Bloody Good Page 17

  “By all means, sir. You want one, Sarge?”

  “Yes, please. Bring two, if you would.”

  The minute the man was out of the door, Eiche seized the sergeant’s mind and almost swore aloud. He let the man’s mind go and barely noticed how he winced and sagged in his chair. They’d found a wireless. She must have had one to communicate with Zuerst and Zweiten but she should have hidden it better. At least his was safe. How many nosy policemen were going to climb to the top of the church tower?

  “You alright, sir?” The constable put both cups on the table. If he knew why the sergeant looked pasty-faced, the stupid constable would keel over.

  “Yes, of course!” He took the tea and drank down half in one go. “Now, sir. Let’s go back to your aunt’s travels. Any idea where she went to in Germany?”

  They went round and round. Eiche playing ignorant and vague, the sergeant asking questions and seeking information Eiche was never going to give. It was a bit of a temptation to tell him everything, watch him blanch, and then dine off the pair of them, but the timing wasn’t right for such public carnage.

  “Well then, sir,” he said at last. “If you think of anything that might help us, any little detail, you’ll contact us.”

  “Of course.” Not.

  “And where are you living now, sir?

  He gave the address. “I’m sharing with Jeff Williams. He kindly offered me a bed.” Under duress.

  With affable handshaking all around, Eiche left them.

  Damn, this was a crimp he hadn’t anticipated. Seemed they suspected Miss Waite’s loyalty and patriotism, but not her concerned nephew’s. How quaint was that? He’d have to remember to be suitably horrified if anything more came of this.

  Meanwhile, he had to move fast. Between Weiss wanting results and the flatfooted coppers getting their suspicions up, it was time to act.

  Maybe tonight he’d get Williams drunk. Even vampires needed a little diversion once in a while. Not that Eiche had any doubt that the target was exactly as suspected. Williams had as good as told him that the first night he met him but a little inside information never hurt. The man had no sense of discretion, which suited Eiche admirably.

  “I don’t see why I have to stay and do homework.” Sid looked from one grown-up to the other, looking for support.

  He wasn’t getting any. “Son, stow it away! You’re staying here with Mr. Watson and I’m going along with Mr. Pendragon to see your brother, and don’t try that with me. You know they won’t let you in. Hospitals have rules and how you got to go with him last time, I dunno.”

  Peter did. He had a grown-up on his side and it was chaos. Now would be different and hospital rules weren’t likely to be bent twice.

  “Don’t push your chances, son. Be glad you’re not the one lying in a hospital bed.”

  “I know, Dad, but I want to see him. You told us to look after each other.”

  “I know I did, and seems to me you both did that pretty nicely. Keeping together until help came.” The man looked up from his supper. “And I tell you both, Sergeant and Mr. Watson, I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of my life. Sid took me up to see the bomb site. I’ve seen enough of them to know if you’d not got my boys out when you did, we’d still be digging for them.”

  He went quiet, a little shudder shaking his broad shoulders.

  “So you hush it, son, and eat up. I didn’t bring that pie all this way to have you pick at it and whinge on me.”

  They all tucked in. Mr. Arckle had come bearing a vast meat pie, part of his factory’s output.

  “Get your homework done early and we can listen to the wireless or play cards if you want,” Peter volunteered. “I’m not on duty tonight, unless Jerry comes calling again.”

  “If he does, I want to go with you,” Sid said through a mouthful of potato.

  “If he does, you’re going down to the air raid shelter,” his father told him. “No hanging about to have another house collapse on you, son. Understand?”

  Unwillingly. “Yes, Dad,” he replied with a sigh.

  “And you will go, son. Mr. Watson here will see to it. You don’t want him to have to dig you out a second time, now, do you?”

  Might be hard without Sergeant Pendragon to hold up the house, but Peter kept that thought to himself and chewed on another mouthful of pie. “He’ll do what you tell him, Mr. Arckle.”

  “He knows better than not to, Mr. Watson. But never hurts to remind him. I’ve two good boys, but they’re likely lads and never miss a chance.”

  The man had his sons pretty much sized up.

  “Seconds, anyone?” Sergeant Pendragon asked as he pushed his plate away. Even Sid seemed sated.

