“PETER.”
Alice walked back in. “That was the coroner in Epsom. The oddest thing. Seems when Fred Morgan died, a couple of nights before you came, he had almost no blood in his body. Some sort of bizarre bleeding disease. Makes you wonder if they haven’t dropped some new, invisible gas, but he’s just an isolated case.”
Not completely. “I got a message to please come by the Abbotts’ farm. Seems the news I’ve had three years of vet school preceded me. He had a problem with two of his cows. They were wasted, feeble, and when I tried to take a blood sample, thinking maybe somewhere there was a lab that might look at it, it was almost impossible to find a vein—they’d all collapsed. The animals had very little blood in them. Odd to have two strange happenings on top of the bombing.”
“Three strange things,” she replied. “Don’t forget the disappearing injured man.”
How could he? That was the reason they met.
Books by Georgia Evans
BLOODY GOOD
BLOODY AWFUL
BLOODY RIGHT
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
BLOODY GOOD
GEORGIA EVANS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
For Kate,
who asked me to write a World War II book, and for my mother, my grandmother, and my aunts, who filled my childhood with tales of THE WAR.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Prologue
September 1940
Over SE England
By Fritz Lantz’s reckoning they were twenty minutes from the first drop.
They’d been lucky so far: visibility clear and, miraculously, no ack-ack or searchlights looking their way. Not long now and he’d be unloading his odd passengers and heading back to France and breakfast in the verwirrung.
“How are our cargo?” Fritz asked Dieter, his radio operator.
“A rum lot!”
That point they agreed on. “I’ll be glad when we turf them out and get back home. They give me the willies.”
Come to that the whole mission seemed off a bit. Dropping spies and saboteurs was nothing unusual and Fritz hoped every single one of them gave the Tommies a run for their money. It would be a long time before Fritz Lantz forgot the bombs the damned Brits rained down on Berlin. But these four he was carrying over the channel put the wind up him so much he almost felt sorry for the enemy. He was still puzzling over his orders: No observing when they jumped. Dieter was to open the doors and return to the cockpit and give the signal from there. He was to close the jump doors ten minutes after the last one had left and not before. Then they were to head right home. That last bit wouldn’t be hard to follow.
“Never had a drop like this in my life,” Dieter said, shaking his head. “As good as snapped my head off when I tried to explain how to put on the parachutes. Serve them damn well right if they don’t open for them.”
“Almost there,” Fritz replied. “Better go back and latch open the cargo door and let’s unload them.”
The drop orders were straightforward enough: four drop points five-ten kilometers apart in a rough circle. Some town was getting a foretaste of the invasion. It was war after all.
“Want to know something?” Dieter asked a while later as he returned from latching the cargo door after the drop. “They dumped their parachutes on the floor. Never took them!”
“Don’t talk rot! They switched with the spares.”
Dieter shook his head. “No, they didn’t. Our scary boys jumped without.”
He had to be kidding, or hadn’t counted the parachutes properly.
“They won’t give the Tommies much trouble, will they?” Dieter did have a screw loose if he believed that, but hell, it would make a good story over a pilsner when they get back.
Five miles beyond Beachy Head the engine sputtered and died. Fritz stared horrified at the fuel gauge. He’d left with more than enough to get back now it was empty.
“Bail out!” he called to Dieter as he unbuckled his own harness.
They both made it out seconds before the plane plummeted down toward the Channel but, according to special arrangements by the German High Command, their parachutes failed to open. Dieter and Fritz followed their Focke-Wulf to a watery grave.
After jumping, the four vampires glided down toward their designated landings. Well briefed and with land support waiting, they were more than ready to do their share preparing the way for the coming invasion.
Gerhardt Eiche, Wilhelm Bloch, and Hans Weiss landed safely and each headed for their appointed rendezvous. Paul Schmidt was less fortunate—by mischance, unexpected wind, or inaccurate coordinates, he missed the clear acreage around a dairy fairm, with the potential for restorative warm blood of both humans and animals, and crashed into the ancient cluster of oaks on Fletcher’s Hill, impaling himself on the uppermost branches of a tree, hitting his head on the trunk of another, and mercifully cutting off sense and pain before crashing to Earth.
He recovered not long before the dawn. Weak from the wood poison in his system, he struggled to free his flesh of the splinters and bark. As dawn rose, his remaining strength waned. Without blood he would expire before nightfall, his mission unfulfilled. Despair washed over him at the prospect of failing his blood oath. His country needed him. Needed all of them, and he had failed. He would die on this cursed English soil.
Hours later, he heard an engine approach and stop. A car meant a mortal driver, maybe even passengers. He was saved. He’d have his first feeding of English blood and strike a blow to the enemy.
