Bloody Good

by Georgia Evans

  There had been a cursory mention of the altercation in the Pig between that Mr. Williams from up at the camp (who’d been three parts drunk, everyone agreed) and Dr. Doyle’s brave new assistant. But a fight that fizzled didn’t hold a candle to the arrest of an enemy spy, and that little snippet was soon forgotten.

  There had been brief mention of Miss Waite’s nephew, or cousin, or whatever he was, a passing acknowledgment of the shame and horror he must be feeling, but he wasn’t a villager after all, so he got little attention.

  The sudden departure of the two London boys rescued from the vicarage barely got a passing mention.

  Except by Tom Longhurst, who’d sighed as Mr. Arckle rode away on his borrowed bicycle. Good of the man to ride all the way up here to offer his explanations and apologies. Tom had been looking forward to having a pair of lads about the place, but that wasn’t to be. He did vaguely wonder what had changed the man’s mind; he’d seemed more than agreeable the previous evening, but Tom had three fields of meadow grass to cut before the good weather broke and no time to worry about the Arckles. They were Londoners after all, a different breed altogether.

  Alice left the house early to go on her rounds. Peter, armed with directions and a little trepidation over entering Jeff Williams’s bailiwick, headed to the camp. It was his first day to take over from Gloria, leaving her to spend the morning helping the WVS organize supplies.

  An hour or so after Alice left, Helen Burrows rode her bicycle down into the village, picked up their week’s ration of cheese and a bag of flour, lingered long enough to catch the wave of gossip, and reminded her special cronies there would be another knitting evening the Sunday after next, before setting off in the direction of Howell Pendragon’s cottage.

  She paused briefly at the corner, her sharp Pixie eyes noticing the battered and charred hawthorn hedge, then pedaled the last hundred yards or so and wheeled her bicycle up his garden path.

  He was waiting at the door for her. “I thought you’d be down this morning.”

  “You thought right, old man.”

  “Come on in then, Pixie.”

  She let that pass—he could breath fire after all—and finding out his Other nature after twenty-odd years was satisfaction enough to ignore the teasing gibe in his voice. “We need to talk. Those young people have courage, but it’s going to take much more than bravery to overcome this.”

  He shut the door, took her coat and hat, and held a chair for her. He had been expecting her, tea was already made, the pot covered under a knitted cozy, and he’d even put out a plate of shortbread.

  “What do you have in mind, Helen?” he asked as he poured milk into the cups. “I’m not going around the village breathing fire. I need to live here afterward.”

  “Let’s first make sure we have an ‘afterward.’”

  “You’ve a point there.” He put down the milk jug and picked up the teapot. “It does seem more than a coincidence that just as we’re bracing ourselves to repel invasion, this thing appears, and on top of it all, we find we’ve had a spy in our midst for years.” He handed her a cup.

  “No coincidence at all, is it?” She took a sip; hot and strong. The man knew how to make a good cup of tea. Perhaps he heated the water by breathing on the kettle. “I wonder what else we need to watch out for.”

  “One problem at a time, Helen. Let’s take care of this one first.”

  “Who is it? Did you see his face?”

  “In the blackout, with no moon? Once I breathe that fire, it dazzles me so I’m half blind. No. Besides, I’m not even sure it had a face; it was more like a dark, nasty presence.”

  “Then, assuming it is the suspected vampire, it shifts, changes.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “But it’s here in Brytewood, living among us. We have to work out who it is.”

  “With all the newcomers we’ve had the past year? All those up at the plant, evacuees, those French refugees over in Westhumble, the guests who come and go over at Wharton Lacey. Could be anyone.”

  “Was it male or female?” If he could tell.

  “Male!”

  That seemed certain enough. “How did you know?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Just felt it was.”

  She, for one, wasn’t about to question feelings.

  “That’s where we start then: consider every male who’s come to the village recently. Particularly anyone injured. No one had called Alice about burns, but they might have gone to hospital.”

  “Helen, how often do you need medical help? I bet he’s already healed himself. Like I did.”

  Drat! The man was right. “We need a list. I’ll get it from Sam Whorleigh; he has everyone who’s registered for rations.”

  “He’ll give it to you? Just like that?”

  She smiled. “Not just like that, but he’ll give it to me. Why don’t you come up to The Gallop and have a cup of coffee tomorrow morning and we’ll see what we can find out.”

  “You’re going to steal it! Somehow you’re going to steal his records.”

  “All’s fair in love and war, Howell Pendragon. And this is war!”

  Peter wasn’t sure if a nice sharp shower wasn’t preferable to a bright sunny morning, at least when pedaling uphill. He was going to arrive with sweat pouring off his face. Smashing when he’d then have to face insults, antagonism, and rudeness.

  Oh well, since he had no choice, might as well keep going, and the countryside, if not exactly Devon, was beautiful. It might be a good place to settle once the war was over. If Alice would have him.

  Would she? It wasn’t much of a trade-off for her. She had an established practice, position in the village, brothers coming home one day, God willing, and a future. She could probably have any man in the county.