  At Peter’s cue, Sid gathered up the plates and Peter gave him a hand. Sid cleaned the plates and added the scrapings to the potato peelings and cabbage leaves in the bucket under the sink. It was almost full. In the morning it needed to go up to Mother Longhurst for her chickens.

  Once Sid was busy with soap and scrubber, Peter left him to the sink and joined the other two men at the table

  “You’ve been real good to me and my boys,” Mr. Arckle said as he lit a cigarette. “Taking Sid in like this, to say nothing of saving them in the first place, Mr. Watson. Thank you.”

  This keeping mum about the whole truth was mind snarling. So was wondering what the sergeant was. “Other” had been how Mrs. Burrows described him. Oh well, at least he wasn’t a vampire.

  Sitting in a very ordinary country kitchen, with yellowed paint and a frayed hearth rug, the whole idea of vampires seemed preposterous. But no more preposterous than a man of sixty or so holding up a house.

  “It’s just,” Mr. Arckle went on, “I’m none too sure about my boys going off to that farm. Always thought Dave would come and join me at the bakery, and Sid in his time. Not sure I can see either as farmers.”

  “Tom Longhurst is a good man,” Pendragon said. “You’ll see that when you meet him. Time then to decide for sure.”

  Arckle nodded, obviously still not certain.

  At the sound of a car hooter outside, Sid called, “Hey, Dad! Sergeant Pendragon! It’s the doctor.”

  Moments later there was a rap at the door and Alice’s head appeared. “Sorry I’m a bit early, but I got through evening surgery much sooner than usual. Plus, Gran insists it’s going to storm tonight, and I’d just as soon get back ahead of the deluge.”

  Holy smoke! She was lovely, beautiful, gorgeous, and he made a point of standing very close to the table so no one noticed what was happening below his belt.

  And then she smiled at him. “Hello, Mr. Watson.” He wanted to race across the kitchen and hug her tight. He yearned to kiss her again, to feel her sweet woman’s body against his and inhale the scent of her skin and hair.

  Wanting was downright painful. Literally! “Evening, Doctor.”

  “We’ll be ready in a jiffy, Doctor,” Sergeant Pendragon said. “This is Mr. Arckle, Dave and Sid’s father.”

  Stupid to be jealous of a forty-five year-old man getting that smile, but he was. Very. “Good evening, Mr. Arckle. It’s wonderful you could get down so quickly. I can’t wait to see Dave’s face when you walk in.”

  “I can’t wait to see him, Doctor. He’s not too beat up, is he?”

  “Not really. Sid got the bruises, poor Dave got the broken bones. But he’s young, he’ll mend.”

  Not like the vicar’s poor wife who still hadn’t regained consciousness.

  So off they went. Peter gave Sid a hand with the wiping, and while the boy spread his school books on the table, Peter lit a cigarette and turned on the wireless.

  “Hey, Mr. Watson, switch it over to Lord Haw Haw, please,” Sid asked, a bit of a wheedle in his voice.

  “What would your father say if he knew you were listening to him?”

  “He listens. You should hear him take him off. He does it to a T. ‘Chairmany calling. Chairmany calling!’ He laughs at him, honest he does.”

  Quite
probably. Half the population listened to the propaganda broadcasts from Berlin. That they were a source of entertainment rather than panic and despair was a sure sign that old Hitler rather misgauged things. “Alright. If you get your homework done.”

  But tonight the ether failed to cooperate and the broadcast was scratchy and full of interference and they both gave up and settled for the Home Service. The talk on rabbit-keeping was boring enough to let Peter’s mind wander onto more enthralling topics, notably Alice, Dr. Doyle, and the woman he was head over heels in love with. She beat out furry rodents, even edible furry rodents, any day of the week.

  It was past nine when they returned; Sid was asleep in the parlor after soundly beating Peter twice playing Beggar My Neighbor, and Peter was considering stepping out into the garden for a breath of air.

  “He’s asleep?” Mr. Arckle asked. “Hoped he would be. I’ll tell him in the morning what Dave said. It did me good to see he’s mending. Chafing at being stuck in there he is. Don’t blame him myself; who wants to be in hospital is what I say. But I told him time will pass and he’ll need two good arms and legs if he’s to work on that there farm.”

  “Everything alright with the others?” Peter asked.

