I thought of some suggestions, but I guessed this was a rhetorical question. She snorted into a handkerchief.
'I had no choice but leave him and get what work I could. I told everyone I was a widow. I was a widow, really.'
'Except for your husband being alive.'
'I got to thinking he really was dead. It was easier, you see.' She patted her eyes on her sleeve. 'Is the kettle boiling? We shouldn't keep the doctor waiting.'
'Could you lend me something dry to wear? I'm wet through.'
She sniffed damply. 'I suppose so.'
With her help, I selected a few items of her clothing that might fit me well enough. Not exactly flattering, but a big improvement over my current situation. I changed while she sorted out the water. To my surprise, I felt sorry for her. Amazing what some tears, a small act of kindness, and dry clothes can do. I transferred the roll of tape to my new pocket, intending to give it back to Jones when he recovered.
Back in Langstone’s bedroom, Jones still lay unmoving on the bed. Enfield sat in a chair in the corner, brooding. Langstone was not there.
'What's happening?' I said.
Langstone appeared in the doorway, carrying tubing and a glass flask half-full of a clear liquid. He crossed to Enfield.
'Hold out your arm.'
'What are you doing?' My heart went cold.
'Mr Enfield has volunteered to supply some blood to help our friend here. There's no cause for alarm.' Langstone tied a strap around Enfield’s bared upper arm.
'It's fine,’ Enfield said, seeing my shock. ‘I've done it before, it's nothing, really.'
I went to his side. My heart thumped as Langstone slid the needle into Enfield’s vein. His calm expression was not at all reassuring. Enfield clenched and unclenched his fist and I watched, hypnotised, as his blood pulsed into the flask, turning the clear liquid crimson.
'That should be sufficient.' Langstone whipped out the needle, pressing a cotton swab to the small wound. 'Hold that, will you, Miss Wright?'
I reached across Enfield to hold the swab in place. Langstone took the sloshing bottle of blood over to his patient. Mrs Jones sat on the end of the bed, watching as Langstone fed a needle into her husband’s arm.
'The technique was perfected in the Great War,' Langstone said, as the collected blood dripped into Jones. 'Advances in medicine are often associated with war. All those casualties to practice on. Ironic, isn't it?'
'It's rather horrid. But I'm glad if he can be helped.'
'He's a lucky man. If Mr Enfield didn't happen to have the right blood group, I don't know if he would have survived the night.'
'I'm pleased I was able to do something for him,' Enfield said. 'I feel rather responsible. It was the damn plants. If Miss Wright hadn't been with him, he would have died out there.'
'I don't think you need to feel too guilty. I suspect his condition is exacerbated by an underlying weakness of constitution. But we've done what we can for him, and he has a good chance of survival now.'
'Oh, Doctor, thank you.' Mrs Jones seized Langstone's hand. 'I wouldn't want him to die.'
Langstone disentangled himself. 'Miss Wright, would you help me put this equipment away?'
Uncertainly, I accepted the items he placed in my hands.
Enfield made to rise. 'I can help with that.'
'You should remain seated for the time being. I'm sure Miss Wright can manage without you.'
I smiled at him. I didn't know what Langstone was up to, but it hardly seemed likely he planned any harm to me with Enfield and Mrs Jones in the next room. I followed him out of the bedroom and into the lab next door. By the light of the flaring gas burners, I put the equipment down where he indicated.
'It was fortunate for Mr Jones you turned back, but I'm surprised you did. Why?'
I stepped back towards the open door. 'You have no right to fire me. Mr Bentley gave me the job. It's for him to decide if I go.'
Langstone nodded. 'You're quite right. And I should apologise. I did ask Mrs Jones to watch you, and to search your room for the notebook. Which was within my right to do, but it was ungentlemanly behaviour and I can understand you might be angry.'
'Yes. Very angry.'
'On reflection, the situation could have been handled more gracefully. You know the subject of my research?'
'Not everything. The red seaweed -- you are extracting a drug from it.'
