Bloody Good Page 6

  The memory still seared his mind like acid. Peter paused and picked up his mug and drained it, leaves and all.

  His head was still buzzing when he set the mug down with a thud.

  “Crikey, lad!”

  “He died, there on the floor. Looking back I was lucky not to end up in Borstal or an Approved School, but it was ruled an accident. My mother made me promise, hand on the family Bible, to never touch a gun again and I haven’t. I told the tribunal that. They accepted it. I told them I’d do anything, as long as it didn’t violate that promise. Aside from that, just thinking about picking up a gun turns my stomach into knots. I’ll never forget how Dad’s warm blood felt on my hands and the smell of cordite in the gunroom.”

  That Howell had no trouble believing. The lad had gone so pale he looked green. “What were you doing before the war?”

  “I was training to be a vet.”

  Howell almost managed to stifle the wry laugh. “So they sent you off to patch up people.”

  “And now I’m here.”

  “You’ll do, lad. You’ll do. Those two women will like as work you to death, like they do themselves.” He stood. “Tell you what, you go fill up the coke”—he nodded at the battered enamel hod by the kitchen stove—“while I clear the table, and then I’ll take you round the village and introduce you to Nurse Prewitt. I’d take you along to the doctor’s, but she’s off talking to the coroner. We had someone die here last night and dunno when she’ll be back.”

  The lad seemed almost relieved as he hefted the empty coal hod and went out the door.

  Nice boy, Howell decided. A bit nervous, but wasn’t everyone these days? And what a hell of thing to have to live with. He, for one, would never forget the look in the face of the Jerry he’d gutted with his bayonet back at Verdun. It had given him nightmares and that had been a total stranger. But for a kid to kill his da? He shook his head. It wasn’t just wars that ripped lives apart.

  Peter scooped the coke into the hod. Some stray nuts fell to the ground, so he bent and picked them up, dropped them back in the hod, and brushed his fingers together. He looked toward the back door and smiled. Had he ended up lucky here! Howell Pendragon was a good man. At least to all appearances so far. If he had harsh judgments, he kept them to himself. Maybe the tart doctor would mellow. Maybe not.

  He hefted the now heavy hod with both hands. Whatever happened, he’d cope.

  “The wc’s down the hall if you want to wash off the coal dust,” Howell Pendragon said as Peter put the hod down beside the boiler.

  “Want me to make the boiler up first?”

  “Thanks, lad.”

  Boiler topped up, Peter nipped out the door. On the right was a closed door, presumably the parlor kept for high days and holidays, and on the left, under the stairs, was a small and chilly wc. But the water was warm. He washed his face and looked at himself in the narrow mirror. No smuts on his face. Hands clean.

  He really should thank the old man and continue his tour of the village. He couldn’t impose on his day much longer.

  Howell Pendragon had other ideas.

  “Best we nip along and meet Nurse Prewitt before you go. She’ll be wanting to talk to you. You can put money on it that Helen Burrows told her you’re in the village. Now you don’t want her to feel slighted after you’ve spent half the day nattering with me.”

  A bit of an exaggeration, but Sergeant Pendragon had a point. “Alright then, but I don’t want to impose.”

  The old man smiled and reached for his jacket and cap.

  As they walked through the village, Peter began to suspect the doctor’s grandmother and the sergeant had concocted a scheme to introduce him to half the village population. Would have been smashing if he had an earthly chance of remembering their names, but whatever the plans, he had sense enough to be grateful.

  The nurse lived in a small flint cottage at the far end of the village. A well used, but very well maintained, Hercules bicycle stood propped by the back door. He’d need to get himself one Peter thought—or perhaps one came as part of the job. He was about to ask when Howell Pendragon announced, “Best we go in,” and opened the gate and made for the back door, which he opened without knocking.

  “Nurse Prewitt?” he called and a young, female voice answered, “Come in. I just made some tea.”

  He opened the door wide and stepped in. “Brought someone for you to meet: Peter Watson, your new assistant.”

