by Davis Bunn
“I’ve been by the realtor’s office four times this week. We’ve got a list long as your arm of urgent repairs. All we get from Hardy Seade is the royal runaround.” She set the screwdriver onto the bolt and banged the handle with the wrench. The bolt’s covering of rust did not budge. Cecilia reared back, aiming not at the bolt but rather at the snooty Realtor’s nose.
She hammered down, and the bolt broke off clean. “Uh-oh.”
“I told you we should wait, dear.”
“What should I do in the meantime, cook over a fire in the garden?”
It took both hands to pry open the fuse box lid. “I wonder how long it’s been since somebody’s had a look in here.”
“You can hardly blame Mr. Seade for being forced to deal with an absentee landlord.”
“It doesn’t stop him from collecting the rent.” She squinted over the row of cardboard-capped tubes. They looked like a row of shotgun shells. “I think I remember seeing a box of these fuses under the kitchen sink.”
“Let me check.” Arthur tottered over and groaned as he lowered himself to floor level. His knees were severely arthritic, as were his hands and right shoulder. He had what appeared to be the onset of a cataract in his left eye. His liver was damaged from six tours of duty in the tropics and all the related illnesses, and there was every indication that he was beginning to suffer from osteoporosis. Cecilia knew because she had been his doctor since her arrival in Knightsbridge eighteen months earlier. Arthur might be old and increasingly frail, but his mind was sharp, and he was proving to be a genuine friend.
“Here they are. And there’s a fire extinguisher as well.” He returned with both box and extinguisher. “How many do you need?”
“Shine the light over here again, please. Right. There’s one with a burn mark in the middle.”
Arthur set the extinguisher at his feet, fished out a fuse and inspected it doubtfully. “I don’t see a sell-by date.”
“That’s because they probably didn’t know what shelf life was when this was made.” She pried out the charred fuse, then held up the replacement to the light. “I wonder if it makes any difference which way I stick this in.”
“Cecilia, dear, I really think—”
“Never mind.” She gripped the fuse by its cardboard middle and rammed it home.
Instantly there was a huge bam followed by a shower of sparks.
Cecilia shrieked and covered her head. Hazarding a single glance, she cried, “The wall’s on fire!”
“Not for long, it’s not.” Arthur took aim with the extinguisher and hit the trigger. “Stand back!”
A torrent of white foam exploded from the ancient device, drenching the fuse box, the wall, and Cecilia. She hardly noticed. “The wall is still burning!”
A change had come over the old man. Gone was the doddering gentility. The voice was crisp, stern, and twenty years younger. “Take the wrench and break through. No, not there. Higher up. Above the fire line. That’s it. Strike harder.”
The smoke was acrid and burned her eyes and lungs. A bright peak, almost like the burning end of tinder, hissed and smoldered its way slowly up the wall above the fuse box. Cecilia gripped the wrench with both hands, the metal handle made slippery by the foam. She hammered at the wall plaster. A spidery crack appeared about six inches above the burn line. She pounded again.
“That’s it. Once more, now.”
The plaster broke and fell at her feet. Arthur squeezed in beside her, stuck the nozzle directly into the opening, and pulled the trigger. Foam splattered around them both. Arthur pulled back and inspected the smoldering wall. “One more for good measure.”
Cecilia squinted through the white torrent, and when the nozzle was pulled back a second time she asked, “Is it out?”
“Give me the screwdriver.” Arthur set down the extinguisher and pried off another section of plaster. He reached into the wall and levered out a segment of what appeared to be newspaper. “Here’s your problem.”
Cecilia leaned over his hands. “What is it?”
“The London Illustrated News, by the looks of things. They used to wrap copper wiring with newsprint for insulation.”
She felt her anger coming to a boil. “How long ago are we talking here?”
“Oh, I doubt it’s been used much since the thirties. By then they’d figured out how to wrap the wire in rubber.”