  What did he have to offer? A disrupted education. He could go back and qualify once the war was over. He still had money left to him by his grandmother, but he’d carry the stigma of being a CO, and a family who, if not actually wishing him ill, wouldn’t miss him if he never went home again.

  He was getting downright maudlin. No way to spend a sunny September day. He had a job, a good place to live, and the finest woman in all of God’s creation fancied him. What man was ever better off?

  With that thought in mind, he was ready to face Jeff Williams and, if need be, that creepy pal of his to boot.

  Once at the top, the road curved through a hundred or so yards of woodland and then he was through the trees, and the camp lay ahead. From here it was unmistakable. Corrugated iron huts, iron framed and asbestos buildings, and row upon row of wooden huts. All covered with camouflage.

  This wasn’t just a small munitions camp, it was major processing plant.

  He rode his bike up to the gate and, dismounting, showed his identity card to the uniformed guard.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said as he handed it back after consulting a clipboard. “The clinic is down on the right almost at the end, but the superintendent asked that you report to him first. His office is in the second hut on the left, right down the middle.”

  So he had to report, did he? Not unreasonable, but not his idea of fun. Best get it over with; after all, he was going to have to work with the man. Peter thanked the guard and wheeled his bicycle through the gate.

  The second hut on the left was easy enough to find and SUPERINTENDENT stenciled on the door was clear enough. Damn! He was not going to quail before a weasly bully. He had the authority of His Majesty’s Government behind him and so…

  The door was ajar so Peter opened it cautiously. He was in a small office and a sandy-haired young clerk in civilian clothes sat behind a rickety deal desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to report to the superintendent. I’m the new first aid assistant.”

  “Smashing, sir. Welcome, we need you. I’ll let him know you’re here.” He opened the inner door. “The medic’s here, sir,”

  “Send him in, please, Millard.�
� Sounded downright friendly. He must be a different man sober.

  Good.

  He was a different man.

  “Grand to meet you. I’m Andrew Barron.” A tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair graying at the temples and wide bright eyes came around the desk holding out his hand.

  Peter took it. “Peter Watson.” A nice firm handshake. Went along with the honest open face and the genuine smile. A nice chap but…“You’re the superintendent here? I was never given a name, but I met someone called…”

  The man shook his head. “You’ve met my assistant, I gather, Jeff Williams?” Peter nodded. “Much as he’d like to, he doesn’t run the place, not while I live and breathe.” He paused. “Aren’t you the chap who saved a bunch of children from the vicarage the other night?”

  “I was on the team that got them out, yes, sir.”

  “Not quite what I heard. Not given to false modesty are you, Mr. Watson?”

  “Not at all, sir. Two of us worked together. I could never have done it without Sergeant Pendragon’s help.”

  “Ah!” Barron smiled. “Pendragon told me about it. He gave me the impression he stood by and watched.”

  Interesting about them knowing each other. “It was teamwork, sir.”

  “I’m all in favor of teamwork. Look, I’ll show you around. You don’t have any staff, I’m afraid. But you’ve a mountain of supplies. Arrived yesterday. The result of six months of Nurse Prewitt’s requests, I suspect. Looks as though they sent half a field hospital. See what you can use. If anything vital is missing, ask Millard for requisition forms and I’ll sign them. No saying when we’ll get it, but I’ll do what I can.”

  Peter followed him out of the hut and they walked side by side down the middle of the camp. As Barron talked, Peter looked around and began to get an idea of the size of the place. “We work round the clock. Mostly women, some live up here—they consider themselves semi-prisoners and envy the ones who live down in Dorking or Leatherhead. I think they both have it hard. It’s dangerous work, the pay is something no man would work for, and they risk injury every day of the week.

  “Mostly our injuries are minor stuff: jammed fingers, twisted ankles because someone ran without looking where they were going, and the usual colds, flu, and headaches. I hope to God we never have a real disaster, and we constantly stress safety.”

  They’d reached a corrugated iron hut, one with CLINIC stenciled on the door.

  “Here you are.” Barron handed him a key. “Keep it locked whenever you’re not there or stuff will grow legs and walk. You’re not here officially until tomorrow. Gives you time to sort out the supplies and get your requisitions in.”

  Peter unlocked the padlock, which looked old enough to date from the Boer War, if not the Crimean. The inside wasn’t a lot better.

  Equipment, yes: boxes of it stacked against the walls. There was also a camp bed behind a screen, and a small desk and a couple of mismatched chairs and a battered filing cabinet.

  “Not too hot, I know,” Barron said, “but hopefully the boxes have supplies you can use. And I’m darn glad you’re here.”

  When he left, with a final handshake and a nod, Peter sat on the better-looking chair and looked around. He had a day to get this straight? He’d need a week and a team of removal men.

  Better get to it. He’d promised to take Alice out tonight.

  Seven hours later he had a semblance of order. Seven long hours punctuated by numerous cups of strong tea and one weak cup of coffee and a lunch in the canteen that was reminiscent of boarding school cuisine. But he had a clinic ready to open for business tomorrow. He’d already treated several headaches, cuts, and one rather nasty gash on a shin that had needed stitches. He was getting ready to lock up and drop the requisition forms off on his way out of the gate when the door opened.

  It was Jeff Williams.