'You ought to know the whole truth.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
'THE OLD VICAR was taking some herbal mixture prepared by one of the villagers. The Professor, of course, advised him not to, but the stuff was remarkably effective. Naturally, the Professor wanted to know what was in it.'
'Did Alice Mudd tell him?'
'Oh, you know about the witch? I suppose she must have told him, yes. The next thing I knew he was trying to extract the active compounds from the seaweed. I told him to be careful with the stuff, but he was determined. He could be stubborn when he made up his mind.'
'What happened then? Did he try it on himself?'
'Finding the right method for processing the seaweed took weeks. He tried the various extracts on animals, but many of the early attempts were fatal. My practice kept me away a great deal at the time. When I next visited, he seemed to have made a breakthrough. He was more excited than I had ever seen him.'
He looked at me as if judging my reaction. 'I was worried for him. His heart wasn't strong, and I feared he’d begun taking the stuff himself. Although his health had improved markedly. It was almost as if he was growing younger before my eyes. It was clear he had discovered a drug of truly amazing potential, but he was secretive about the details of the process.
I watched him carefully. The side effects became obvious. He said he was working on perfecting the drug. I advised him to stop, to hand his research over to others, but he wouldn't listen. He began to hide what he was doing. His behaviour changed in other ways too. He was unpredictable, nervous, insomniac. Often he worked through the night.
When he was found dead, drowned on the seashore, I was devastated. He was my friend as well as my patient. I should have done more, though he wasn’t an easy man to help.'
'Why did you start working with the seaweed, when you had tried to persuade him to stop?'
He hunched over the workbench, not meeting my eyes. 'I struggled with the temptation for weeks. A drug to reverse ageing, to restore the vigour of youth – imagine the good that could be done, the lives saved. The Professor had been so close. There were only a few side effects, and he wasn't a trained doctor, just a self-taught compounder of cough medicine. Surely, I could improve on what he had started.'
'But you didn't have his notes?'
'He was very secretive, towards the end. The more I argued with him, the more he hid what he was doing. I wasted months repeating experiments he must have done. Of course, I tested on animals to begin with.' He gestured towards the animal cages at the back of the lab. Little red eyes gleamed in the dim light. 'But there's only so much you can do in that way. In the end, I had to choose whether to let others into the secret, or test the drug on myself.'
'And you did test it on yourself.'
'I don't regret my decision. This drug is a greater discovery than penicillin. I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.'
'Really?'
'How old do you think I am, Miss Wright?'
I considered him for a moment, his smooth, milk-white skin, hair without a trace of grey, clear blue eyes. Old eyes in a young face. 'Thirty-five?'
He chuckled mirthlessly. 'I am fifty-four years old. Fifty-four. Now do you understand? What are a few side effects, compared to that? I'd like you to assist me, Miss Wright. I can't continue to develop the drug myself. It needs to be manufactured, trialled, brought to market. Work with me.'
He stepped towards me, reaching out for my hand, but I edged away.
'This drug will change the world. And we can own that. The Professor made a fortune from cough medicine. Only imagin
e what we can do with this.'
'I, I'm not sure. I need to think about it.' I backed towards the door.
'I understand it's rather a lot to take in. We can discuss it tomorrow when you've had a chance to rest.'
I slipped out onto the landing. My hands were trembling.
In the bedroom, Enfield still sat in the corner, watching Mrs Jones attend her husband. The patient remained unconscious though his colour seemed better.
'Everything all right?' Enfield smiled at me as I approached him. 'You should sit down, you look all in.'
I drew a chair up beside him. Despite my tiredness, my brain continued to work almost against my will, processing Langstone’s story. I wasn't sure how much I should believe. Parts seemed true though, and the rest plausible. The new information slotted into the puzzle, firing off new implications like fireworks.
Hack had wanted a photograph of Langstone, said he needed it for his big story. I caught my breath. Of course, Hack would have looked into Langstone’s background, found out his date of birth, his previous career. No wonder he’d been shocked when he first saw him. He must have thought him an imposter. If he’d only told me. Or if I’d had the sense to do the same research.
