Dead of Winter - James Goss [10]
‘That entirely depends on what you mean,’ I checked him coldly. ‘If you refer to any beach, ever, then I must avow that I have visited several. If you mean the beach outside this very window, then I must sadly answer in the negative.’
‘Good,’ said the man.
‘May I enquire why you ask me?’ I kept my voice as frosty as a chapel pew on Whitsun.
‘I really don’t think it’s safe,’ ventured Dr Smith.
‘Is that your medical opinion?’ I asked him. ‘For I am very much inclined to agree. I rather think that all this fresh air is tommyrot. There’s nothing wrong with my lungs that can’t be knocked out with a pint of porter and a good old clay pipe.’
Dr Smith widened his eyes like all medical men whenever anything other than stale bread and gruel is suggested. ‘Ah, um, I would rather… What I meant was that I don’t think the beach itself is safe…’ he said. ‘It is not… I think it’s very unusual.’
‘Explain,’ I commanded.
‘It’s kind of difficult… But there are… people dancing…’
‘Dancing?’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Some dreadful local custom.’
‘And there is a fog.’ He sounded deadly serious for a moment. ‘It talks.’ He looked green as he said it, as though aware of the madness of his words even as they fell out of his mouth.
‘Talks?’
Dr Smith nodded glumly. ‘I know how that sounds.’
‘Sirrah, do you not think it may perchance be the dancers who talk?’
‘Nope, it’s the mist.’ His face was a picture of wretchedness. If he was one of my constituents back at home, I would gladly have had him horsewhipped on the spot, but, as he was a fellow guest at this establishment, I afforded him the courtesy of simply asking him to pass me the jam. Reluctantly he did so.
A stony silence ensued as I attacked the pastry, which was so brittle that it splintered everywhere.
‘So, er… Listen,’ Dr Smith resumed. ‘I am certain that something is happening on that beach. Something very wrong. Please, if you have not been down there – stay away.’
I fixed him with a gimlet glare that has had hardened poachers trembling. ‘I will take that under advisement. Good day to you, sir.’
He took the hint, stood up, and went off to ruin someone else’s day.
A few minutes later, the proprietor’s wife hovered over me. She’s as plump and jolly as a barmaid, but not bad looking in a severe Fraulein way.
‘Did you enjoy your breakfast, Mr Nevil?’ she asked, and didn’t even wait for my damning reply. ‘If you have settled in, may I suggest you begin your fresh air treatment? There is a lovely seat waiting for you on the beach…’
I held up a firm hand. ‘Not today, Madam. I do not care for it.’
Fingers as soft as a peach landed on my sleeve. ‘Perhaps, Mr Nevil, you would care to try it just for a moment…’
‘Madam,’ I snapped, ‘the only thing I would care for is a proper meal. Can you provide one? If not, I recommend you shepherd the rest of your flock down to your precious beach. I shall remain here and dream of bacon and eggs.’
She eventually scurried away, and I finally had some peace for the rest of the day. I have used it to call for a pen and paper and to write this missive to you. I am called in for dinner now, and I fear it will be as odious a meal as can be imagined.
So far, Octavius, consider yourself warned – this place does not live up to expectations and merely appears a dull fraud. I bid you good evening.
Your faithful servant,
Henry Nevil
Dr Bloom’s Journal
5th December 1783
Charm! Charm! Charm!
Put on a good face and soothe the opposition! That’s always been my motto. So the easiest thing to do was to invite the wretched Dr Smith for dinner.
I met him at the door, all wreathed in smiles. ‘Come in, Dr Smith, sit down, sit down!’
‘Dr Bloom.’
‘Dr Smith.’
We bowed, courteous. I’d arranged my private dining room very nicely. A merry little fire crackled away, and a tree tapping away at the window was the only indication of the storm raging outside. Dr Smith paused, about to take his seat, and then curtsied elaborately to Maria who was scampering around our feet.
‘Good evening, Mademoiselle.