  “You’re here then, Watson?”

  It was better than previous greetings but hardly the essence of conviviality and friendliness. “Good afternoon, Mr. Williams. What can I do for you?”

  “You got something for burns.”

  Peter took it as a question. “You need treatment for a burn?”

  “Not me, someone else. You must have something. You’ve got boxes of stuff here.”

  Yes, he had. “What sort of burn?”

  “On his arm, not bad, but thought with all you’ve got here, you could spare what I need.”

  “I meant, what caused the burn? Is it a worker? I really need to see them first. If it’s a serious burn, we’d best get him to hospital.”

  “For pity’s sake! It’s a pal of mine, not one of the workers. Burned himself last night. All I want is some of that yellow stuff and a bit of bandage. Is that asking too much?”

  No. He could spare a tube of Aquaflavine in the interest of future coexistence. “I’ll get you some, but I really urge you to have him see a doctor.”

  Peter failed to see what was so amusing about that. The smirk on Williams’s face was even nastier than his scowls. But he handed over a tube of ointment and a roll of gauze, and closing the door behind Williams, double-checked the windows, secured the antique padlock, and headed on home.

  The day had cooled, it was a wonderful ride downhill, freewheeling most of the way. Seemed he had a good and reasonable superintendent in Andrew Barron. Alice was waiting and they were going out tonight. Life was good.

  Chapter 29

  Gloria tossed her hat and bag on the table, kicked off her sensible shoes, and plonked herself on the easy chair by the empty fireplace. She really wanted a cup of tea; she was dry as a bone and worn to a frazzle, and would stay that way until she settled her restlessness.

  She knew exactly what was wrong with her and she knew what to do to restore the balance in mind and body, but she had never, ever shifted when she had the curse. Stomachaches and bloating were bad enough in human form, but she did not fancy shifting into a vixen in estrus. The last thing she was in the mood for was an encounter with a randy dog fox.

  When she stopped roaring with laughter at that thought, her spirits had lifted. She was turning into a proper Moaning Minnie. She should darn well count her many blessings and cease this pointless maundering. She had a job in a reserved occupation and was as safe as anyone was these days. She had a roof over her head and a roof to herself now June had moved in with another teacher, in a pleasant village that accepted her. Might be different if anyone suspected she turned furry at intervals and spent nights racing over the Downs and through the woods, but who would ever know? She was ultra careful when shifting and changing back.

  Until a few days ago she’d been as contented as any woman or werefox could ever hope to be.

  What had changed?

  She pondered that as she got up and poured herself a glass of milk from the remainder in the bottle. Might as well drink it. This warm weather, it would be sour by morning.

  Why was she so unsettled?

  It was if there were shifts and ripples in the atmosphere, sending things off kilter. Considering that twice this month German bombers had thought fit to drop their spare bombs on Brytewood on their way home, a little disruption in the atmosphere was hardly surprising.

  But she had to run.

  No doubt about it. And no point in worrying about her physical condition. The mood she was in, if she did encounter an interested dog fox, she’d take his ears off. She should call Alice and mention the outbreak of mumps up on Ranmore, but that could wait until morning.

  Meanwhile, she had to do something productive until night fell. Ironing was surely boring enough to settle her restlessness. At least for a little while.

  Peter made it down to the village in record time. He was a bit late but had time to give himself a wash and brush up and change clothes.

  “Afternoon,” Sergeant Pendragon said as Peter walked in. “How are things up at the place we can’t talk about?”

  “Interesting. They’ve enough medical supplies to service a battlefield. We
could have used some of them the other night when we were measuring out bandages.”

  “That’s always the way. Government has supplies when they want them, the rest of us…” He shrugged.

  “Let’s hope we never need that much. Ever,” Peter said. “Everything fine in the village?”

  “Seems so. We finally got rifles for the Home Guard, but they sent ammunition for officers’ pistols. If anything happens, I swear, we’ll end up using pitchforks.” He shook his head. “I left Major Gregory to deal with it. You’ll be out this evening then?”

  “I’m taking Alice out to dinner. Thought we might go into Leatherhead and eat somewhere and then go to the cinema.” Darn, was he blushing? “I’d be obliged if you’d keep it to yourself. No point in starting talk.”

  “Son, if they see you on the bus together, they’ll have you wedded and bedded within the month. Gossip helps them keep their minds off the major worries.”

  Maybe, but did it have to be about Alice? “I just thought it might be awkward for her.” And him, come to that. But he could cope.

  “She’s used to scrutiny. Half the village thinks she should marry. At one point I think they were taking bets on young Tom Longhurst. But nothing came of it. Then there was another doctor she’d known when she was in medical school, but he didn’t last long.” Was the sergeant trying to warn him or reassure? “The other half want their doctor to be theirs exclusively and without life distractions. Seems to me, though, our good doctor will make up her own mind when she’s ready.”

  Smashing! Was she ready? Only one way to find out. “Know of anywhere good to eat?”

  “Ask Alice, don’t think I’ve eaten there in years. I know a couple of good pubs.”

  He was not taking Alice to a pub for a pork pie and a bag of crisps. “I’ll ask her. Best go and get ready.”