She used the wall for balance as she stepped carefully across the foam-slippery floor. “So the wiring in my house hasn’t been touched in seventy years.”
“Longer, I warrant. Probably hasn’t been altered since they went off gas.” Arthur followed her into the kitchen. “My dear, you look a frightful sight.”
Cecilia looked down at herself. Gone were the trousers and sweater she had donned for work. In their place was a dripping cascade of white bubbles. “Is it in my hair?”
“Is it . . .” Arthur was encased in the same foam. A long streamer grew from his chin like an immense white beard. He could not keep the chuckle from his voice as he replied,“Well, perhaps just a little.”
She pushed shut the pantry door. On its back was an old-style mercury mirror, now smoky and cracked with age. Everything about Rose Cottage was ancient. That was one of the things she loved about the place.
Cecilia did not recognize herself, save for the eye opening in her white mask that mirrored the shock she felt. “I look like a walking snow cone.”
Arthur was laughing outright now. “Gladys will be terribly sorry to have missed this little show.”
She raised her wrist but could not see her watch for the foam. “I have to get to the clinic.”
“I’ll clean this up.” Arthur raised one foam-encased arm before she could protest. “It’s all right, dear. I’ve actually rather enjoyed our little experiment in home improvement. When I’m done here, I’ll go put a flea in the ear of our friend Hardy Seade. Mark my word, we’ll have an electrician in this very afternoon.”
“You can have him move this cupboard back when he’s done and save us both the risk of a hernia.” Cecilia started from the kitchen, only to be halted by the view through her front window. Across the leaf-strewn lawn rose the hulking presence of Castle Keep. The two battered suitcases, which she had noticed earlier, were now removed from the curved front portico. She asked, “Have you seen him yet?”
She knew Arthur had moved up beside her because she could hear the foam dripping softly on her flagstone floor. “Not yet. He must have arrived very late.”
“Late is right.” If her anger had generated heat, the foam would have evaporated in a flash. “I can’t wait to meet that guy.”
Arthur warned, “Perhaps a frontal assault is not the best way to endear yourself to your new landlord.”
But Cecilia paid the caution no mind. “Look at him. Couldn’t even bother to take in his own luggage. Was probably expecting one of us to drag it upstairs for him.”
A note of the former commandant returned to Arthur’s voice. “In that case, I would say the gentleman doesn’t have the sense to run a bath, much less an estate of this size.”
Cecilia turned from the window. “I hope he doesn’t ever plan to get sick. Not on my watch.”
Two
DESPITE HER HASTY SHOWER, CECILIA LYONS ARRIVED AT the Knightsbridge clinic still feeling foam in her ears. And her hair. Her left foot squished soggily in her only other good pair of shoes. The back of her right knee tickled, and her fingers still wanted to stick together. But all she could think about was the arrogance of a landlord who waited two years to show up, then left his valises on the front portico, expecting others to step and fetch at his command.
The level of bile was almost enough to carry her straight through the reception area and back into her office. Except for the fact that a large woman in tweeds planted herself in Cecilia’s path and declared, “You’re the new doctor.”
Cecilia disliked tweedy suits primarily because she detested the kind of woman who tended to wear them. “That’s rig
ht.”
“I am Lavinia Winniskill, chairwoman of the Keep Knightsbridge Peaceful Committee.”
“This must be about the bells,” Cecilia guessed.
“Exactly.” She waved an impatient hand toward Maureen, the clinic’s receptionist and secretary. “I have tried to explain to this person here just how vital it is I speak with the head of your clinic. This matter is not only urgent, it is imperative.”
Cecilia took aim at the woman’s third button and struggled to hold her voice level. Because she was small and fine-boned, certain people tended to think Cecilia could be pushed around. “This is a medical clinic,” she replied. “Our sole purpose is to serve the ill of Knightsbridge.”
