Bloody Good

by Georgia Evans

  He hoped his contact had as ready and as convenient a supply laid on for him.

  When he got there.

  “I thank you,” he said to Eiche as they returned to Miss Waite’s abode. “Permit me a few hours and I will be gone.”

  He settled on the narrow bed in the little room overlooking the church. Already he felt restored. In a few hours he’d be himself again and ready for the long battle. What chance did these puny mortals have against a band of vampires?

  “Eh! I forgot the dratted knave!” Howell Pendragon reluctantly played his last trump and lost the trick to Mother Longhurst. “Not bespelling those cards are you, Maggie?”

  Margaret Longhurst shook her head, met his eyes, and shrugged. Her mouth was open to reply, and no doubt deny it, when her partner snapped. “Of course she isn’t! Really! You’ll be accusing her of cheating next. Men!”

  Helen Burrows, Howell’s partner, let out an exasperated hiss. “Honestly, Jane, he was just funning. It’s your lead, get on with it.”

  Jane Waite led a low spade which Helen right away took with the king, and then took control of the game. Now Howell knew where all the spades were. His partner held them, and in five tricks won the game for them.

  “No mention of bespelling now!” Jane said in a quiet, spiteful voice. Really, women could wear you down.

  “That’s because Helen can’t do magic,” Margaret replied in an obvious effort to dispel the tension with a bit of lightheartedness.

  It didn’t work. “Well, I’m off home! Need to see to my visitor. My nephew’s come to recuperate,” Jane said, standing and pushing the folding chair under the card table. Leaving it to be put away by someone else.

  “Staying long is he?” Howell asked.

  “Wounded?” Maggie added.

  Jane nodded. “At Dunkirk. Come to visit and rest up for a few weeks.”

  “Bad injuries?” Howell asked.

  She paused. “Exposure and pneumonia.”

  “Dear me, how dreadful for him,” Maggie said, shaking head. “He’ll need building up. You be sure to take his Army cards into Worleigh’s store and you can register him for workman’s rations.”

  Miss Waite gave a “humph.” “I’ll see about it later. I can’t stand around here playing cards all evening. There’s a war on, you know.”

  As if they hadn’t noticed! Howell Pendragon shook his head. “Sharp and sour like acid drops,” he muttered half to himself.

  All three watched her go. “Proper misery guts if you ask me,” Margaret Longhurst muttered. “Trust us to get stuck with Jane Waite. Why she picked Brytewood for her retirement, I’ll never know.”

  “She’s won’t be going anywhere any time soon,” he replied. More’s the pity. It wasn’t just because the woman was an outsider. He was one himself, so, come to that, was Helen but Jane Waite was a sour-tempered old biddy who spread ill will like dripping on toast.

  “Her aura’s gone even darker than usual,” Helen said as she gathered up the discarded cards and shuffled them before sliding them back into the box.

  “I noticed that, too,” Mother Longhurst replied.

  He shook his head. He often wondered about these two women. Maybe it was their oddness, the trace of Otherness that brought him back every fortnight to play whist with them. Maybe he imagined it. After all, who was he to talk? He longed to go up on Box Hill, race under the night sky, shift, and breathe a few gusts of dragonfire. But he didn’t dare, not with the blackout. Hell, if the war went on much longer, he’d forget how to shift.

  No point is worrying about that right now. “Well, ladies, may I get you each another cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please, Howell,” Helen replied. “Every cup we drink here saves the tea ration.”

  Jane Waite frowned as she strode home. Sometimes it was hard to put up with the insufferable English. So smug, so confident, and so ridiculously optimistic and cheerful. She let out a sharp dry laugh. Those inane smiles were due to fade and those stupid jokes shrivel on their lips under the might of the German Armed Forces. It wouldn’t be long now, a few weeks or months at most. Her visitors were just a forerunner of the invasion.

  But how different they were: Gordon Oak and that Smith creature. He was not what she’d call a chosen son of the Master Race. Arriving bedraggled, his clothes torn and blood-soaked. She’d done her bit for him. She just hoped he was gone and never coming back.

