form a head, before dabbing the bottom of the mug on a towel and handing the beer to Block. “Here you are, sir. Tonight it’s on the house. Tell you what, you and Mr. Whorleigh here need to have a chat. Seeing as how you’ll be working together like.”

What was the fat landlord talking about? He was calling to a slender, tall man, at the other end of the bar. “Mr. Whorleigh, you’d best be meeting your new competition. Mr. Block here is reopening Stone’s bakery.” Competition? Another baker? “Mr. Whorleigh is the village grocer,” the landlord explained.

Whorleigh turned to look at Block and gave a halfway friendly nod. “Baker, eh?” he said taking a drink from a three-quarters empty tankard.

“Yes, I’m Bill Block.” He took a couple of steps toward the man and held out his hand.

For a second, it seemed he would be refused but then Whorleigh extended his hand and grasped Block’s firmly. Too firmly for friendliness. Far too firmly for comfort if Block had been mortal.

Block met pressure with pressure.

Whorleigh smiled as realization hit Block.

This was no human. Whorleigh, the village grocer, was Other.

If he was the vampire-killing Other remained to be discovered.

Fast.

Block released his hand. “So, you and I are fellow traders.”

The idea did not appear to thrill. “Good luck, the last one got himself run over. If I didn’t have bread sent in from Dorking, we’d not have any.”

“I plan to alter that.”

Whorleigh gave a noncommittal nod. “Experienced in the trade are you? Or are you one of those Ministry of Food conscripts?”

“My father was a baker. I grew up learning the trade.”

“I see,” Whorleigh paused to drink from his beer. “Local was he?”

“Not at all. I don’t know this part of the country in the least. I’m looking forward to looking around. I’ve heard there’re some good walks.” Nice touch that. Set up his desire to wander and look around.

Whorleigh shrugged. “Used to get groups of ramblers on weekends before the war. Not many these days.” He drained his beer and set the empty tankard on the bar.

Bloch took the hint. “Let me buy you another.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Taking the refilled glass with a nod of thanks, Whorleigh went on, “Let’s get ourselves a seat over in the corner and talk this out.”

Talk what out? That, he would no doubt discover.

“This is how I see it,” Whorleigh began once they’d sat down at a table tucked in a far corner. “This village is big enough for both of us. We just need to come to an agreement.” Bloch listened, an amused smile tweaking one corner of his mouth. “You do all the baking, bread, rolls, cakes if you want and can get the fat and sugar. I’ll stop selling any bread. That way they’ll have to come to you or get on the bus for it. They’ll come to you. Buses aren’t as reliable as they were before the war.” Bloch nodded. So far this was clear enough. “I take care of customers who’re registered with me and…the rest.”

At the pause, Bloch gave Whorleigh all his attention. “I take care of any extras. That’s my bailiwick. Silk stockings, makeup, off-the-ration things that are hard to find. Understand?”

Bloch understood the black market was alive and thriving. “Of course.” There had to be some way to use this to his advantage. And if this Whorleigh was the killer, soon the peasants of Brytewood would be without their supplier.

How unfortunate for them.

Bloch was sorely tempted to dispose of Whorleigh this very evening and report his success to Weiss, but if Whorleigh wasn’t the killer, it might just pay to let him live. He could be handy and Weiss was always carping on about unnecessary deaths bringing unwarranted attention.

“I believe,” Bloch said, eyeing Whorleigh over the rim of his glass, “we can work together. How about we drink up and take a stroll and cover detail better not discussed here?”

After a brief hesitation, Whorleigh agreed, downed his beer and crossed to the door, giving a nod to the knot of men clustered around the dart board.

Sergeant Howell Pendragon of the Home Guard, Red Welsh Dragon and long-time resident of Brytewood, watched as the door closed and the heavy curtain dropped into place behind the two men. “Another newcomer?” he asked the landlord, Fred Wise. “Place is full of them these days.”

“He’s the new baker. Surprised you haven’t met him,” Wise replied.

“Not so far. Will soon no doubt. Where’s he come from?”

“Dunno. Didn’t catch that, but mind you, will be nice to get fresh bread in the village.” Wise paused to pull a pint for a customer down the bar. “Still,” he went on, “can’t but wonder why we got a new baker, you’d think he’d have gone to one of the big cities. Not complaining, you see, but it does make one ask.”

“It does indeed,” Pendragon agreed.

“You’ll be losing your young lodger soon, won’t you?” Constable Parlett, now off duty, said from down the bar.

Pendragon nodded. “Yes, will miss him. Nothing quite like young company.”

“He isn’t moving that far!” Wise said, with a bit of a chuckle. “It’s nice to see the doctor and him together. Make a nice pair they do, and this way he’ll be staying in the village.”

