Читать книгу Bloody Right - Georgia Evans - Страница 11

Brytewood

Mary made it to three-thirty, but between arch comments from Mrs. Spriggly, who cleaned the school, good-natured teasing from the other teachers, and even Petey Cannock’s “Cor, Miss, never knew you could dance,” it had been a long day.

But playing unconcerned and casual, and answering comments with Yes, it was a lovely party, wasn’t it? she got through it. With a bit of luck in the next day or so, there’d be another German pilot bailout, or the buses would be cut because of petrol shortages, and the village would have far more interesting topics of gossip than her waltzing with Gryffyth Pendragon.

If only she could get over it as easily.

Just thinking about him sparked a memory deep in her body that was best forgotten, or at least totally ignored.

She’d made an exhibition of herself Saturday night but was not about to do that a second time. Ever.

Of course there was still Gloria to be faced, who’d been conspicuously absent until late Sunday evening, when Mary was on her way to bed. She’d cope. Gloria was a friend, not a village gossip.

Mary saw the last child out onto the playground, wrote the next day’s date on the blackboard, sorted papers for the morning, and left with a sheaf of essays under her arm.

It was her turn to stop by Whorleigh’s and get dinner, and she hoped he had something more than sausages left. They might be off the ration but they contained less and less meat each time she bought them. Speculation about the content of Mr. Whorleigh’s sausages stopped dead the instant she saw Gryffyth Pendragon leaning against the school gatepost.

Heaven help her! The man had come-hither oozing out of every pore of his body. He saw her and smiled and her throat went dry. Other parts didn’t. Quite the reverse in fact. This was nonsense. It was also disastrous. Just when she’d convinced herself speculation would soon die a natural death, here he was, all with his glorious self. And she had to curl her toes inside her sensible teacher shoes to stop herself racing across the playground and into his arms.

It was terrible.

Saturday, she’d half blamed it on the beer. This afternoon she had no such excuse and was only too aware that every flicker of an eyelid and every breath she took was being monitored by the mothers gossiping at the gate.

Shifting her bag on her shoulder, Mary fetched her bicycle, dumped her papers and bag into the basket and, grasping the handlebars with a grip that threatened to twist metal, wheeled it toward the school gate and Gryffyth Pendragon.

She had a good fifteen yards to compose herself.

Fifteen miles wouldn’t have been anywhere near enough.

“Miss LaPrioux,” he said, a glint in his eyes and a definite air of expectation, “how do you do?”

She had absolutely no idea. She was using every atom of brain space to remind herself she had witnesses.

“How do you do, Mr. Pendragon? Chilly afternoon, isn’t it?”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Come to that, she wasn’t the least bit cold.

“Heading home?” he asked.

Was she? Yes, eventually. “I’ve got to stop by Whorleigh’s. Gloria’s teaching a first-aid class tonight and I promised to make supper.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

A sensible Water Nymph would tell him no. Even a sensible human would. If she had her head screwed on right, she’d politely wish him good afternoon, mount her bicycle and ride off.

Obviously she had several loose screws in her head. She was smiling back. “By all means. It’s a bit of a detour though.”

“You can always give me a ride on the back of your bicycle.”

Not after all her lectures to herself about decorum and sensible behavior.

They set off down the lane, side by side. Not talking, much to Mary’s relief, since every word would be registered and reported and go twice around the village long before Children’s Hour started.

And then, as suddenly as a shift in the air or a gust of wind blowing dead leaves across the path, Mary realized she didn’t care a fig what anyone said.

She might in the morning, but for now all she cared about was the man walking beside her. “Have they roped you into joining anything in the village yet?” she asked.

“To do my bit for the war effort?” he asked, a hint of irony in his voice.

“I think you’ve already done that, and more. I was thinking more on the lines of ‘Do your bit for Brytewood.’” He gave her an odd look. Had she offended him? But dammit, he had done his bit: losing a leg. How touchy was he about it? She’d have to fumble and feel her way there. “I got roped into Mrs. Burrows’s knitting circle.”

“Knitting what?”

“Comforts for the troops: gloves, balaclava helmets, socks.” And the occasional baby blanket or jacket that no one mentioned because wool was scarce and there was even talk it would soon be rationed, along with clothing.

“Knit me a comfort, would you?”

“What sort of comfort would you have in mind?” Didn’t sound as if he was asking for a pair of gloves.