  Her hopes were fulfilled. Eiche waited in the easy chair by the empty fireplace. Alone. Listening to Vera Lynn on the wireless.

  “Our unexpected visitor is resting?” she asked. Just to be sure.

  “Has rested and fed,” he replied. “Mr. Paul Smith is off to make his own contact. He will not interfere with my plans for Brytewood.”

  She swore she saw fangs as he smiled. A cold tremor slid down her spine. She’d been trained to support a spy; having a vampire arrive had rather bowled her over. At least it was only one and he had no need of ration books. Workman’s rations indeed! “I’ll be making a cup of cocoa before bedtime—would you like one?”

  He shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I will need to go out tonight.”

  “You have the spare key I gave you. And there’s always the hidden one. Remember?”

  “Under the pot of geraniums. Of course.”

  Leaving him to the wireless, she bustled in the kitchen. Setting out the tray with cups for the morning, she tried to decide whether to have the egg she had left boiled or poached for breakfast, or whether to settle for toast. There was no shortage of bread after all.

  As the cocoa came to the boil, she poured it into a mug and checked the back door was locked. She’d leave it unbolted. Gabriel could see to that when he got in.

  Mug in hand, she poked her head round the sitting room door. He was engrossed in a Stanley Holloway monologue but he was gentleman enough to stand for her. “Mr. Oak, please be sure you shoot both bolts home when you get back in.”

  He gave her a little bow. So much nicer manners than these sloppy English. “I will. Good night, Miss Waite. Pleasant dreams.”

  He followed her to the bottom of the narrow stairs, and she felt him watch her as she climbed, mug in hand.

  As she reached the top step, her foot slipped, her other leg wobbled, and she fell, head over heels backward to land in a crumpled heap. As she blinked and shook her head to clear it, she was vaguely aware of pain in the leg twisted impossibly under her and a burning in her arm. She must have spilled the cocoa. And she’d made it with real milk, too. Not the powdered sort. What a waste.

  Eiche stepped close and bent over her. Her dazed eyes met his. Perfect. He’d been half afraid he’d killed her and that would have put a crimp in things but…“My Dear Miss Waite. You are injured. I must call the doctor.”

  If Jane Waite had been less dazed, she’d have noticed he knew the number, reciting it precisely to the operator.

  “Doctor,” he said after a few minutes. “I’m calling from Pear Tree Cottage. Miss Waite’s house. I’m afraid Miss Waite has met with an accident.”

  Leaving Brytewood behind, and hoping he never had to return, Paul Schmidt ran through the night. He could have flown but decided to conserve his strength. The past twenty-four hours had taught him the wisdom of thrift and prudence. The image of his map in mind, he set off cross country on a roughly western direction. He took care leaping fences and gates—another injury was not part of his plans—and in twenty minutes of fast running reached the outskirts of Guildford.

  Without vampire sight he’d never have found his way in the blackout. But since he wasn’t hampered like puny mortals, it only took him ten minutes or so of running through near-deserted streets to find his contact.

  In a narrow terrace house in a street just two steps up from a slum. Eiche ended up in rustic comfort with a view of a Saxon church while he, Paul Schmidt, ended up in a shabby back street. Just his luck.

  Still, he was here. He made his way up the cracked path and rapped on the painted door.

&
nbsp; “Who is it?” a male voice asked.

  “Paul. Uncle Bob wrote to say I was coming.”

  The door opened a chink. “How’s Auntie Violet?”

  “Her rheumatism is getting worse but otherwise she’s in good spirits.” Whoever thought up these codes needed their brains examined, but it worked. The door opened halfway and a face peered at him in the dark.

  “I was expecting you to arrive last night.”

  “So was I. Circumstances delayed me.”

  “Come on in then.”

  The door opened wide. Schmidt stepped in just as a voice down the street called, “Douse that light! Douse that light!”