“Which is precisely why I must speak to your director! You of all people must know how vital it is to have peace and quiet here in the heart of our village. Not to have the bells of seven different churches ring every hour of the night and day!”
Cecilia’s glance was enough for Maureen to offer, “Dr. Riles has minor surgery this morning.”
“Well!” Lavinia huffed. “Whatever else the matter of our bells might be, it is not minor.”
“Minor surgery means anything that can be taken care of in the clinic,” Cecilia explained. Like sewing a certain pair of lips shut, she thought.
The explanation was waved impatiently aside. Lavinia Winniskill took a step closer, so as to tower over Cecilia. “Now, you look here. I realize from your accent that you are an American interloper. But if you are to make yourself an acceptable member of our society, you must understand that certain issues and certain people require special consideration. Which means—”
“Please leave the clinic.”
“—that I have every intention of being shown into . . .” The mouth continued working, although the mind had finally been snagged by Cecilia’s quiet words. “I beg your pardon?”
“We don’t have time for the bells around here; we’re too busy trying to help the ill and suffering.” Cecilia kept her voice calm, her gaze unflinching. “So the next time you come in here, I will expect your moaning to be medically related.”
“Now, see here!” But something in Cecilia’s gaze caused Lavinia Winniskill to turn and move for the door. From a safer distance she turned and declared, “You have most certainly not heard the last of this!”
As soon as the door closed behind her tweedy back, one of the elderly patients declared to his neighbor, “Now, that was better than a poultice on a boil.”
Cecilia turned from the door and the patients, only to see Maureen raise her hands and applaud silently. All Cecilia said was, “Give me a minute.”
But scarcely had she entered her office when Maureen appeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry, dear, but Angeline Townsend is on the phone,” Maureen said.
“Not today,” Cecilia groaned. “Not now.”
Maureen handed over an envelope from the lab they commonly used for clinical testing. “This just came in. Should I have her call back?”
“No. No. I need to take it.” Cecilia shrugged off her jacket and let it slip to the floor. When the phone rang, she picked up the receiver and said, “Don’t tell me. There’s still no change.”
“Tommy’s no better, I’m afraid. The medicine hasn’t helped a bit.”
Tommy Townsend was a four-year-old patient whose symptoms had baffled Cecilia for almost two months. And despite her best efforts and twice-weekly consultations, the child was not getting any better. Cecilia gave her head a vigorous scratch and felt her finger come away sticky. “You’d better bring him in again, then.”
“I’ve already asked. All your appointments are taken today.”
“I’ll make time. And I want Dr. Riles to have a look at him. Come in just before lunch. He’s doing minor ops until then.”
“All right.” Angeline’s voice held all the quiet desperation of a worried mother. “Did you get the lab results back?”
“Just this morning.” Cecilia slit open the envelope, read the results, and sighed, “Inconclusive again, I’m afraid.” She hesitated, then added, “It might be a good idea to move Tommy into Reading.”
Reading was the closest major city. And the nearest major hospital. Clearly the mother had been thinking the same thing, for all she said was, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Cecilia dropped into her seat, wishing she could dash back home for another shower and a nap. There was a knock on her door, and Maureen poked her head in. Cecilia told her, “It’s not even nine o’clock, and I’m already exhausted.”
But the clinic’s chief assistant was beaming. “I’ve got just the remedy for what ails you.”
“What are you talking about?”
The smile grew grander still. “You won’t believe who just sauntered in.”
Cecilia started to snap that she was in no mood for guessing games, when it hit her. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Suffering from a tummy ache, he is. And wanting to see a doctor.”
Cecilia leaned back in her seat, just as the day’s first ray of sunshine rose above the neighboring roofline and lanced through her window. “Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t keep the fellow waiting.”
Maureen’s eyes glittered with the effort of holding in her laughter. “Somehow I thought you’d be saying that.”