“Unless he gets posted somewhere else,” Parlett said. “I’d hate to see it but with a war on, who’s to say?”

“I bet they leave him here, especially with the nurse laid up now and all the extra evacuees arriving,” Pendragon said, voicing his own hopes. “Due tomorrow are they? Or is it Friday?”

“It was yesterday,” Parlett said. “The WVS ladies got the tea urns and all set up and then got a message. Trains were cut because of bomb damage on the lines.”

“They’ll get here soon enough,” Pendragon said. He downed the last of his beer. “I’ll be off home. See you gentlemen tomorrow.”

As he walked toward his cottage, he frowned to himself. Something about that baker chap seemed wrong. Other was Howell’s guess. He really wanted to hear what Helen Burrows had to say about him. He valued the Pixie’s opinion. She’d been right about that Oak chap and he wanted to know her impression of Mr. Block, the new baker.

The darkness of the blackout was no impediment to Bloch’s vampire sight and it gave him the edge over mortals. Seemed Whorleigh had no trouble negotiating the narrow path between the hedges and the lane either. Another indication he was Other. Why not just rip his throat out and take his blood? The temptation was very strong and the chance he might execute the wrong person wouldn’t weigh heavy on his mind.

“You and me, Block, we work together, see?” Whorleigh said. “You trust Sam Whorleigh to see you right. Just let me do my bit on the side and you set up your own.”

How, precisely, he would manage that when Whorleigh had the black market cornered was a puzzle, but not one he was likely to waste his brains on. With Whorleigh dead, the pickings would be up for grabs but for that, he needed his contacts. Better stay the execution.

But a nice deep draught of Whorleigh’s blood would sustain for several days, and help bind the creature to Block. That couldn’t be anything but useful.

They were a hundred yards or so away from Whorleigh’s store, on a deserted stretch of country lane, the Pig and Whistle behind them beyond the bend.

Block put his arm around Whorleigh’s shoulders. “Old pal, we will deal well together.”

Whorleigh stiffened. Interesting. “We’ll work together alright. You and I. You just stay your side of the street and I’ll keep to mine,” he replied. “That clear?”

The friendly tone didn’t conceal a thing. The man dared to utter a warning to Wilhelm Bloch? He was in need of a little judicious humbling and binding. “Perfectly clear, old chap. We understand each other, don’t we?” The church wasn’t far ahead. Would be no trouble to drag the grocer over the stone wall and feed.

Bloch’s gums tingled at the prospect.

Keeping a tight hold on Whorleigh’s shoulders, Bloch steered him across the road. Whorleigh resisted a moment, before accepting Bloch’s direction. “You’re an interesting man, Block,” he said.

The creature had no idea exactly how interesting.

The dark shape of the lychgate loomed ahead. Bloch drew him closer, ready to swing him into the shadows. A quick glance ahead and behind showed the lane still deserted.

Perfect.

As his fangs descended, Bloch tightened his hold on Whorleigh, counting to himself the paces to the lychgate ahead.

Whorleigh slipped out of his grasp and disappeared.

Impossible!

Bloch was the only person in the lane.

How in the name of all the damned and cursed had that happened? Bloch snarled to the heavens in the frustration of rising hunger. His now descended fangs brushed his lips. He wanted blood and his victim was gone. Not just gone, he’d disappeared into the night.

If nothing else, Bloch had the satisfaction of suspicions confirmed. Whorleigh was Other.

Whether or not he was Eiche’s slayer was immaterial. The creature was now prey.

Bloch ran at vampire speed, all pretense of mortal gone. At Whorleigh’s shop he halted. He needed an invitation to enter the creature’s abode. Such an invitation was unlikely to be forthcoming.

Bloch could bide his time and consider the question that nagged him. What was Whorleigh and how had he disappeared? Those thoughts took precedence over the question on his possible guilt.

Samuel Whorleigh watched from his perch on the lychgate. This was a crimp he’d not anticipated and didn’t quite understand. He’d sensed menace in Block from the first, but not enough to cause concern, until they left the pub and Bill Block put his arm around his shoulders and exuded a burgeoning sense of menace. More than Whorleigh had encountered in decades.

If he’d been mortal, harm would have befallen him. No doubt about it. As it was, he slipped out of the hold and wrapped himself in invisibility. Perched atop the lychgate, he had the satisfaction of watching Block’s confusion.

Satisfaction was soon replaced with worry. Block represented trouble. Danger.

Whorleigh had suspected as much from a handshake that revealed no pulse.

Only one sort of creature walked the earth without a pulse or heartbeat and Whorleigh had never heard good of vampires. What to do now? He knew of one Other in these parts: the white witch, old Mother Longhurst. He had to talk to her and keep his eyes peeled for Bill Block’s next and unwelcome approach.

