Читать книгу The Case of the Misplaced Models - Tessa Barding - Страница 6

The day turned out quite differently from what we had planned. Tim called in around nine, saying his youngest had to be rushed to the hospital, and he wasn’t sure when or if he’d come in at all that day. His patients were divided between Sheila, Robbie, and me and by the time I realised I hadn’t eaten since, well, since very early that morning, it was already four o’clock.

When Jen confirmed I had 30 minutes to myself, I went to get my jacket and changed into my outdoor trainers, left through the backdoor and headed straight to my favourite sandwich place that, luckily, wasn’t too crowded this time of the day.

I treated myself to an overpriced but excellent sandwich and a latte, large, extra shot, checked the time and sat down on a bench in the small park across the street. I pulled out my mobile. Three messages: two from my landlord; one from Tony Stamford.

Humphreys’ messages concerned the notice he had given me. He wanted me to move out as quickly as possible, and would I ring back at my earliest convenience? Right. Was I supposed to check into a hotel until I’d find a new flat or what?

Tony merely asked whether we were still on for the pub tonight, and, if yes, could we meet at 7.30 instead of 6.30. I texted back that yes, that was fine by me. And if he happened to know someone in need of a flatmate because it seemed I’d be without a home soon.

My phone rang almost immediately.

‘You serious about that?’

‘Hey Stamfs, unfortunately yeah, I am.’

‘You know what? You’re the second person to ask me that today.’

‘What?’

‘About finding a flatmate.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. A friend of mine asked me the same thing earlier this morning. He’s got his eyes on a nice flat on Baker Street but doesn’t think he can afford the rent by himself.’

‘Really?’ I asked, interested. Baker Street wasn’t quite the location I’d have chosen for myself but hey, if the flat was decent and the bloke all right, why not.

‘What’s he like, your friend?’

‘Weeell–’ Tony hesitated, then continued, ‘He’s a bit special. A bit eccentric, perhaps. Nothing to worry about,’ he added hastily. ‘He’s a freelancer, I think, doesn’t keep regular work hours and isn’t much of a people person. A bit of a loner, if you will. He’s about your age, well, a couple of years younger, actually, but not much. In fact, I’m meeting him tonight. Want to come and see for yourself?’

‘Sure, yeah. Where are you meeting, and when?’

‘At 6.30. I got the address written down somewhere, gimme a sec.’ I heard him rummage around in the background. ‘Can’t find it right now. I’ll text it to you later, yeah?’

‘Okay. Thanks, mate.’

I rang off. That didn’t sound too bad. ‘Freelancer’ could mean anything, and, as for ‘eccentric’, well, that depended on the level of eccentricity. Then I rang Humphreys and left a message, asking him to call me back to discuss what exactly he had in mind. I’d moved into that sorry excuse of a flat well over three years ago, right after I’d signed up with our surgery, and I wouldn’t be sent packing just like that.

I checked my watch and, seeing my next appointment was coming up, binned the sandwich wrapping and got up, finishing my latte on the way back.

A sprained ankle, a tonsillitis, yet another revised budget report, and a text with an address later and I was on my way to 221B Baker Street.

Tony met me outside the house, as agreed.

‘He’s upstairs already,’ he said when I’d chained my bike to the fence. ‘What’s that about you needing to find a new place anyway?’

‘Oh, Humphreys decided his daughter needed my flat, pronto.’

‘Can he kick you out just like that?’

‘Unfortunately he can. I was stupid enough to sign a periodic tenancy contract.’

‘Bugger.’ He made a sympathetic sound. ‘Well, maybe you’ll like this flat then. It does seem nice, I had a chance to look at it before you got here. Shall we?’

I nodded and followed him up a short flight of stairs. He rang the doorbell and the door was opened almost immediately. A slim, elegant woman who looked to be in her mid-40s stood before us, visibly annoyed.

‘Dr Stamford,’ she said, with barely suppressed rage, ‘I know our mothers are good friends and I know I agreed to see your friend first, had I but known–’ she interrupted herself and only now seemed to realise that Tony wasn’t alone.

‘Mrs Hudson,’ he said with his easy smile, ‘allow me to introduce Dr John Watson, another friend of mine. We went to university together and he has served in the Army until about four years ago. He’s now working in a GP practice over in Southwark.’

Mrs Hudson’s face lost some of its enraged expression and she held out her hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Watson.’

‘Likewise, Mrs Hudson.’ She had a firm handshake and her eyes held mine in a direct gaze. ‘I understand a flat-share would be agreeable to you?’

‘That would depend on the tenants,’ she said and gestured for us to follow her inside. ‘The flat we’re talking about is upstairs.’

I eyed the narrow staircase. Tony noticed and asked, ‘Will you be all right with that?’

‘Of course I will be,’ I replied. ‘It’s an artificial knee, Tony, not a prosthetic limb.’

It had actually been a shattered shinbone along with a shattered knee that had ended my military career, and while my new knee cooperated nicely, the lower leg still caused problems every now and then, especially in cold and wet weather. The handrail looked sturdy enough, however, and I should be all right even on a bad leg day.

‘War injury,’ I told Mrs Hudson who gave me a questioning look. ‘Stairs have lost some of their appeal since then, but this looks manageable.’

She nodded and we followed her upstairs. The door was open, and a short and narrow hallway led into the living room where a tall man stood with his back to the door, looking out of the window. He was wearing a black leather jacket, black trousers and a pair of well-worn Dr. Martens. When he heard us coming, he turned around.

‘Dr Watson,’ he said with a crooked grin. ‘We meet again.’