Dead of Winter - James Goss [4]
‘Institute?’ One of the men blinked. ‘Is this a hospital or a hotel?’
‘A little of both.’ I laughed. ‘My name is Dr Bloom.’
The man shook my hand wildly. ‘And I am Doctor…’ He paused, and his face creased. ‘Oh dear,’ he sighed. ‘Well, perhaps just “Doctor” for the moment. I’m sure the rest will come back to me.’
I arched an eyebrow. ‘You are also a medical man?’
He nodded. ‘Well, I think so… It’s all a little hazy…’
I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve spent a difficult night on the beach. The weather is inclement for it. The icy fingers of winter grip even the Côte d’Azure.’
‘Ah,’ said this Doctor, and for a moment he looked as though he had no idea where he was. He muttered something to himself. It sounded like ‘Warp transfer coil.’ These Ros-Bifs!
His colleague – about the same height but with more authority – stepped forward. ‘Along the shores of France and Italy. Lovely spot,’ he pronounced. The English do so pronounce! ‘I’m Mr Pond. Well, at least I think I am.’ He smiled bashfully. ‘Yes. I rather think we’ve had a bit of an accident with our transport. Quite an accident.’ He paused, repeating the last word a couple of times, trying it out for size and then throwing it away as though it didn’t quite fit. He shrugged. ‘Anyway, we’re here, you’re Dr Bloom and I’m sure dear Amy – fairly sure she’s my wife, by the way – will be more than glad of whatever help you can offer her.’
He stopped, all of a sudden, as if this was more words than he’d ever said before in his life. His friend, Dr Whatever, coughed. ‘Well, there we are then. Perhaps we could borrow some clothes while these things dry?’
I looked at their clothes. They seemed… actually quite remarkable.
He caught my eye, and smiled. ‘Travelling gear. You know how it is. Trying to be comfortable rather than presentable.’
The fool stuck his hands in his pockets with a wet squelching sound and tried to look dignified.
I smiled at him weakly. ‘Well, of course. Of course, only too delighted to offer you hospitality. I shall find a room for Madame Pond and then my wife will fetch you some fresh clothes.’
Within minutes, my dear Perdita had arrived, the model of soothing efficiency. She conveyed the poor invalid girl to a room, the men were packed off to a warm fire and some baggy spare clothes, and I was left staring out of the window, down the rocks to the beach wondering what it all meant. Had they really come here by accident?
I didn’t hear her come in, but dear Perdita was suddenly back at my side. She wrapped her hand around mine and then settled her chin on my shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry, my dear,’ she said, smiling up at me. ‘I’ve taken care of them. It will all be fine.’
‘Really?’ I squeezed her hand and she squeezed it back. ‘I’m just worried, that’s all.’
‘Of course you are,’ her laugh was so tinkling it could make light of the worst disaster. ‘Of course you are. But you’re a brilliant man. You’ve done wonderful things. This is… this is simply an inconvenience.’
‘How inconvenient.’ I rolled the last word, exaggerating my slight Germanic accent until she smiled. Perdita has the most beautiful smile. ‘Years of work have gone into this place. Untold effort. We are so nearly at the finishing line. You know what? In all those years of effort, I’ve never been scared. Three strangers turn up, and suddenly… suddenly I’m worried.’
We both stood at the window, holding hands and looking down at The Sea.
A Letter from Maria
St Christophe
5th December 1783
Dearest Mother and the Puppies and ALL the Horses,
We have strangers and they are ever so, ever so EXCITING! Today I met Monsieur and Madame Pond. They’re staying here – their coach came off the road nearby,