He grinned. Wicked, sexy, and definitely enticing.

She grinned back. “Like a nice pair of socks, would you?” Damn! The minute she said it, she wanted to bite the words back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I still wear socks. I just don’t have to change my right one very often.”

Interesting. “Of course you have to be careful the colors match.”

“Never thought of that! Do they?” He paused and hitched up his trouser legs.

“For heaven’s sake!” Lord alone knew what the mums, twenty yards behind, would make of that and really, she didn’t care to find out. “Put your trousers down!” As the words left her lips, her face burned as her mind registered what exactly she’d said.

“You really mean that, Miss LaPrioux?” he enquired. That he kept his voice so steady was monstrously unfair.

“Nice socks,” was the best she could manage.

This was not going any way it should. No doubt he thought because she’d asked him to dance, something no nice, respectable mainland girl would do—or any nice, respectable Guernsey girl for that matter—that she was his for the taking. She wasn’t. Not this afternoon, anyway.

“Happy now?” he asked as they walked on, his trousers now covering his socks.

“I’m always happy when school’s over for the day and I can catch my breath.”

“Hard job?”

“Not really. Not compared with many people’s. But it’s hard on the children at times. They get terribly homesick. Don’t ever let anyone tell you children don’t worry. They darn well do: about the war, what’s happening to their families, their homes. The villagers have been welcoming, on the whole, but you can’t avoid friction at times. Too many people in close quarters and just about everyone worried constantly.

He went quiet a minute as they turned the corner by the church and headed for the village. Why had she jabbered on about school trivia when he had so much more to cope with?

He slowed his pace but didn’t ask her to. Being all manly, she supposed, but she slowed to keep level with him as they crossed the green and headed for the row of shops and the post office.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Mind if I sit a bit? You nip into the shops and I’ll get off my pins for a while. I’ll wait and walk you home,” he added. “Just as I promised.”

Had it been a promise? Not that she remembered, but wasn’t about to argue. In his company she felt happy, when she wasn’t berating herself over tactless gaffes. “I’ll go on. There shouldn’t be too long a queue this time of day.” Mainly because there wouldn’t be much left to queue for. “Can I get you anything?”

Gryffyth thought a minute. “Any chance of a bottle of Tizer?”

“Haven’t seen any for over a year. I can offer a cup of tea later. If you like.”

“I would like,” he replied, watching as she mounted her bicycle and rode the few yards down to Whorleigh’s.

He stared at the ducks on the pond and creased his forehead in thought. What was he doing and what did he want? He knew what he wanted but he was dealing with a nice woman here, a schoolteacher, not a girl hanging around the barrack gates. Trouble was, he couldn’t quite make up his mind about Mary LaPrioux. Attractive, yes. Lovely, really, and…damn, might as well think it. He had been ever since he first set eyes on her. She was sexy. Sexy with a strange, unselfconscious grace. She wasn’t shy. Heck, she seemed quite happy to go after what she wanted. She even seemed to fancy him, but the way she’d walked out on him on Saturday night still rankled. He didn’t own her, of course—not that he’d mind a bit if he did. But she disappeared just when he wanted to see more of her.

He’d wondered if she’d thought better of it, but now she was sending the opposite signals. She hadn’t minded walking through the village with him, even though she must know that news was halfway to Dorking by now.

He pulled his coat around him and he hoped she wouldn’t be long. He rather fancied a cup of tea with Mary LaPrioux and he wouldn’t complain about a little extra to keep the cold out.

The shop was empty. Unbelievable. Probably meant there was nothing left and everyone else in the village already knew it.

“Afternoon, Miss LaPrioux,” Mr. Whorleigh said, with his customary unctuous smile. Even if she didn’t know about his under-the-counter activities, she wouldn’t trust him two inches. Her reason and instincts might falter on some things but not in this.

“Afternoon, Mr. Whorleigh. I need something for supper tonight. Any chance of a couple of pork chops?” Slim chance, she knew, but it never hurt to ask.

He shook his head. “No pork except sausages. I had some nice stewing steak but it’s all gone, I’m afraid. Sure you wouldn’t like a couple of nice sausages?”

She smiled at his choice of adjective. How often, these days, she hankered for the fat juicy sausages her Uncle Walt used to make and sell in Town. “No thanks.” But what else was there? The glass-fronted cabinet was bare except for the despised sausages and a couple of…“What about those marrow bones?” she asked, pointing at two fat ones pushed to the corner.