  “Wonderful! Come in.” She was medium height and slim with short red hair and dark, intelligent eyes, and she held out her hand in welcome. “I can’t tell you how thrilled we are to have help. Between the evacuees and the workers up at the big hush-hush plant on the heath, we’re up to our necks.” As she smiled her eyes crinkled at the corners. She was a nice-looking woman with an open, honest face and strong, hardworking hands. “It’s wonderful to meet you. Take off your coat and sit down.” She moved aside as they both stepped into the kitchen. “Look who’s here, Alice.”

  “We’ve met.”

  Dr. Alice Doyle sat at the end of the table, clutching the handle of a pink-flowered china teacup. Her eyes were as blue as ever, but held not one iota of welcome.

  Chapter 8

  Alice couldn’t believe her eyes. He was here. Standing in the doorway of Gloria’s kitchen. His hair as dark as ever, his brown eyes clear and penetrating, and the same air of quiet confidence. He should be skulking in, tail between his legs, instead of smiling. And darn Howell Pendragon was grinning as if he’d won the pools.

  “Ladies,” he said, “we just dropped in to see Nurse Prewitt and I find you both here. Couldn’t be better. Wanted to introduce you to your new assistant.” He turned and smiled at the man. “Peter Watson. First aid specialist.”

  Gloria grinned. “Good heavens! I never really thought it would happen. You are real, aren’t you?” she asked, putting down the teapot on the draining board and crossing the kitchen. “We really need another pair of hands.”

  “I hope I’ll be useful.”

  “It used to be even busier. Quite a few evacuees went home over the summer, but I think they might trickle back now the bombing has started.” She smiled at Sergeant Pendragon. “Can you both stop for a cup of tea?”

  The sergeant accepted for both of them, then turned to her. “And this,” he said, “is Dr. Doyle. You’ll be working with her most, I imagine.”

  Peter Watson met her eyes and smiled. Well, almost smiled. Before he could come close enough to offer his hand, Alice said, “We’ve met.”

  She should have kept quiet.

  “Well I never,” the sergeant said, looking from her to Watson and back again.

  “And you never told me,” Gloria said, sounding a trifle peeved. “Kept the good news to yourself, did you?”

  “Mr. Watson was part of an ambulance crew when we met.”

  “When?” Gloria asked.

  “I was called out to Brytewood earlier in the week to pick up an injured man,” Watson said.

  “Who was that?”

  Gloria would not let go.

  “An injured man who disappeared on us.” Having said that, she had to go on and explain the whole ridiculous incident.

  “Which day was that?” the sergeant asked.

  “Monday. I was on my way back from delivering Melanie’s twins.”

  “Odd,” Gloria said, then turned to pick up the teapot again. “Hang your coats up and have a seat. I’ll have this ready in a jiffy.”

  They peeled off their jackets and hung them on the pegs by the door. Peter Watson, either by design or chance, took the chair directly opposite Alice. Oh well, dammit, she was going to have to work with him, but she didn’t have to like him, did she? But why, oh why, did a measly conscie have to come in such an attractive package?

  “When do you start?” Gloria asked.

  “Monday. I was due a day off so I took a bus in to look around. Then I ran into Mrs. Burrows, who took me down and introduced me to Sergeant Pendragon. He, very ki
ndly, brought me down here to meet you.”

  “Good of him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, Doctor,” Sergeant Pendragon said. “Wasn’t it Monday night you found your dog dead?”

  “Yes.” Trust Gran to tell the world. “That was strange. She’d slowed down a bit but wasn’t ill. Or so I thought. Must have been her heart gave out. I’ll miss her. Daddy gave her to me.” She shook her head to chase away the thought. “Mustn’t get maudlin. She was good dog and had a darn good innings and heck, I can’t get upset over a dog when people are dying.”

  “Doesn’t stop you missing her, though, does it?” Watson asked.

  Darn, how dare he be so understanding? “No. When I went downstairs this morning, I found myself listening for the sound of her claws on the kitchen floor.” Why the blazes was she agreeing with him? Accepting his sympathy? Yes, he was right on the nail but…

  “Here you are.” Gloria handed around cups. “Sorry I don’t have any biscuits to offer. I meant to get down to Worleigh’s but things got so busy.”

