Bloody Awful. Georgia Evans

Bloody Awful - Georgia Evans


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the fat landlord talking about? He was calling to a slender, tall man, at the other end of the bar. “Mr. Whorleigh, you’d best be meeting your new competition. Mr. Block here is reopening Stone’s bakery.” Competition? Another baker? “Mr. Whorleigh is the village grocer,” the landlord explained.

      Whorleigh turned to look at Block and gave a halfway friendly nod. “Baker, eh?” he said taking a drink from a three-quarters empty tankard.

      “Yes, I’m Bill Block.” He took a couple of steps toward the man and held out his hand.

      For a second, it seemed he would be refused but then Whorleigh extended his hand and grasped Block’s firmly. Too firmly for friendliness. Far too firmly for comfort if Block had been mortal.

      Block met pressure with pressure.

      Whorleigh smiled as realization hit Block.

      This was no human. Whorleigh, the village grocer, was Other.

      If he was the vampire-killing Other remained to be discovered.

      Fast.

      Block released his hand. “So, you and I are fellow traders.”

      The idea did not appear to thrill. “Good luck, the last one got himself run over. If I didn’t have bread sent in from Dorking, we’d not have any.”

      “I plan to alter that.”

      Whorleigh gave a noncommittal nod. “Experienced in the trade are you? Or are you one of those Ministry of Food conscripts?”

      “My father was a baker. I grew up learning the trade.”

      “I see,” Whorleigh paused to drink from his beer. “Local was he?”

      “Not at all. I don’t know this part of the country in the least. I’m looking forward to looking around. I’ve heard there’re some good walks.” Nice touch that. Set up his desire to wander and look around.

      Whorleigh shrugged. “Used to get groups of ramblers on weekends before the war. Not many these days.” He drained his beer and set the empty tankard on the bar.

      Bloch took the hint. “Let me buy you another.”

      “Don’t mind if I do.” Taking the refilled glass with a nod of thanks, Whorleigh went on, “Let’s get ourselves a seat over in the corner and talk this out.”

      Talk what out? That, he would no doubt discover.

      “This is how I see it,” Whorleigh began once they’d sat down at a table tucked in a far corner. “This village is big enough for both of us. We just need to come to an agreement.” Bloch listened, an amused smile tweaking one corner of his mouth. “You do all the baking, bread, rolls, cakes if you want and can get the fat and sugar. I’ll stop selling any bread. That way they’ll have to come to you or get on the bus for it. They’ll come to you. Buses aren’t as reliable as they were before the war.” Bloch nodded. So far this was clear enough. “I take care of customers who’re registered with me and…the rest.”

      At the pause, Bloch gave Whorleigh all his attention. “I take care of any extras. That’s my bailiwick. Silk stockings, makeup, off-the-ration things that are hard to find. Understand?”

      Bloch understood the black market was alive and thriving. “Of course.” There had to be some way to use this to his advantage. And if this Whorleigh was the killer, soon the peasants of Brytewood would be without their supplier.

      How unfortunate for them.

      Bloch was sorely tempted to dispose of Whorleigh this very evening and report his success to Weiss, but if Whorleigh wasn’t the killer, it might just pay to let him live. He could be handy and Weiss was always carping on about unnecessary deaths bringing unwarranted attention.

      “I believe,” Bloch said, eyeing Whorleigh over the rim of his glass, “we can work together. How about we drink up and take a stroll and cover detail better not discussed here?”

      After a brief hesitation, Whorleigh agreed, downed his beer and crossed to the door, giving a nod to the knot of men clustered around the dart board.

      Sergeant Howell Pendragon of the Home Guard, Red Welsh Dragon and long-time resident of Brytewood, watched as the door closed and the heavy curtain dropped into place behind the two men. “Another newcomer?” he asked the landlord, Fred Wise. “Place is full of them these days.”

      “He’s the new baker. Surprised you haven’t met him,” Wise replied.

      “Not so far. Will soon no doubt. Where’s he come from?”

      “Dunno. Didn’t catch that, but mind you, will be nice to get fresh bread in the village.” Wise paused to pull a pint for a customer down the bar. “Still,” he went on, “can’t but wonder why we got a new baker, you’d think he’d have gone to one of the big cities. Not complaining, you see, but it does make one ask.”

      “It does indeed,” Pendragon agreed.

      “You’ll be losing your young lodger soon, won’t you?” Constable Parlett, now off duty, said from down the bar.

      Pendragon nodded. “Yes, will miss him. Nothing quite like young company.”

      “He isn’t moving that far!” Wise said, with a bit of a chuckle. “It’s nice to see the doctor and him together. Make a nice pair they do, and this way he’ll be staying in the village.”

      “Unless he gets posted somewhere else,” Parlett said. “I’d hate to see it but with a war on, who’s to say?”

      “I bet they leave him here, especially with the nurse laid up now and all the extra evacuees arriving,” Pendragon said, voicing his own hopes. “Due tomorrow are they? Or is it Friday?”

      “It was yesterday,” Parlett said. “The WVS ladies got the tea urns and all set up and then got a message. Trains were cut because of bomb damage on the lines.”

      “They’ll get here soon enough,” Pendragon said. He downed the last of his beer. “I’ll be off home. See you gentlemen tomorrow.”

      As he walked toward his cottage, he frowned to himself. Something about that baker chap seemed wrong. Other was Howell’s guess. He really wanted to hear what Helen Burrows had to say about him. He valued the Pixie’s opinion. She’d been right about that Oak chap and he wanted to know her impression of Mr. Block, the new baker.

      The darkness of the blackout was no impediment to Bloch’s vampire sight and it gave him the edge over mortals. Seemed Whorleigh had no trouble negotiating the narrow path between the hedges and the lane either. Another indication he was Other. Why not just rip his throat out and take his blood? The temptation was very strong and the chance he might execute the wrong person wouldn’t weigh heavy on his mind.

      “You and me, Block, we work together, see?” Whorleigh said. “You trust Sam Whorleigh to see you right. Just let me do my bit on the side and you set up your own.”

      How, precisely, he would manage that when Whorleigh had the black market cornered was a puzzle, but not one he was likely to waste his brains on. With Whorleigh dead, the pickings would be up for grabs but for that, he needed his contacts. Better stay the execution.

      But a nice deep draught of Whorleigh’s blood would sustain for several days, and help bind the creature to Block. That couldn’t be anything but useful.

      They were a hundred yards or so away from Whorleigh’s store, on a deserted stretch of country lane, the Pig and Whistle behind them beyond the bend.

      Block put his arm around Whorleigh’s shoulders. “Old pal, we will deal well together.”

      Whorleigh stiffened. Interesting. “We’ll work together alright. You and I. You just stay your side of the street and I’ll keep to mine,” he replied. “That clear?”

      The friendly tone didn’t conceal a thing. The man dared to utter a warning


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