  “The girl is fine, in the same boat as Dave, chafing to get home, and as for poor Mrs. Roundhill…” Pendragon left that unsaid.

  “Sad.” Arckle shook his head. “Now, about meeting the farmer.”

  “Oh! Yes.” Pendragon looked worn out. “Would you mind, lad? I’m ready to turn in, but Tom Longhurst is waiting for us in the Pig and Whistle. Mind going on down with him?”

  Since he’d been feeling in need of a breather, no. “I’m happy to. Let me get my jacket.”

  Five minutes later, torches in hand, they set off down the pitch dark lane toward the Pig and Whistle.

  Chapter 23

  It was really quite fascinating to watch the effect of alcohol on mortals, and Jeff Williams seemed to show the effects particularly. His eyes watered, his speech blurred, and he even dribbled beer down his dingy shirt. Pathetic, but potentially very useful. A couple more beers and Eiche wouldn’t even need to mind probe the fool. He’d betray King and country like the worthless creature he was.

  Weiss wanted the camp rendered inoperative by next weekend. Might as well oblige and Williams was bound to help.

  “You’s a good shap, Oak,” Williams announced, spraying beer across the table. “A bumper shap. Always good for scompany, not like that shob Barron, thinks he’s a cut above the rest of us, he does.”

  Ah, yes. “Your not so esteemed supervisor.”

  Williams let out a mangled laugh. “Eshteem! Ha! Fool he is. Thinks he’s running a holiday camp. Had the nerve to tell me I was too hard on the bitches! Ha! If I had my way that place would be run very different.”

  And when Eiche had his way, it would not run at all. “He can’t be around all the time, can he?”

  “S’here for the duration!” My, he was having trouble with his diction. “Shame as me!”

  “Can’t be that much longer.” He knew for a fact Zuerst and Zweiten were planning Christmas in London.

  “You tell me, Gabriel, you tell me. The way Jerry’s dropping his bombs all over the place, who’s to say?”

  He could. Time enough later for total revelation. “Want another beer?”

  “Shoo bet! Real gentleman you are, Mr. Oak, real pal. Don’t mind sharing my digs with a man who knows how to treat a pal.”

  One more, he judged, and he could let the fool stagger home and have a little fun with him. Eiche want over to the bar, ignored the rather surly glance from the landlord. Damn, he was paying for the beer, wasn’t he? In genuine counterfeit Reich pounds. Let Fred Wise look down his nose. Eiche would enjoy watching him in defeat.

  “Another pint? Don’t you think he’s had enough? Much more and you’ll have to carry him home.”

  Who was this mortal to question him? Eiche shrugged. “I’ll get him home before he gets boisterous. He’s had long day.”

  “So have a lot if us, sir.” But he pulled the pint and poured a measure of whisky. Eiche was tempted to ask for schnapps, just to see the shock on his face, but discretion held him back. Wouldn’t be long before this place was selling schnapps and German beer.

  Glasses in hand, Eiche went back to the table just as the blackout curtain by the outer door was lifted and two men walked in.

  Not bothering to look at the newcomers, Eiche tipped the whisky into the beer. That should settle Williams nicely. And damn, he might just carry him home. He could always drop him in the pond on the way.

  “Evening, Mr. Watson. What can I get you?”

  “A pint of bitter, please, Mr. Wise. This is Mr. Arckle, the father of the boys caught at the vicarage.”

  “The lads whose lives you saved, Mr. Watson. Don’t be modest. And what can I get for you, sir?”

  “The same, please. What do I owe for them?” Arckle asked, reaching into his pocket.

  “No, Mr. Arckle,” Peter protested. “You’re my guest.”

  “Put your money away, sir, and you too, Mr. Watson. These are on the house. Not much for what you did the other night, Mr. Watson, and you, sir, welcome to Brytewood and the Pig. Wish it had been in better times.”

  “My boys are well, can’t ask for much more.”

  “Mr. Wise, we’re here to meet a Mr. Longhurst,” Peter said. “Would you know him?”

  “You must mean young Tom from up on Cherry Hill. He’s been here an hour or more. Brought a couple of his land girls with him. You’ll find them over by the fireplace. Table under the window.”

  Peter lead the way, weaving between standing groups and the occasional crowded table. The Pig did good business.

  As they eased past a small table, a hand grasped Peter’s shoulder and jerked him around. A red face peered close.

