The lights were turned off. The hospital fell quiet and gradually the clamor of hooves and engines outside faded into night. Greyfriars would never be a riotous place in the evening, and tonight most men would be at home with family and friends, coming to grips with the catastrophe that had so suddenly befallen the world. If there was a patriotic rally in progress somewhere, it was being held out of earshot of Albert Memorial.
Completely unable to sleep, he squirmed and fretted in his sweat-soaked bed. Tomorrow he must ask to see the solicitor Mrs. Bodgley had mentioned. Or would that be an admission of guilt? Should he wait until Leatherdale arrived with the warrant? Who could possibly have killed old Bagpipe, and how, and why? Nothing made any sense anymore.
The only certainty was that he had no choice but to stay and face the music. Even if he were able to run, he had no one to run to—except Alice, and he would never impose on her like that. He could never impose on anyone like that. As it was, he could not walk, he had no money or clothes; he would not even be able to pull his trousers on over his splints. If he even had a proper cast on his leg...
Suppose he had shown the photograph to Holy Roly? Suppose Roly had recognized his brother, but his brother thirty years younger than he should be? That would explain his references to devil worship. He had been implying that Cameron, like Dr. Faustus, had sold his soul to the devil in return for eternal youth.
Oh, Lord! That was even madder than keys jumping into pots or murderers going out through locked doors.
He might have been asleep, he was not sure. Sudden light startled him as the door swung wider and a nurse entered, making her rounds. He saw her only as a dark shape. He raised a hand in greeting.
"Not sleeping?” she asked. “Pain?"
"No. Bad news."
"Oh, they'll hold the Germans off until you get there.” She laid an appraising hand on his forehead.
"Not that. Personal bad news."
"I'm sorry. Anything I can do to help?"
"Find me a good solicitor."
She said, “Oh!” as if she had just remembered who he was. “Want me to ask the doctor for a sleeping draft for you?"
He thought about it.
He very nearly said yes.
"No. I'll manage."
"I'll look back later.” She floated away and the room filled again with darkness, except for one thin strip of light along the doorjamb.
He went back to his worries. Eventually a new thought penetrated—the nurse's belated reaction suggested that Leatherdale had removed his watchdog. Perhaps he had been needed for more urgent duties tonight. Marvelous! Now the suspect could tiptoe out of the hospital and run off to Brazil or somewhere. When the nurse came back he'd ask her for a set of crutches.
Again a sudden flowering of light startled him out of semiconsciousness. He blinked at the same dark shape against the brightness. He wondered why she'd removed her cap at the same moment as he registered her long braids and realized that this was no nurse.
"Dvard Kisster?” The voice was husky and heavily accented. It jarred loose an avalanche of memory.
He flailed like a landed fish, half-trying to sit up, half-trying to reach for the bell rope, and the result was that he jolted his leg. It hurled a thunderbolt of pain at him. He yelled.
Then he saw a glint of metal in her hand and screamed at the top of his lungs.
She left the door, coming around on his right. Danger!
He began to yell for help, using the first words that came into his head. “Once more into the breach, dear friends!” Grabbing the nearest weapon, which happened to be the kidney-shaped dish, he continued to shout. “ ... once more; or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace..."
He hurled the dish with all his strength. “ ... so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility ... ” She had not expected his attack and the missile took her full in the face. She stumbled back with a cry; the dish clanged and clattered on the linoleum. “ ... imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews..."
He started to reach for the bell again, but it meant extending himself and would leave him open. He needed that hand for throwing. “ ... hard-favored rage ... ” She flashed toward him, cursing in some foreign tongue and raising her blade. “ ... then lend the eye a terrible aspect ... ” He hurled the water carafe, she flailed it aside; glass crashed. Where was everybody? “ ... like the brass cannon; let the brow ... ” He followed with the tumbler and scored a hit. “ ... galléd rock o'erhang ... ” He was o'erhanging the side of the bed now, earthquakes of agony running through his leg.
She was holding back, watching him, a sinister dark shape. He continued to scream out his speech as loudly as he could: “Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide ... ” He had Bagpipe's book ready. Why, why, was no one coming? “ ... on, you noble English, whose blood ... ” She lunged forward and he hurled Conan Doyle. He thought it hit her, but she laughed, and spoke again in her guttural accent. “What next, Dvard?"
She was right; he was running out of missiles. Why could no one hear him? He had never been louder in his life. “Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war.” She came, fast as an adder. He swung farther to the right as she slashed down at him, flailing his pillow around with his left hand, parrying the blow. But he had almost fallen off the bed, and the jolt on his leg brought a howl to his throat. That was the worst ever—he thought he would faint, and thrust the possibility away. Feathers swirled like smoke. He scrabbled with his right hand and found the empty urinal bottle. “ ... none of you so mean and base ... ” He swung it as a club against her arm as she struck again, wishing it had been weighted with contents. She cried out and dropped the knife on the floor. He tried to grab her dress with his left hand, thinking he might be able to strangle her if he could pull her close, but she slipped away. Oh—his leg again!
His throat was sore with shouting, “I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips ... ” She made a dive to snatch up the knife. He swung the bottle at her head and missed. She came at him again and this time he thought it was all over “ ... straining upon the start. THE GAME'S AFOOT!"
"Desist!” said a new voice in the corner.
The woman spun around with a shriek.
Edward had not seen him come in, but without question this was the same Mr. Oldcastle he had imagined before. Even in his fur-collared overcoat, with his ancient beaver hat set square on his head, he was a small and unimpressive ally. Yet, with one hand pointing his cane at the armed madwoman and the other tucked in his pocket, he was certainly the calmest person present.
"Begone, strumpet! Go lick thy scurvy masters’ boots in penance lest they feed thy carrion carcass to the hounds."
The woman hesitated, then fled out the door without a word. Her footsteps seemed to fade away almost instantly.
The crisis was over.
"Hey!” Edward gasped. “Stop her!"
"Nay, nay, bully lad, it were no profit to deed her to the watch.” Mr. Oldcastle removed his hat and brushed it absently with his sleeve. “That wight has been accorded arts to rook their locks and manacles. Wouldst sooner close a cockatrice in a cockboat than jail yon jade."
"You mean,” Edward said, easing himself back onto the bed, “she can get out through a bolted door?” He was soaked and shaking, his heart seemed to be running the Grand National, jumps and all, but he was alive. He was almost sobbing with the pain, but he was alive.