A few minutes later, Langstone slouched in with his hands in his pockets. He hummed a cheery tune to himself as took his patient’s pulse.
'How is he, Doctor?' Mrs Jones looked to Langstone pleadingly.
'It's too early to say, but he's no worse.'
Her face fell.
'Why don't you fetch us some tea? It's better to keep busy, I always think. And Mr Enfield should really drink something.'
Langstone stayed by his patient, apparently deep in thought, until she returned with the tea tray.
'Here, let me.' He jumped up and took the tray from her, setting it down on the end of the bed. 'Sweet tea is the best thing, when you've given blood. And for you too, Miss Wright. You've had a strenuous evening.'
Tea cups rattled in saucers as he passed them out. I cradled the cup in my hands, watching the fragrant steam rise. After everything that had happened, it was hard to comprehend that the world could still contain tea, or anything ordinary and safe. Enfield gulped his tea dutifully. I sipped a little. It really was very sweet, too sweet for my taste.
'You two should rest. And you of course, Mrs Jones. There’s nothing more you can do tonight. I'll keep an eye on your husband.'
I yawned. My over-tired muscles ached. It was increasingly hard to move. Sleep in a warm bed seemed very attractive. I put the full tea cup on the floor.
'Are you sure, Doctor? I don’t mind sitting with him,’ Mrs Jones said.
'You've had a shock, and you shouldn't risk your own health. Go back to bed. I’ll let you know if there's any change.'
Mrs Jones collected the tea things and left, with a parting glance for her husband. Or possibly Langstone, it was hard to say.
'You look tired, Miss Wright. Feeling sleepy?' Langstone said.
I stifled a yawn. Enfield dozed in his chair, his head nodding. I nudged his shoulder. 'Mr Enfield?' His head lolled to his chest. I shook him harder. ‘Enfield, wake up.'
Langstone rose and strolled around the bed. 'You won’t wake him.'
I moved away from him. 'What? Why?'
'It's a shame you didn't drink the tea. I'm afraid this may be rather distressing for you. I really regret the necessity of killing you, you know. I was starting to rather like you.'
I backed behind Enfield’s chair. 'What do you mean?'
'You know far too much. What stops you from running off and telling people about the seaweed? And then, what becomes of my great discovery?'
'I won't tell anyone. I don't care about the drug. Let me leave with Enfield. We won't say anything.'
'If only I could believe that. I would much prefer not to have to kill you, but if it must be done, the flood is so convenient. Your bodies will be found when the waters recede, and who can say it wasn't an accident? Even if you are a little... torn up, it hardly matters. The little fishes and crabs must have their due, you know.'
'You're mad.' I circled away from his slow advance. A quick glance confirmed Enfield was still fast asleep.
'Not at all. I don't think I've ever been saner.'
'I'll scream. Mrs Jones--'
'Has already returned to her rooms, and won't hear a thing. And if she does, don't you think I can explain? Who do you think she'll believe? If you come quietly, I can make it painless and easy for you. Or not. It's up to you.'
'There's just one problem with your plan,’ I said. My outstretched hand found the smooth brass handle of the oil lamp.
‘Oh? What?'
I threw the lamp at him, dodged his clumsy grab, and scrambled out of the bedroom door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I DIVED INTO the lab and slammed the door behind me. Frantically, I felt for the bolt. The handle turned. I threw my weight against the door to keep it closed, and my hand found the bolt and pushed it home.
The door rattled.
‘Don’t be a fool. Do you think I can’t break this down?’
I backed away from the door. There was no other exit from the lab, save the window. I looked around for anything resembling a weapon. The flames of the gas burners gave enough light to make out the glass bottles on the shelves, contents black and grey, neat labels unreadable. The animals in their cages rustled and squeaked, tiny eyes shining red. On the workbench, liquid still bubbled through glass tubes. By the sink, a large glass jar half full of clear liquid.
Thump.
The door jumped in its frame, and so did I. I didn’t have long. What could I do?