Chapter 1
Alice Doyle was exhausted. Staying up half the night and all day to deliver twins will do that to you. The elation and adrenaline of her first set of twins had carried her this far home, but as she turned into the lane that ran through Fletcher’s Woods, weariness set in. It had been a good night’s work, though. She wouldn’t easily forget the rejoicing in the Watson farmhouse and Melanie’s happiness through her fatigue as she breast-fed her lusty sons.
“A fine brace of boys. Gives one hope for the future, doesn’t it, Doctor?” Roger Watson said as he smiled at his grandsons. “If only Jim were here to see them.”
The Watsons’ only son, Jim, was somewhere in Norfolk with the Army and Alice couldn’t help worry how Melanie, a Londoner born and bred, would fare with her in-laws in a farm as remote as any you could find in Surrey.
Still, Farmer Watson was right: Whatever the politicians did or however many bombs fell, life went on.
The numerous cups of tea she’d consumed through the night were having their effects and she still had several miles to go over bumpy country roads. She pulled over to the verge a
nd got out. Other traffic was unlikely out here. Few locals enjoyed the supply of petrol allocated to doctors. Even so, Alice climbed over the gate and ventured into the woods for a bit of privacy.
She was straightening her clothes back when she realized she was not alone. Darn! A bit late to be worrying about modesty. Deeper into the woods, someone crawled toward her. Assuming injuries, Alice called, “I’m coming. I’m a doctor.”
It was a stranger. One of the workers from the hush-hush munitions camp up on the heath, perhaps? What in heaven’s name was he doing rolling on the damp ground? As Alice bent over him, he looked up at her with glazed eyes. Drunk perhaps? But she didn’t smell anything on his breath.
“What happened?” As she spoke, she saw the stains on his sleeve. Blood loss might well account for his weakness. She looked more closely at him and gasped. Part of the branch of a tree was embedded in his upper arm. How in heaven’s name? Had to be drunk. If there wasn’t enough to do, she had to cope with boozers who impaled themselves on trees. Seemed that was his only injury. No bleeding from the mouth or nose. Heartbeat was abnormally slow but steady, his breathing shallow, and his skin cold to the touch. Shock and exposure would explain all that. Best get him out of the damp.
“Look,” she said, trying her utmost to keep the fatigue out of her voice. “I need you to walk to my car. I’ve my bag there and I’ll have a look at your arm. Then I’ll take you down to my surgery in Brytewood and call an ambulance.”
The odd, glazed eyes seemed to focus. “Thanks,” he croaked.
“What’s your name?”
He had to think about that one. Definitely recovering from a wild night. “Smith.” Really? Aiming for anonymity perhaps? “Paul Smith.”
Alice got behind him and propped his shoulders until he was sitting. “Come along, Mr. Smith,” she told him. “I’m going to give you a boost and you have to stand. I can’t carry you.”
They succeeded on the second go and made slow progress toward her car, Alice supporting Mr. Smith from his good side. He was a lot lighter than anticipated as he slowly staggered toward the road. He supported himself against the hedge as Alice opened and closed the gate, but once they emerged from the shade into the thin afternoon sun, he collapsed.
Thank heaven for her father’s old shooting brake. She got her patient into the back so he was lying against the sack of potatoes the Watsons had insisted she take with her.
“Mr. Smith, I’m going to examine your arm. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut your shirt sleeve.”
Taking the nod as agreement, Alice snipped off the sleeve. The shirt was good for nothing but rags anyway. Her first observation had been right: Several chunks of fresh wood had penetrated the flesh of his upper arm. “How did you do this then?” she asked as she opened her bag and reached for sterile swabs and Dettol.
And cried out as he grabbed her free hand in a viselike grip and bit her wrist.
He was more than drunk. He was insane. Alice tried to push him away but he held on, digging his teeth into her flesh. She finally grabbed his nose until he gasped for breath and released her.
“Behave yourself! I’m a doctor. I’m here to help…” She broke off when she saw he’d passed out.
Something was really wrong. Maybe she should take him straight to the hospital in Dorking but she had patients waiting to take care of. She’d call for an ambulance at home.
Throwing a blanket over him, she got into the front and drove home as fast as safety and the twisting lanes permitted.
As luck would have it, Sergeant Pendragon was sitting at the kitchen table with Gran. The sergeant might be getting on a bit, but he was still hale and brawny and had no difficulty getting the semiconscious Mr. Smith to her examining room. Gran pulled back the curtains to let the last of the daylight in.
“Anything else I can do you for, Doctor?” Howell Pendragon asked. He’d lived in Brytewood forty years but still retained the singsong cadence of his native Anglesey.
Alice shook her head. “Thank you, no. I’ll just clean up his wound.”
It was easy enough, too. Mr. Smith lay still, muttering as she probed for the deeper splinters, but seemingly still semiconscious. She’d never seen shock quite like this and, not for the first time, she wished her father were here with his lifetime of experience.