The village clinic was housed two streets off the central market, in a stone cottage as old as the rest of Knightsbridge. Thankfully, the renovators had thought to lower the original floor, which meant Brian was able to stand upright and not strike his head on the ceiling beams. He stood by the central counter, filling out a sheaf of forms.
At the point where he was asked to give his last address, he hesitated, then wrote out, “Central Hospital, Colombo, Sri Lanka.” A five-week stay seemed enough to qualify it as an abode. From the sound of things, it was several weeks longer than he would have here.
The receptionist took the completed forms and gave him another queer look before directing him to take a seat. Brian crossed the broad plank flooring and sighed gratefully, seating himself on the wall bench. He took in the scene about him. The morning’s early gloom was gradually burning off. Sunlight fell through the lead-paned windows to cast people and chamber alike in tones of ruddy gold. Everyone seemed to know one another and their complaints. The talk was easy and low, the comforting sound of folks who had lived in one another’s pockets for so long they knew what would be said long before mouths opened. Glances were tossed his way, which only seemed to echo the refrain running through his brain. He did not belong here, and never would. That was scarcely tragic, seeing as how the matter had already been taken from his hands.
Six hundred and thirty thousand pounds, the realtor had said. One million, one hundred thousand dollars. Brian leaned back in his seat. The bench was high-backed, extremely uncomfortable, but he had sat on far worse. Nothing could compare to the third-class wagon of a Malaysian train for discomfort. His backside still bore lumps from a two-day run to Kuala Lumpur. Brian made himself as comfortable as possible and gave in to the sense of defeat. Six hundred thousand pounds. He would be hard-pressed to come up with even six hundred dollars. No matter what promise he might have made to his wife, Castle Keep was lost almost before it was found.
“Mr. Blackstone?” The receptionist stood in the middle of the chamber and beamed at him. “Dr. Lyons will see you now.”
Every eye in the room seemed to track his progress. In the sudden silence his voice seemed to echo. “Most of these people were here before me. I don’t mind waiting my turn.”
“You just go right on down the hall there.” The woman seemed hard put not to laugh out loud. “Dr. Lyons’s office is the second door on your left.”
Brian had the distinct impression that several others in the waiting room shared the receptionist’s humor. As he started down the hallway, he heard an old man wheeze, “I’d give me good arm to be a fly on that wall.”
The doctor’s office was surprisingly large, the doctor hersel
f surprisingly small. It was hard to tell her height, as she did not rise from her seat. But the oversized desk and antique swivel chair left her looking like a dark-haired child playing in an adult’s seat. “Yes?”
“Dr. Lyons?”
“That’s right. Come sit down.”
Brian did as he was told. “Are you American?”
“Father. Mother’s British.” The accent was as clipped as the words, the tone utterly flat. The dark eyes were bright, the features slightly off-kilter. The nose tilted upward, the lips much too full for such a fine-boned face. Her head was cocked at a funny angle, and the short raven hair was pushed impatiently back behind her ears. “What seems to be the matter?”
Her abrupt attitude brought back memories of all the bad doctors he had suffered through to get here. Which was why he fished in his pocket and said merely, “I need to get a refill for a prescription.”
She accepted the vial, read the label, and demanded, “Where did you get this?”
“Sri Lanka.”
“I’m afraid, Mr.—”
“Blackstone.”
“We do not automatically accept diagnoses and prescriptions from other countries.” She set down the vial and cocked her head once more in his direction. “This is for a very strong antibiotic.”
“That’s because I was very ill. I had either food poisoning or dysentery, I’m not sure which, and neither were the doctors.”
“I see.” She seemed neither impressed nor all that concerned. “What are your symptoms now?”
“About what you’d expect.” He had met a couple of American doctors who had lost their license to practice in the United States and fled to places that were only too glad to have medical care, no matter how questionable their abilities. He had just never expected to find one in Britain. “Weak, shaky, still a little fever.”
“Any nausea or abdominal pain?”
“Not for the past couple of days.”