It was hard to believe I really might die, that he meant to take my life. I had never faced violence at the hands of another human being. But I wasn’t going to lay down and die. Something cold and hard woke inside me. Whatever happened, I would do my best to make him regret it for what remained of his miserable little life.
The door crashed open. He stepped inside.
'I did tell you.' He moved towards me, hands stretched out to grab and hold.
I backed away. My back touched a hard metal edge. I reached behind me, gripped the smooth cool steel and flung the animal cage at him. It hit his leg and bounced on the floor. He side-stepped, startled. A piebald guinea pig scuttled for freedom. I followed up with another cage.
'This is childish. How long do you think you can keep this up?' He stood between me and the door.
'Long enough, old man.'
He bared his teeth. I grabbed a bottle from the shelf and threw it at him. He fended it off with his arm. The bottle smashed on the floor, filling the room with the smell of ammonia. I edged along the workbench, moving left, towards the sink. He remained where he was, turning on the spot to face me.
I snatched up a retort stand. Long, and metal, but not much of a weapon. I jabbed it at him. He seized the end and pulled, forcing me to release it. Grinning, he flung it to the floor. But now I had reached my goal, the sink. I picked up the large jar in both hands. His face hardened, giving me a split second warning as he lunged towards me. I threw the jar. He spun away as the glass shattered. Liquid splattered over him. Sulphuric acid fumes stung my eyes. He grimaced, wincing as the acid reached his skin. His trousers smoked.
'That's going to hurt,' I said. 'Better wash.'
He hissed in irritation and leaped towards me. As I dodged, my foot struck one of the animal cages on the floor. With a high-pitched squeal, a guinea pig ran out of the cage straight at Langstone, and bit his ankle.
'Ow!' Hopping on one leg, he tore at the little animal.
Exalted with adrenaline, I slipped past him, out of the door, and fled down the landing to the stairs. I couldn’t see the steps but ran regardless, my hand sliding on the smooth-polished banister. The floor took me by surprise. I stumbled and nearly fell on the wet tiles. Getting my bearings, I slid across the hall to where the side table should be. A painful collision with solid mahogany told me I’d found it,
and I fumbled for the telephone.
I grabbed the earpiece, jiggled the cradle with desperate fingers. Footsteps on the stairs. No answer. The telephone operator in Up Uggley didn't work at night. I dropped the useless telephone and felt my way round the table to the familiar door of the library. Behind the door I waited, heart thumping, my breathing ragged.
Footsteps crossing the hall, coming closer.
A weapon. Anything better than nothing. A few steps took me to the round table where I had spent so many hours. I seized the typewriter. It was steel and heavy. I don’t know if the pen is mightier than the sword, but a solid lump of metal applied to the head with sufficient force will slow anyone down. His footsteps stopped outside. I heard his breathing.
‘Where are you hiding?’ His tone was playful.
I stepped behind the door again. It opened silently, touching my shoulder. Langstone entered the room, a darker shadow in darkness. Instinct told me to stay still, to hide, to be small and silent. My muscles tensed like drawn wire. I had to move. If I didn’t, I would miss whatever small chance I had. I swung the typewriter with all my strength.
‘Ah!’ He stumbled.
I hadn’t hit him squarely, but there was no time to waste. I dropped the typewriter and ran for the front door. In the blackness, I fumbled for the handle. He was on me again before I could react, crowding me against the solid wood of the door. His hand grabbed my wrist and twisted. I was helpless as he pinioned my other hand. His breath was hot on my face.
'I gave you the choice. You had to be clever, didn't you? I was going to make this easy for you, but now I have some better ideas.' He gripped my two wrists in one hand, crushingly tight. 'Ready for a walk?'
The wind snatched the front door from him and flung it open. Waves lapped against the top step of the porch. He waded out into the howling darkness, dragging me with him. Cold liquid rose to my waist, sucking the warmth from my body. A strong current partnered with the gale, pulling me always to the right. With his longer legs he was better able to fight the flood. I could do nothing but try to keep my feet as he hauled me along, helpless as the tree branches and planks whirling past on the black water.
Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute Page 17