“Making soup, are you?”

Why not? They had plenty of vegetables, both from their own rather meager vegetable patch and regular gifts to Gloria from her patients. “It’s that sort of day, isn’t it? How about some lentils to go with them?”

He was handing her the wrapped bones and a small package of pearl barley (he was all out of lentils, he claimed) when the door jangled behind her.

It was a woman Mary knew by sight. “Afternoon,” she said with a smile.

As Mary tucked her package under her arm and turned to leave, the woman asked, “Aren’t you that new, young schoolteacher?”

The emphasis on ‘young’ rather irked, but Mary ignored it and smiled. “Yes. I was evacuated from Guernsey.”

“You’re the one danced all night with the young amputee who just came back?”

Was it the inflation by gossip, or the anonymous tag the woman put on Gryffyth that annoyed the most? Miserable old biddy! Mary smiled. Not very sweetly. “You mean Gryffyth Pendragon, the war hero and guest of honor? Wonderful party, wasn’t it? I had a fantastic time.” Until she fled in embarrassment that was. But she wasn’t running now, she was angry. She gave another saccharine smile, slapped their ration books and money on the counter, thanked Mr. Whorleigh for the soup bones, and marched out. As the door closed behind her, Mary caught a querulous voice saying, “I wanted soup bones, Mr. Whorleigh.”

Mr. Whorleigh was welcome to her. Serve him right for selling contraband off the ration. Mary was so wound up, she almost forgot her bicycle propped outside. She tossed their dinner in the basket and rode hard back to where Gryffyth was still contemplating the dying bullrushes by the edge of the village pond.

“Something the matter?” he asked, the minute she dismounted.

“Not really,” she lied. “I just get annoyed that by the time I get off work, there’s precious little left in the shop.”

“Things are that bad, are they?”

She nodded. “It depends. At least there’s just the two of us. Some people have families to feed.”

“It’s funny,” he said, as they set off toward her cottage, “when you’re out there getting shot at, or feeling sorry for yourself in hospital, you tend to forget how difficult things are for everyone.” He glanced back at the ruin of the rectory. “When did that happen?”

“Back in September. Before I came. I heard about it, though. The vicar’s wife was badly hurt and died, and there were several children, evacuees, trapped in the building.”

“God! They got out?”

“Yes, from what I heard, after a rather spectacular rescue by Peter Watson. He risked his life to go down in the cellar and get two boys trapped there.”

He went quiet a minute, shaking his head. “It’s everywhere, the war. You can’t get away from it.”

No point in replying. The answer was obvious, from the ruins at the end of the green, the overcrowded classrooms, the empty shelves in the shops, the Air Raid Precautions post in the hut next to the village hall, to the painted-out signposts at the crossroads.

Would life ever be back to normal?

She wasn’t getting maudlin. She had food for their supper. The sun was shining, even if a bit weakly, and the sexiest man she’d ever encountered walked beside her.

She just wished she had cakes or biscuits to offer him for tea. She bet he was as sick of dripping toast as she was.

Dr. Alice Watson, nee Doyle, wasn’t satisfied. She’d used petrol to drive to Guildford to see the coroner’s office but realised she wasn’t going to learn any more.

“It’s clear from the post mortem: she collapsed and a few hours later, died. Looked like heart failure. No reason for an inquest. Nothing to suggest foul play. She was how old?” the coroner’s assistant asked.

He knew that as well as she did. “Eighty-five, but no history of heart trouble.” Alice knew the conclusions were reasonable. Old Mother Longhurst might well have died of heart failure brought on by exertion. She’d ridden all the way over to Bringham and half the way back, and at her age a collapse wasn’t unreasonable. Even if she had been found while she lay in the ditch, there was no saying she’d have survived. Trouble was, Alice didn’t quite believe it. Not with all the other things going on at the time. But she could hardly say, “Mother Longhurst was a witch and in excellent health for her age. Could she have been killed by a Vampire, do you think?”

They’d have her in the nearest padded cell in minutes.

Convinced there was more to it, Alice had tried, without success, to discover who Mother Longhurst had visited in Bringham. It appeared no one had seen the old woman, spoken to her, or had any idea whom she’d visited, other than, most probably, another witch. Trouble was, you just can’t ask your average resident Is there, by any chance, a practicing witch in your village?