  “Crikey!” his contact muttered, pulling Paul inside and slamming the door shut. “Bloody air raid wardens. Think they run the flipping country. Come into the lounge and have a seat.” He held out his hand. “I’m Stephen Thomas and honored to be part of the fight.”

  In the light of the room Paul got a good look at his contact and current host. He was as different from spinsterly Miss Waite as was possible given they were both mortals. Stephen Thomas was in his mid-twenties, tall, blonde with deep blue eyes and pale lashes and with an air about him that suggested back in Germany he’d be confined in a camp wearing a pink triangle. Not exactly the assistant Paul expected but…

  “What delayed you?” Stephen asked.

  Paul gave an expurgated version. No mention of the good samaritan doctor. Just his injury, hiding from daylight, finding Eiche and his contact, and then making his way across country.

  “Rotten bad luck,” Simon said. “Still, you’re here now and they’re expecting you to show up for work at the ambulance post the day after tomorrow. Will that be alright?”

  “As a driver?”

  “Night shift. Was easier than I thought. No one wants the night shifts and since one of the drivers was considerate enough to fall into the river and drown on his way back from the pub a couple of nights back, your arrival will be welcomed. Doubt anyone will question the dicey paperwork.”

  If they did they could meet an unfortunate end. Shocking things happened in wartime. “You live here alone?”

  He shook his head. “No, my granny is upstairs. It’s her house. She had a stroke last year and is bedridden. They were muttering about billeting evacuees here a while back, but your arrival should put paid to that.”

  And if it hadn’t, regrettable things might happen to them. Still, seemed a snug enough base to operate from. He had a roof over his head, a good cover, and a job that would put him deep in the heart of the hurts and injuries and any time he hungered for fresh blood, there was a helpless old woman upstairs. “Does your grandmother know who you’re working for?”

  “Good God, no! She’d have a fit! She and my dear, departed grandfather were lifelong members of the Communist party.”

  High time the invasion got underway and these degenerates were disposed of. “Interesting,” Paul replied with a smile. “Now, if you would be so good as to show me my resting quarters.”

  Chapter 4

  “Is Miss Waite badly hurt?”

  Alice looked up from her toast. “Could have been worse, Gran. Broken leg and wrist and a collection of colorful bruises. She was lucky it happened the night her nephew arrived. Alone, she’d have lain there until the milkman arrived this morning.”

  “Did you meet this nephew?”

  Alice paused, toast halfway to her mouth. What exactly was Gran fishing for? “Of course. He was the one who called me after the accident and went with her in the ambulance.”

  She raised a gray eyebrow and Alice knew it wasn’t over yet. “Arrived suddenly, didn’t he? She never mentioned he was coming until he got here. Never heard her talk about him, or any family for that matter, in all the years she’s been here. She sat at the same whist table as Howell and Maggie and me the other night and didn’t say a word about his visit until she was leaving. Odd if you ask me.”

  Please! She had more to do than cope with village gossip. “Gran, is it really any of our business?”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but I can’t help wonder. Especially after what Mother Longhurst said.”

  The long pause demanded a response. A stronger woman would have nodded and finished her toast. Alice caved. “What did the old witch say?”

  “Don’t mock her, Alice. She knows what she knows and your father wasn’t too hidebound by science and qualifications to discount her lore.” Rebuke noted. No sense in pointing out medical science had progressed a long way since the turn of the century when her father had trained at Barts. In Alice’s silence, Gran went on. “She mentioned last night that Jane Waite’s aura had blackened and it had. It’s always been murky. Something sad in her past we always suspected but now it’s darkened. She’s been in contact with evil or bad trouble and odd it should so happen hours after her visitor arrives and just a short time before she has a serious fall.”

  Only true love and caring for her grandmother’s feelings kept Alice’s laughter contained. Gran believed this nonsense and so, it seemed, did half the village. “And talking about Miss Waite, they’ll want her out of hospital as soon as possible. I’ll ask Gloria to drop by and see what they’ll need for her convalescence.”

  “You’ve got a good backup in Gloria Prewitt,” Gran said, seeming to change the subject. “She’s overworked, though, just as you are.”