  “Don’t worry about it, dear. Besides, if you had, odds are he’d have not had any. Not this late in the week.”

  Sergeant Pendragon left unsaid that Samuel Whorleigh had plenty of everything, off the ration and under the counter.

  “Never mind, Gloria. As long as we have a nice cup of tea.” Heaven help her, she was sounding like Gran but, as Alice sipped the still-too-hot drink, she decided it was pretty much the truth. Of course while the caffeine perked you up, the tannin was mucking up your stomach, but these days, that was hardly what you’d call a worry.

  “Are you staying the weekend?” Gloria asked Peter Watson.

  He shook his head. “Have to get back. Got to work my last day tomorrow. Just came to have a look-see. Now I know where I’ve a billet.” He gave Sergeant Pendragon a nod and a smile. “I’ll bring my bags back Sunday evening. If that’s convenient,” he added, turning to the sergeant.

  “Any time, son. Any time.”

  “Don’t leave it too late,” Gloria said. “The buses are dreadful on a Sunday.”

  That was putting it mildly. Half the time they never ran at all. Lack of fuel was the excuse. And it might possibly be true.

  “That’s right,” the sergeant agreed, “and you’ll have bags with you. Listen, lad, if the conductor gives you any guff, you tell him that you’ve been assigned here and you need to report.”

  Fat lot of difference that would make. Last week one of them refused to let Doris on with her toddler’s pushchair.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift.” Alice all but christened herself with tea. What in the name of heaven made her say that? She remembered to close her gaping mouth but the look on his face showed he was as thunderstruck as she was. He managed to close his mouth pretty fast, too.

  “Are you sure?”

  Not in the least. Or rather she was definitely sure she didn’t mean the offer.

  “It’s awfully nice of you, but what about the petrol?”

  He was giving her the perfect grounds to withdraw her idiotic offer. “That’s alright. I’ve a patient to check up on in the hospital in Dorking and I need to go over to the Watson farm and see how Melanie and her twins are doing.”

  Gloria had good reason to stare. Not five minutes before Peter and Sergeant Pendragon arrived, she’d told Alice about her own visit there that morning. Twins seemed to be doing well; the rest of the household was permanently bleary-eyed from lack of sleep.

  Oh well! She’d offered. She was committed. She’d make the best of it. “Can’t guarantee the exact time. Depends on how long my calls take and if there’s an emergency.” Heaven help her it was impossible! “Do you have a phone number?” She could call and cancel, couldn’t she? As long as she gave him time to get a bus.

  He shook his head. “Not in my billet. There’s the phone at the ambulance depot of course.” He sounded as thrilled at the idea of using that as anyone would be at the prospect of that weasly Sid Mosely censoring phone calls.

  “Never mind. I might be late but I’ll be there.” Like the soft-headed twerp she obviously was. “I’ll need directions.”

  “Tell you what, why not meet me at the bus station? If you’re held up, I can sit and read. And if you really get late, I can always try my luck with the buses.”

  If she let him down, he meant. “I’ll try to get there by five. Before dark.”

  That seemed to be it. They both declined Gloria’s offer of a second cup—Peter Watson to catch the bus, and Sergeant Pendragon to “take a stroll.” On a Friday night there was only one possible direction for that stroll: the Pig and Whistle.

  “You don’t like him, do you?” Gloria said after both men were safely down the path and out in the lane.

  “Who?” Playing thick was useless with Gloria. They’d known each other too long for that.

  “I wasn’t talking about Howell Pendragon.”

  No. Alice shrugged. “I don’t know. Just something about him.” It was on the tip of her tongue to spill all Peter Watson’s unsavory past and perfidious present but…

  “Well, if you don’t fancy him, why offer to drive over and pick him up? But if you really don’t, I do. I think he’s dishy. Those gorgeous dark eyes and that smile.” She let out a little sigh. And Alice stifled the utterly irrational spike of…definitely not jealousy.

  “I don’t know what you see in him, Gloria, honestly.”

