Doctor Who_ Wolfsbane - Jac Rayner [9]
„Cousin George is not yet home,‟ replied the younger woman. „It will be a terrible shock to him. But perhaps he will have heard in the village.‟
„George will be fine,‟ said Lady Hester. „And I insist you stay with us, Lieutenant. Now, I am sure you could do with some breakfast after your hard night‟s work.‟ She gestured at a sideboard packed with enough dishes for a dinner party.
After lifting a few lids, Harry managed to locate some bacon and eggs, and took a seat at the table. Lady Hester had been reading a newspaper, and he struggled to see the date without making it too obvious, or having to twist his neck into too strange an angle. „Baldwin to talk to cabinet.
Morganatic marriage proposed‟ read the headline.
He didn‟t succeed in hiding his interest. „Shocking, is it not?‟ said the younger lady, not looking shocked at all. „I do not believe your cabinet will agree, however. On the continent, perhaps, morganatic marriages can be accepted, in England, no.‟
Harry struggled to remember his history. Geography had always been more his subject. Just before the war, wasn‟t it, the abdication crisis? All that talk about Edward and Wallis having been Nazi sympathisers. But Chamberlain had been Prime Minister when war broke out, not Baldwin, so it wasn‟t as close as all that. No, he couldn‟t get it any nearer.
„I expect you‟re right,‟ he replied. „Not really the British thing.‟ Mustn‟t show he knew what was to come. Mustn‟t mention abdication, or new king, or war.
The young lady smiled at him. „You must forgive me, I did not introduce myself. My name is Emmeline Neuberger. I am cousin to Lady Hester, who has been good enough to provide me with a home.‟ (Knowing the approximate era made her obvious nationality seem sinister. Little did these people know what was soon to come...)
„Nonsense, Emmy, you‟re a pleasure to have around the place,‟ said Lady Hester, rising to her feet. „Now, you must excuse me, lieutenant Sullivan. I -‟
Harry had no chance to excuse the lady. She was cut off by the banging of the front door, followed by a sort of strangled hysterical breathing from the hall. „George!‟ she cried, and hurried out. In the split second of confusion, Harry grabbed a glance at the newspaper before, with Emmeline, following Lady Hester.
It was Friday 27 November 1936.
George Stanton - for that was presumably who it was - was in a fearful state. He was rather a weasel-faced fellow, with not much of a chin and an unfortunate moustache, but it was not these things that caused those present to observe him with distress. His mousy hair was sticking up on end, with leaves and bits of twig caught up in it. His overcoat was ripped, and trickles of blood had dried on his cheeks.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he raised his hands to his face, showing the backs to be scratched and the nails clogged with mud. He whooped in a few more gasps of breath, then announced in a high-pitched, barely controlled voice: „I was attacked by a tree!‟
The inn was called the Rose and Crown, a fine old English name, as the Doctor informed the landlord before booming out his request for a pint of ginger ale, a glass of red, and two rooms. Sarah wasn‟t sure if they had ginger ale in the thirties
- no reason why not, she supposed, although possibly it wasn‟t much called for in rural pubs where the main bill of fare would be ale and lunchtime bread and cheese. But the landlord didn‟t comment, and the Doctor drank down whatever it was in his pint-pot, so it didn‟t really matter. Her wine came out of a suspiciously dusty bottle - not dusty in the way of fine old port, but dusty in the way of shoved at the back of a cupboard for a year. She sipped it, and when she remembered to concentrate on the taste found it to be sharp and unpleasant.
Nobody would