Bloody Good. Georgia Evans
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 pocket 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