  “Alice, he’s smashing looking, he’s going to make our lives easier, and…” She paused. “He looks like the sort of man who can always find a taxi when it’s raining.”

  Was she laughing because she agreed or because Gloria’s claims were so preposterous? Peter Watson did have an air of competence. Picked up at Blundells no doubt. Just as her brothers had acquired their polish at Epsom College. Mind you, that was where the resemblance ended. Simon and Alan were doing their bit for King and Country.

  “Something wrong?” Gloria asked. “You’re scowling. Got a headache?”

  Only a big one called Peter Watson. “Just tired. I need an early night.”

  “You’d be better off coming into Leatherhead to the dance hall with June Groves and me. Why don’t you?”

  Now that was a thought. “No. Thank you for asking. I need to do paperwork and really should work out some sort of rota for next week and talk to Mr. Barron up at the plant and decide how to split this Peter Watson between us.”

  Gloria chuckled as she gathered up the cups and plates and piled them in the sink. “Don’t dismember him completely, Alice. We need his body in one piece!”

  Driving the short distance up the hill home, Gloria’s words echoed in Alice’s mind. Half of her would love to dismember Peter Watson limb from limb to let him pay for his refusal to join up, but Gloria was right: He was good looking. Pleasant, intelligent, and yes, his skills as an assistant were welcome as the proverbial flowers in the spring, but that was it. She had far, far better things to do with her time than dwell on the man’s smile and the shameless “come hither” glint of his eyes.

  And she, senseless twit that she was, had freely volunteered to drive over to Dorking and give him a lift. She needed her brains examining.

  Chapter 9

  Gerhardt Eiche strolled down the village street in the gathering dusk. Watching humans was an intriguing spectator sport. Not as satisfying as enjoying their life blood, but enough was enough and leaving multiple corpses dotted around the village would bring on unwelcome attention.

  He was satisfied for now. For an old man that farmer last night had been rich in blood.

  So fortifying, in fact, Eiche had skipped the doubtful cultural advantages of the film night in the village hall and taken himself to the heath to fly, run, and indulge in his über strength, and, while he was enjoying himself, spend a little time reconnoitering the encampment on the heath.

  He had been sent to sabotage it after all.

  He hadn’t learned much—even a vampire had difficulty scal
ing eight foot high electrified barbed wire. And after the nasty injury Schmidt incurred, Eiche avoided climbing trees.

  But his scouting confirmed that whatever was going on there, it needed to be neutralized well before the invasion. Of course, if they’d given a date for the invasion it might help, but it was coming soon. Hell, even the pathetic Britishers were on edge and anxious. Eiche smiled. He’d give them anxious. With screams and agony. Give him time.

  Meanwhile, it was not easy maintaining the facade of concerned mortal visiting a much respected and cherished aunt. Too many more weeks and he’d end up ripping open the old bag’s throat.

  He’d visited her that afternoon and since the strength from the farmer hadn’t lasted as he’d expected (maybe that hack Stoker was right about the native earth business), he’d taken a little sustenance when he was embracing her good-bye. It had just been the top up he needed. She might come in handy. Keeping her weak wouldn’t be any trouble once he had her back in the house.

  And meanwhile, given his current vigor and energy, he’d visit the Pig and Whistle and mingle with the populace. Someone there had to know what was going on up on the heath. A few rounds of substandard English beer would surely loosen tongues. If it didn’t, he’d follow some drunken fool home and compel the information.

  Eiche wasn’t the only one headed for the pub.

  Ahead of him, a knot of three men fumbled their way down the street, feeling for fences and gates in the dark. One of then stumbled into the gutter and was hauled up by his companions.

  My, my the blackout was a handicap to anyone without vampire sight. He’d have to remember to pretend to stumble a bit. Might as well make the effort to pass for human.

  Timing things so he arrived just after the group, Eiche paused, hand on the door. The place was crowded. He sensed the press of human bodies and the scent of their blood. Odd that he still hungered. A feeding to the death such as he’d enjoyed from that farmer should have lasted him a week or two.