“A penny for them,” Peter Watson said to his love, his intended, his fiancée (he loved that word): Alice.

“My thoughts?” She smiled, looking up from her knitting. They were sitting either side of the kitchen stove while Mrs. Burrows presided over the knitting circle in the lounge. “I was wondering if Gran will take pity on me and turn the heel. I’m worried about Miss Waite’s odd and unexpected death, and hoping Gloria and Andrew are getting on well.”

“Matchmaker.”

She grinned, only too happy, Peter guessed, to neglect the sock. Alice had many strengths, knitting socks apparently wasn’t among them. “And why not? They’re both single. They’re attracted to each other, a blind person could see that, and all they needed was a little nudge.”

“What if they’re not meant for each other? Ever thought about that?”

“Then it won’t work out. We did.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Wasn’t about to. “What about Miss Waite? Gossip in the village says it was suicide. Don’t spies carry cyanide pills in their teeth?”

Alice hesitated. This was likely some official secret but…“It wasn’t cyanide, Peter. That’s unmistakable, skin goes pink even after death. She was pale as could be and shriveled.” She paused. “Not unlike the state we found Farmer Morgan in.”

Peter went cold. No prizes for guessing that implication. Morgan had been killed by Oak, the vampire spy Alice had destroyed. “Have you told your grandmother?”

“No, why worry her until I’m sure that’s what it is? But how can I be sure? I can hardly say to the medical officer, ‘Maybe a vampire killed her.’ They’d have me committed and strike me off the medical register as insane. And I could be wrong. I just wish there’d been a local inquest. She was whisked off somewhere and no one knows or won’t tell. But we do know there is another vampire somewhere. The one who walked out of my surgery, and if he’s come back…”

“The one who disappeared on you the day we met? We owe him a big ‘thank you.’”

That brought a smile to her lips, and a naughty twinkle to her eyes. “We’d have met anyway, Peter. Somehow. I don’t think we’d have missed each other. We were meant to be together.”

“Meant to elope?” They’d had this conversation before and he always lost but didn’t stop trying.

“Now that we’ve had the banns called? No way, Peter Watson. You are making an honest woman of me in Brytewood parish church. No havey cavey off to a registry office for us.”

And since it was the price of winning her, he’d put up with all the folderols and fuss.

“Want a warm drink before you go?”

“Kicking me out?” he asked.

She gave him a playful swat. “Twit. Best for everyone if the good women of the village see you leave before they do. Gran doesn’t mind you staying, you know that, but she would mind gossip. So, it’s Horlicks and an Osbourne biscuit for you, my love, and then off down the lane. At least for tonight.”

Fair enough. Village gossips could shred a reputation faster than unhooking their corsets. He stood and crossed the kitchen to stand close, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her against him. He was hard and he wanted to make darn sure she knew it.

“Peter,” she said, her voice tight, “are you trying to distract me?”

“Of course.” He kissed the back of her neck. “Just a little.”

“If you really want to prove your devotion, get the biscuit tin off the dresser.”

“Kiss me first.”

She turned in his embrace, leaning into him so her breasts pressed against his pullover. Damn, they both had far too many clothes. He wanted her naked, skin to skin, warm and loving under the covers, but he’d settle for what he could get, and what he could get right now was her kiss.

Her mouth found his. His hand slipped under her cardigan and fumbled for buttons and she pressed her lips against his.

He was drunk. Intoxicated with the sheer heady sensation of her mouth on his and her tongue searching, reaching for his. They touched, she gave a little sexy whimper and deepened the kiss until they were locked in a wild embrace of glorious sensual need. Her hands came around his waist to clutch his bottom and pull him closer.

What had he ever done to deserve this? A warm and loving woman who desired him. Heat built between them, fueled by repressed need and scorching want. He deepened the kiss even more, turning so Alice had her back to the sink. He pressed her against the cool china and rubbed his body against hers. He had to break it off soon or they’d never stop, and he’d end up having her against the draining board.

Not a romantic prospect.

Not the way to endear himself to the most fabulous woman in creation.

Screwing up his resolve, he broke the kiss and pulled back. A few inches.

“Peter!” Her stifled cry showed her frustration and need. “Why stop?”

“Because two minutes more and we’d end up naked on the kitchen table and cause untold scandal when some good woman of the parish walks in with the tray of used teacups.”

“True.” Her sigh seemed to hang overhead, looming up near the clothes airer suspended from the ceiling. “Better get on with that Horlicks you wanted.” She put the kettle on the gas and reached for two mugs off the dresser. “I bet Gloria and Andrew are having something more exciting than Horlicks.”