  “Shou! I shot it was shou!” his assailant hissed. “Damn conscie coward. What are yoush doing here?”

  Given the man was grasping the table for support with his free hand, Peter took that as a rhetorical question. But he recognized the man. Was he lurking here on the off chance of breathing warm beer fumes at him? Peter stepped back and reached to remove the hand from his shoulder. He shouldn’t have bothered.

  Joe Arckle beat him to to it, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until he grimaced. “That doesn’t sound too friendly, sport. That’s not the way to talk to my friend!”

  Jeff Williams, Peter remembered his name now, seemed too far gone to catch the warning in Arckle’s measured words.

  “I’ll talk to yim howevers I like. Heesh a coward. A yellow coward too scared to fight!”

  The entire pub had gone silent. This entire interchange would be all over the village before dawn. Talk about hoping for the proverbial earth to open!

  Joe Arckle smiled. Rather reminded Peter of a mongoose eyeing a cobra. Williams was too pickled to realize his wiry frame was no match for a man who’d spent the last twenty-odd years hefting bakery trays in and out of ovens.

  Williams sat down with a thud. Arckle didn’t give him a chance to realize what had happened. He just grabbed his chin and jerked his face up. “Coward is he? How interesting. And you’re not, I suppose. You tell me how many children’s lives you saved this week, sport!”

  Peter had thought the room was silent before. He’d been wrong. Now it was deathly quiet. He could sense every single ear wagging. Even the dog by the fireplace had perked up. The man with Williams stood.

  If there was a fight, Peter would stand with Arckle but…

  Peter looked at Williams’s companion. And shuddered. The look of hate, utter contempt, and loathing was enough to chill the soul, and the look was directed at Williams.

  Then the man looked at Peter. Cold dark eyes seemed to burn with scorn. Peter stared back. “Sir, I think your friend needs to go home.” Why was his heart racing so and damn his hands sweating?

  Then the man broke his gaze.

  Before Peter had tim
e to think about that little interchange, Fred Wise came bustling up.

  “Now, gentlemen, what’s the trouble? Let’s settle down, shall we?”

  “The trouble mysh good man ish I will not strink in the shame pub as a bloody CO!”

  “That so, sir? Then you’d best be on your way.” He turned to Williams’s odd companion. “And you, sir, take your friend home. I’ll not serve him any more beer tonight.”

  “Come, Jeff,” the other man said. “Time to leave.” And yanked him up and half dragged him out with an arm about his waist. No one helped, although someone near the door lifted the blackout curtain and slammed the door behind them.

  “Sorry about that, sir,” the landlord said to Peter. “And you, sir,” to Arckle. “We keep a nice house here. Everyone knows better. They’ll have to walk to Westhumble or Ranmore if they want to drink now. Not having trouble like that at my Pig.” His glance went to Joe’s beer. “Spilled some, did you? Sorry about that.” He took the mug. “I’ll top it up.”

  Beer mug refilled and the pub conversation back to pre-interruption level, they finally made their way to Tom Longhurst’s table.

  He rose as they approached, holding out his hand. “Tom Longhurst. Now that’s what I call an entrance.”

  Peter took his hand. “Peter Watson, and I’d just as soon make an unobtrusive one. This is Joe Arckle, Dave and Sid’s father.”

  “And this is Katy and Phyllis, two of my land girls.” Both in their twenties. Nice enough, good-looking girls with bright complexions from working outdoors, but neither could hold a candle to Alice.

  After all around handshakes, Peter motioned Joe to the vacant chair and pulled up another.

  “Come to give me the once over?” Tom asked.

  “That’s right.” Arckle put his beer down. “Can’t say farming is what I had in mind for my boys, but might not be bad. Not now. At least they’ll never go hungry.”

  Peter sat down. Gave the two girls another nod and listened to Arckle and Longhurst size each other up.

  “We still need ration books,” Longhurst said. “I’ve a dairy farm. All the milk we need that the government doesn’t take first, and I’ve started keeping a few pigs and hens like half the neighborhood. I thought Dave could help with those, once his arm gets healed. Not heavy work and that would free the girls up to take care of the cows. Phyllis and Julia, who stayed back tonight, also split time with the home farm at Warton Lacey so we can always use another pair of hands for milking.