Bloody Right. Georgia Evans
was handing her the wrapped bones and a small package of pearl barley (he was all out of lentils, he claimed) when the door jangled behind her.
It was a woman Mary knew by sight. “Afternoon,” she said with a smile.
As Mary tucked her package under her arm and turned to leave, the woman asked, “Aren’t you that new, young schoolteacher?”
The emphasis on ‘young’ rather irked, but Mary ignored it and smiled. “Yes. I was evacuated from Guernsey.”
“You’re the one danced all night with the young amputee who just came back?”
Was it the inflation by gossip, or the anonymous tag the woman put on Gryffyth that annoyed the most? Miserable old biddy! Mary smiled. Not very sweetly. “You mean Gryffyth Pendragon, the war hero and guest of honor? Wonderful party, wasn’t it? I had a fantastic time.” Until she fled in embarrassment that was. But she wasn’t running now, she was angry. She gave another saccharine smile, slapped their ration books and money on the counter, thanked Mr. Whorleigh for the soup bones, and marched out. As the door closed behind her, Mary caught a querulous voice saying, “I wanted soup bones, Mr. Whorleigh.”
Mr. Whorleigh was welcome to her. Serve him right for selling contraband off the ration. Mary was so wound up, she almost forgot her bicycle propped outside. She tossed their dinner in the basket and rode hard back to where Gryffyth was still contemplating the dying bullrushes by the edge of the village pond.
“Something the matter?” he asked, the minute she dismounted.
“Not really,” she lied. “I just get annoyed that by the time I get off work, there’s precious little left in the shop.”
“Things are that bad, are they?”
She nodded. “It depends. At least there’s just the two of us. Some people have families to feed.”
“It’s funny,” he said, as they set off toward her cottage, “when you’re out there getting shot at, or feeling sorry for yourself in hospital, you tend to forget how difficult things are for everyone.” He glanced back at the ruin of the rectory. “When did that happen?”
“Back in September. Before I came. I heard about it, though. The vicar’s wife was badly hurt and died, and there were several children, evacuees, trapped in the building.”
“God! They got out?”
“Yes, from what I heard, after a rather spectacular rescue by Peter Watson. He risked his life to go down in the cellar and get two boys trapped there.”
He went quiet a minute, shaking his head. “It’s everywhere, the war. You can’t get away from it.”
No point in replying. The answer was obvious, from the ruins at the end of the green, the overcrowded classrooms, the empty shelves in the shops, the Air Raid Precautions post in the hut next to the village hall, to the painted-out signposts at the crossroads.
Would life ever be back to normal?
She wasn’t getting maudlin. She had food for their supper. The sun was shining, even if a bit weakly, and the sexiest man she’d ever encountered walked beside her.
She just wished she had cakes or biscuits to offer him for tea. She bet he was as sick of dripping toast as she was.
Dr. Alice Watson, nee Doyle, wasn’t satisfied. She’d used petrol to drive to Guildford to see the coroner’s office but realised she wasn’t going to learn any more.
“It’s clear from the post mortem: she collapsed and a few hours later, died. Looked like heart failure. No reason for an inquest. Nothing to suggest foul play. She was how old?” the coroner’s assistant asked.
He knew that as well as she did. “Eighty-five, but no history of heart trouble.” Alice knew the conclusions were reasonable. Old Mother Longhurst might well have died of heart failure brought on by exertion. She’d ridden all the way over to Bringham and half the way back, and at her age a collapse wasn’t unreasonable. Even if she had been found while she lay in the ditch, there was no saying she’d have survived. Trouble was, Alice didn’t quite believe it. Not with all the other things going on at the time. But she could hardly say, “Mother Longhurst was a witch and in excellent health for her age. Could she have been killed by a Vampire, do you think?”
They’d have her in the nearest padded cell in minutes.
Convinced there was more to it, Alice had tried, without success, to discover who Mother Longhurst had visited in Bringham. It appeared no one had seen the old woman, spoken to her, or had any idea whom she’d visited, other than, most probably, another witch. Trouble was, you just can’t ask your average resident Is there, by any chance, a practicing witch in your village?
“Thanks,” she said to the increasingly impatient assistant. “It’s just a shock. She was in such good health for her age.” Blooming good health, actually. Had to be on account of the herbal remedies Alice had scoffed at for so long.
“Dr. Baynes noted it in his report. Wish I could help you more, but…”
Yes, she knew. There was a war on, and no one had time to waste on idle speculation. Old Mother Longhurst now rested in Brytewood churchyard with generations of Longhursts, and the knowledge of the whereabouts of her magic knife was buried with her. Still, if she’d been right, and Alice had no reason to doubt it, it was no longer of use anyway.
Alice thanked the man again and went out into the street. Dark was falling. At least the promised drizzle hadn’t materialized as she headed for her car parked in a side street, down by the ambulance post.
Must be a change of shift. Several men and women stood smoking outside the post and a couple of others were going in and out. A young man stepped out and Alice did a double take. He rushed past, not even looking in her direction. But it was enough. Or was it?
The wild, Pixie part of her knew where she’d seen that man before. (If indeed he was even human, which she strongly doubted.) She’d found him, badly injured and barely conscious, in Fletcher’s Woods, taken him back to her surgery, called an ambulance, and he’d disappeared before it arrived. The rational scientist inside her wanted to brush that off. But couldn’t. He’d disappeared fast this time. At Vampire speed? She wanted, needed to know. Not that she could actually ask point-blank.
She opened the door to the small building.
“Evening, Dr. Watson,” the supervisor said as he looked up from his mug of tea. “Off home are you? Or planning to hang around and see if we can use you tonight?”
“I’ve got to get back, I’m afraid. I’ve a call to make on the way home. Thanks for keeping an eye on my car.”
“Glad to do it. Terrible nowadays, it is. Stealing tires and petrol like I don’t know what. As if Jerry isn’t more than enough to worry about. Any time, Doctor, any time.”
“Thank you so much. By the way, the young man who left as I came in. I think I know him. Possibly once been a patient?” Of a sort.
“Might be, Doctor. I dunno. He’s not local. Came down to stay with cousins when he got bombed out in London, I think.”
“You know his name?”
“Paul Smith. Nice lad. Been here since September. We’ll miss him. We need every pair of hands we can get.”
Interesting that. He’d given his name as Smith when she found him. Had to be the same man. Or same whatever-he-was. “He’s leaving?”
“Yeah, got a job and is moving.”
Drat, to find him and lose him again. And no one seemed to know where he was going. All she got was the name and address of his current landlady, a Mrs. Thomas. No phone number. Not too surprising. No phone laid on, most likely. What now?
Either let it drop or go prying.
She stopped at a pub nearby and got directions to a narrow street