  And would be even more so if she didn’t get a move on. Alice drank down the last of her tea. “We’ve asked for help, even a part-time first aid worker would be a godsend.” Especially with all the evacuees and now having to treat the workers up at the government plant on the heath.

  Alice carried her dishes to the sink and kissed her grandmother. “I’ll be back for lunch, all being well. I need to see how things are at the Watsons on top of all my other house calls. Bye, love.”

  Helen Burrows shook her head at Alice’s departing form. The girl had a good heart but oh, if only she’d admit the truth right under her nose. Pixie blood flowed in her skeptical veins. Maybe someday soon she’d acknowledge what was hers by right.

  No time to sigh and wish for “if only.” Helen turned to the sink. She’d get the breakfast things done so when Doris came in, she could start on the floor. The young woman was a godsend. Evacuated to Brytewood with her infant, she soon tired of village gossip and the moans and complaints of the other evacuee mums and asked Alice if she knew anyone who needed a charlady. After Alice snagged her for once a week, Doris had no trouble finding other work in the village. She even confided to Helen one day that she was saving up all she could and planned on opening a “nice, little” tea shop after the war was over.

  Meanwhile she “did” for the echelons of Brytewood who’d lost their housemaids and charladies to the war effort. Helen knew Doris wouldn’t last. In a few months her toddler son would be old enough for a day nursery and no doubt Doris would be off for a better paid job up at the munitions camp on the heath or in one of the factories in Dorking or Leatherhead. But meanwhile, she came in every Friday morning and “did” for them.

  “You know, mum,” Doris said, as she paused for a morning cup of tea between vacuuming and starting on the bathroom. “Could you use me this afternoon? I could do out the office and surgery if you like.”

  “Aren’t you going to Miss Waite’s?” It was Doris’s usual Friday afternoon.

  “Should be, but I stopped there on my way up here this morning. Thought I’d ask if I could pick up anything for Miss Waite, seeing as she’s in a bad way, and that nephew or whatever he is, rum lot he is, too, he said no need to come. He didn’t need me and wasn’t sure they’d need me next week. In fact he told me not to come back again until they called.”

  She paused to bite a corner off a chocolate digestive biscuit. “As good as fired me he did. Well, I told him I’d have a word with Miss Waite when she got home. Seeing as she’d hired me to do for her, it was her who’d tell me when I wasn’t needed. Proper shirty, he got. Nasty he was. I tell you, Mrs. Burrows, if I did
n’t need the money, and didn’t care to let Miss Waite down, I’d never go back.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Doris,” Helen replied. “Men can be abrupt. We can certainly use you here this afternoon. And once the word gets out around the village that you have a free afternoon, I don’t doubt you’ll be drowning under offers. I know Mrs. Roundhill would grab you in a flash. She’s up to her ears with all those evacuees.”

  Doris finished her biscuit—one of the last of a prewar cache Helen always offered her as a little luxury to supplement her modest wage. “Well, best get finished, and thanks for mentioning Mrs. Roundhill. I’ll stop off at the vicarage on my way home. See what we can work out. Hope she won’t mind me bringing Joey.”

  “What would one more child be in that big house?”

  Doris nodded. “Bet he’d like the company, too. He really needs to be with other children. He spends all his days in a playpen in other people’s houses.”

  Helen drank her own tea down. Here she was wanting to keep Doris as long as possible, when Doris had to think of Joey first. “He’s such a good boy.” No lie. He really was a most contented child, given he’d been whisked from his home. Seemed babies settled more readily than some school-age children. “How about I take him with me down to the village? I need to pick up a few things in the shops.”

  “Fresh air would be good for him, wouldn’t it? Sure it’s no bother?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Sid Mosley’s slap on the shoulder was just hard enough not to be friendly. “Well then, boyo, sad times are upon us, seems we have to lose you!” Peter might have suspected a mere trace of sincerity if Sid Mosley hadn’t been grinning from ear to ear. After all, without him there, who’d clean the damn lavatories?