But he wasn’t.
Alice made her strange patient as comfortable as she could, covered him with a couple of blankets, and carried the used kidney dish and bundle of bloody gauze away.
In the kitchen, Gran handed her bread and cheese. “I know you’ve had no lunch and it’s a while yet before I’ll have tea ready.”
“Thanks, Gran.” Still chewing, Alice picked up the phone. “Dorking 207, please.”
“Dr. Doyle?” the telephonist said. “It’s Jenny Longhurst. How are things up at the Watsons’?” News traveled fast and working in the telephone exchange, Jenny kept up with most of it.
“Melanie had a pair of beautiful boys.”
“Oh! Lovely! Can’t wait to tell everyone. Now, the ambulance depot you said? Anyone hurt?”
“Nothing serious.” Alice hoped. She was connected in a trice while, no doubt, Jenny and her cohorts spread the news about the Watsons’ new arrivals over the wires.
“An ambulance for a splinter in the arm? We’re busy down here. There’s a war on, you know.”
Alice was almost too weary to be polite. Almost, but not quite. Thirteen years of convent education left its mark. “He has massive injuries to his right arm from multiple penetration of wood shards. Also appears to be suffering from shock, aggravated by exposure over an undetermined period. I need an ambulance just as soon as you can get one up here.” She never felt comfortable pulling the “Me doctor, you mere subordinate” line, but if needs must…
“Alright then, Dr. Doyle. We’ll have someone out there to pick him up. Might be late.” Better late than never. “You have his particulars?”
“Yes.” She’d appropriated his wallet from his jacket pocket. “Name: Paul Smith. Address on the driver’s license is Chelmsford, same as his ration book and…”
“What’s he doing down here then?”
“He’s going?” Gran asked as Alice put up the receiver. “Good thing, too. Something’s not right about him.”
“Yes, Gran, his right arm is injured.”
“Not that, my girl. I mean wrong.” Alice held back the sigh; Gran was starting off again. “Howell Pendragon thought so, too, and if you’d use the talents you were born with, you’d see as clearly as I do. That Mr. Smith has no life presence. No soul.”
Alice took a deep breath. She was too weary to deal with Gran’s scolding about ignoring her heritage and gifts. “Yes, Gran, we’ll talk about it later. How many patients are waiting?” She’d love to tell every last one of them that she’d been up half the night and was dead on her feet but they counted on her and she was still struggling to convince the village skeptics that she was every bit as much a “real” doctor as her father had been.
“Half a dozen by the look of things.” Not too bad at all. “One is Mrs. Jenkins.” The local hypochondriac who read medical encyclopedias with the enthusiasm other women reserved for a good Mills and Boon.
“Give me ten minutes and send the first one in.”
“I’ll put a cup of tea on your desk.”
God bless grandmothers!
The ambulance arrived somewhere round about seven, just as Alice was writing out a prescription for stomach powder. She’d let Gran take care of things. “There you are, Mr. Grace. Give it a couple of weeks and if it doesn’t help, come back and we’ll try something else.”
Mr. Grace left with his prescription and Alice put her head round the door to call in the last patient. Someone she didn’t recognize. Perhaps one of the evacuees? She was in her twenties, slight, and tired looking.
“Dr. Doyle? I’m June Groves, one of the teachers evacuated with the school children. I hate to bother you but I cut my hand a few days ago and it’s gone
a bit nasty.”
A “bit nasty” wasn’t the word. “How did this happen?” Alice frowned at the red, angry wound.
“I was in a hurry one morning. Trying to open one of those tins of dried milk. Like an ass, I used a kitchen knife and it slipped. I washed it off at the time but…”
Washing off hadn’t been enough. “Do you have any kaolin poultice at home?”
She shook her head. “I’ve no idea; it’s a billet. Mrs. Roundhill has a houseful of us and I hate to cause extra trouble.”
So she was up at the vicarage. “Never mind.” Alice filled a clean specimen jar with several spoonfuls scooped from a new tin. “Warm this up. An enamel plate balanced over a saucepan of boiling water is the easiest way. Put half on tonight and bandage it up and the other half in the morning. That should draw everything to a head. Come back after school tomorrow and I’ll lance it.” And hope it works. “If it gets painful overnight, take a couple of aspirin.”
“Thanks.” June Groves took the bottle. “What do I owe you?”
“We’ll sort that out tomorrow.”
Alice shut the door behind her, knowing she should have talked to the young teacher more, made sure her charges were settling in, or if they’d returned to London during the quiet months without bombing. She’d make up for that tomorrow when she came back.
“Alice.” It was Gran. “The ambulance is here. They need to talk to you.”
Bloody Good Page 1
