Bloody Good Page 4

  “Really?” He tried to sound bored. Wasn’t as if he had any say in where he got sent.

  “Yes, sonny boy conscie, really.” Sid bent in so close Peter could have counted his nose hairs—if he’d cared to. “Got you a transfer we have. Don’t need you here anymore. You’re off on Monday morning to a new posting and they have the benefit of your yellow skin.”

  Peter stood. Sooner or later he’d learn where. He was not giving bloody Sid Mosley the satisfaction of asking. “Fine with me. Want me to finish my shift on Saturday?”

  “Bloody fucking hell we do, don’t we, Mike?”

  Mike, the other driver sitting in the canteen, nodded. “Yeah, Sid.” Mike wasn’t too bad a sort, and if it weren’t for Sid Mosley’s constant baiting, he might just have left Peter alone.

  “Fair enough then,” Peter replied as he picked up his empty mug and plate. “I’ll take my day off tomorrow.” He couldn’t but wonder if the next posting would be any better. Would be nice to actually use some of his training. He was probably being sent to dig potatoes somewhere.

  Gerhardt Eiche swore slowly and thoroughly. No one, not a single person among his trainers and controllers, had ever mentioned the incessant traffic and activity in an English village. No fewer than six women of varying ages had trooped up the garden path and rung the bell to inquire after Jane Waite’s health and, he suspected, to get an eyeful of yours truly. It had started with the damn servant. He’d put her off fast enough, but the baskets of apples and bowls of nuts, to say nothing of a knitted bed jacket, were impossible to reject without causing unwelcome gossip and comment.

  If these damn thoughtful bitches came around like this after Miss Waite got home he had no idea how he was going to cope.

  Remote and rural were definitely not the same as quiet and undisturbed. He was just thankful the gardener had been called up or he’d be wanting access to the potting shed where Gerhardt had set up his radio until he found a safer place to hide it.

  In the end, he left the house and decided to survey the village in daylight. It was going to be his little empire after the invasion. Might as well stake out his chosen abode and his possible servants: the favored few he would elect for transformation.

  Did those foolish mortals tucked in their hideaway in the Black Forest really believe that vampires would work for them, whatever the threats and blusterings?

  This was going to be an interesting few months.

  He didn’t take long to select his future residence: The large, Georgian rectory across from the church. It was shabby, but he’d soon have his minions take care of that. After he’d disposed of the current inhabitants, of course. The old Saxon church with its tower and muffled bells he’d leave for the peasants if they desired. He had no use for it, and they’d need some consolation in their short lives.

  Strolling down toward the center of the village he had to admit he’d been given a very pleasant center of operations. A narrow stream ran beside the lane, a tributary of the Mole, the river that formed a gap in the Downs, as if designed to facilitate the coming invasion. To the east, the Downs rolled toward Box Hill—a place he had every intention of exploring as soon as it suited him. Might as well report to his petty masters about the supposed, and no doubt pathetic, defenses. To the west, and out of sight beyond the woods where Schmidt claimed to have been injured, was a broad heath and woods and the establishment that supposedly merited his investigation.

  All in good time.

  For now, he stood a few meters from the crossroads in the village center and surveyed.

  Until a car had the effrontery to hoot at him to get out of the road. His error, yes, standing astride the white line, but how in heaven did anyone run a motor car if petrol was rationed?

  Black market, he assumed.

  Something else he need to investigate.

  After jumping out of the way, in a manner he hoped was a reasonable imitation of a scared mortal, Gerhard turned and all but tripped over a baby pushchair.

  He just managed to rein in the snarl as he met the mother’s eyes. It was the servant who’d thumped on his door earlier.

  She had short, curly dark hair, bright brown eyes, and skin that resembled rich cream. Just imagining the blood coursing through her veins had his gums tingling. He smiled, careful to keep his lips together. No point in terrifying mortals until it suited his purpose. “Sorry, wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “Good thing I was,” she replied.

  Eiche reminded himself she was no doubt disgruntled at being sacked and probably saw him as a human equal. He was going to have to get used to this. At least for now. “Yes, excuse me.”

  She had a child. He intended to keep all the children safe. They were his future servants after all. “The car coming so fast surprised me.”

  “That was Dr. Doyle. She’s always in a hurry. She’s probably been up to the Watsons’ farm to check on the new twins.”

  Of course. The woman who’d arrived last night to attend to Miss Waite. There couldn’t be two in a village this size. “You know the doctor well?”

  “Of course! Everyone does. I clean for her.”

  “As you do for my aunt. I was perhaps curt this morning.”

  She gave a little shrug. “Never mind. I just wanted to check and see what Miss Waite needed.”

  “We might need your services later.” Taking a little blood wouldn’t do her permanent harm and young blood was so much richer than old.

  “I don’t know if I can now. I just promised the vicarage an extra day.” Without a word of apology or regret she marched on, pushing the carriage ahead of her.

  Impudent peasant! If there were many more around like her, it was going to take some getting used to. He looked about him. A knot of women stood in front of the post office and an elderly but upright man walked out of the bank across the street. Between Miss Waite and the servant Doris, he’d had enough of mortal women for a while. He crossed the road toward the bank.

  The man watched Eiche approach.

  Eiche met his eyes and offered a slight smile.

  “Afternoon,” the man said. “You’re new to Brytewood. Working up at the plant, are you?”

  No, but any information about that establishment would keep his so-called masters happy. “Actually no. I’m visiting my aunt, Miss Waite.”

  “On leave are you?”

  Impudent but not unexpected. “I was badly injured after Dunkirk. Took them a while to put me back together. I need a few more weeks before I have to report back.” Long enough to serve his purposes anyway.

  “Rotten luck.” The man nodded as he offered his hand. “I’m Sergeant Pendragon. With the Home Guard. Any time you want to get back in the traces, we’d be honored to have you drill with us.”

  Might come in handy if he knew the exact extent of the local toy soldiers. “I’d be the one honored.” His hand closed around Pendragon’s and was met with almost equal strength. Odd. Impossible.

  “What regiment were you with?”

  Good thing he’d been well schooled. “The Hampshires.” Nice losses they’d taken, too.

  The old man let go of his hand and was eyeing him keenly. “Welcome to Brytewood. Things here aren’t as they were before the war but we do our best for our visitors. You missed the whist drive yesterday afternoon. We have one every second Wednesday. But you might like to come along to the ARP planning meetings. We’re always looking for more volunteers.”

  Any effort he put into Air Raid Precautions would be to direct the bombers to targets. “Let me think about it. I’d be delighted to help, but I’m afraid my aunt may need a lot of care when she gets back.”

  “Of course, of course.” The old dodderer nodded and smiled. “I heard about her fall. Sad, but how fortunate you were there to give aid.”

  Fortunate indeed, Eiche agreed, and wished the aged yokel good-bye.

  Now, should he try the post office, the butcher, the general store, or the baker? He had his own fake ration book in his jacket poc
ket and already knew Miss Waite was registered at the village store. Might as well see if his masters were right about food shortages.

  Chapter 5

  “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 n
asty 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.”