“Thanks,” she said to the increasingly impatient assistant. “It’s just a shock. She was in such good health for her age.” Blooming good health, actually. Had to be on account of the herbal remedies Alice had scoffed at for so long.

“Dr. Baynes noted it in his report. Wish I could help you more, but…”

Yes, she knew. There was a war on, and no one had time to waste on idle speculation. Old Mother Longhurst now rested in Brytewood churchyard with generations of Longhursts, and the knowledge of the whereabouts of her magic knife was buried with her. Still, if she’d been right, and Alice had no reason to doubt it, it was no longer of use anyway.

Alice thanked the man again and went out into the street. Dark was falling. At least the promised drizzle hadn’t materialized as she headed for her car parked in a side street, down by the ambulance post.

Must be a change of shift. Several men and women stood smoking outside the post and a couple of others were going in and out. A young man stepped out and Alice did a double take. He rushed past, not even looking in her direction. But it was enough. Or was it?

The wild, Pixie part of her knew where she’d seen that man before. (If indeed he was even human, which she strongly doubted.) She’d found him, badly injured and barely conscious, in Fletcher’s Woods, taken him back to her surgery, called an ambulance, and he’d disappeared before it arrived. The rational scientist inside her wanted to brush that off. But couldn’t. He’d disappeared fast this time. At Vampire speed? She wanted, needed to know. Not that she could actually ask point-blank.

She opened the door to the small building.

“Evening, Dr. Watson,” the supervisor said as he looked up from his mug of tea. “Off home are you? Or planning to hang around and see if we can use you tonight?”

“I’ve got to get back, I’m afraid. I’ve a call to make on the way home. Thanks for keeping an eye on my car.”

“Glad to do it. Terrible nowadays, it is. Stealing tires and petrol like I don’t know what. As if Jerry isn’t more than enough to worry about. Any time, Doctor, any time.”

“Thank you so much. By the way, the young man who left as I came in. I think I know him. Possibly once been a patient?” Of a sort.

“Might be, Doctor. I dunno. He’s not local. Came down to stay with cousins when he got bombed out in London, I think.”

“You know his name?”

“Paul Smith. Nice lad. Been here since September. We’ll miss him. We need every pair of hands we can get.”

Interesting that. He’d given his name as Smith when she found him. Had to be the same man. Or same whatever-he-was. “He’s leaving?”

“Yeah, got a job and is moving.”

Drat, to find him and lose him again. And no one seemed to know where he was going. All she got was the name and address of his current landlady, a Mrs. Thomas. No phone number. Not too surprising. No phone laid on, most likely. What now?

Either let it drop or go prying.

She stopped at a pub nearby and got directions to a narrow street of terrace houses at the bottom of the town. Halfway down, on the left, was a gaping hole where a bomb had taken out a house, leaving the two neighbors in ruins. The house she was headed for was down at the bottom on the left.

There was no reply to her knock. No sign of a light, but that could just mean an effective blackout. Except the torn curtains weren’t drawn and a cautious flash of her torch showed a small sitting room with a bedraggled fern in the window.

“You looking for Mr. Thomas?” a voice behind her asked.

Mr. Thomas. That was interesting, she’d been distinctly told landlady. “Mrs. Thomas, actually. I’m a doctor,” she added. That always helped allay suspicion.

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard then,” the man replied. “She died last week. And then yesterday, her son, young Steve.”

“Dead too?”

“That’s right. The next-door neighbor found him after she noticed he hadn’t taken the milk and papers in. Put his head in the gas oven, he had.” The man shook his head. “He was real close to his mother. Must have unhinged him.”

Maybe or maybe not. Had he put his head in the oven or had it put in? Was she imagining trouble?

No! Didn’t Gran say to trust her Pixie instincts? And every one of them was screaming trouble.

“How terrible! What about his nephew, or cousin I think it was, who lived with them?”

“You mean young Paul? He left yesterday. Taking a new job he said. Dunno where.”

“No forwarding address?”

“Maybe he told Steve. Won’t do anyone much use now, will it?”

No, it wouldn’t. And rather handy if the mysteriously disappearing Paul Smith had wanted to cover his tracks.

Alice bade the man good evening and left. She was, for a few seconds, tempted to use her medical position to ask the police if there were any bite marks on the body, but on reflection, decided against it. No point in getting a reputation as an eccentric lady doctor.

But her mind whirled over the myriad implications and possibilities, all the way home.