Saskia said, ‘Ms Schild, I need to recover any items that were in the possession of my sister.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Ms Schild. ‘Your lip is split. I did that trying to wake you.’
Saskia put her hand to her lip. She exchanged a look with Gaus, who was sitting against a copper radiator near the doorway.
‘Ms… Tucholsky, is it?’ asked Ms Schild. She appeared to make the decision that she would not be afraid, and Saskia smiled inwardly at her courage.
‘Yes,’ Saskia said.
‘Let me be candid. Your treatment in our surgery was not successful. A grievous injury to your femoral artery led to significant blood loss. Your breathing stopped. You had no central pulse on palpation, and no heart sounds.’ She forced a smile. ‘I washed the blood from your body. I find the fact of your survival to be incredible. That being so, I insist that you permit me to examine you.’
Saskia made a play of being found out. With a deep breath, she said, ‘You’re correct. I am the Ms Tucholsky you treated earlier today. I told you the story about being a twin because few people believe me when I tell them my history of cataleptic trances. They are precipitated by shock. There’s even a story that my great-grandfather was once interred prematurely.’ She studied Ms Schild’s expression and decided to draw her out. ‘But this is well known to the friends who brought me to the surgery. I’m surprised they didn’t mention it.’
‘Your friends?’ asked Ms Schild. She looked confused. ‘It was Count Nakhimov and his driver who brought you. You were attacked in an alleyway near the old theatre. They saw the incident and brought you here immediately, as the Count has had a long association with Dr Vetsch. The Count claimed that he had never met you before. He had only your business card to know your name.’
Saskia was surprised to hear of Count Nakhimov, the Bolshevik-Tsarist double-agent with whom she had consulted in Zurich when attempting to trace the lost roubles of the Yerevan Square Expropriation. She did not believe the story about being attacked in an alleyway. Certainly, she had been attacked; but not in the street, she was sure. Her strength and speed tended to place her beyond harm at close-quarters fighting. Her wound had the signature of a betrayal.
Saskia wanted her belongings, starting with the photograph. She considered threatening Schild, but Saskia respected and liked what she had seen of her so far.
‘Ms Schild,’ she said, ‘I can see that you wish to help me. Whether or not you believe I could survive my injury, trust the evidence of your eyes. Furthermore, I am in danger. It increases with every moment that passes. I would ask you to retrieve my belongings. Will you?’
Ms Schild hesitated for moment. Then she lowered her head, nodded once, and left the room with her lantern. Gaus turned up the wick on his own and put it on the doctor’s desk beside a pile of papers.
‘Shall I follow her?’
Saskia shook her head.
Minutes later, Ms Schild returned with a canvas rucksack, which she gave to Saskia. She put it on the desk where the light from the storm lantern was strongest. Ms Schild and Gaus watched as she ran her fingers over the seams, lifted the bag to her nose, and finally opened it and shook the contents out.
The largest item was a crushed straw boater. Saskia looked inside the crown and saw an English manufacturing label, but no owner’s name. There was a handkerchief holding fresh blueberries. The handkerchief had no initials. In a leather pouch, she found a pair of amber-coloured spectacles with round lenses.
As she put them on, their fastware recognised her physiology and projected a full telemetric overlay onto her vision. She looked around the room, stopping briefly on Gaus. The spectacles would not detect the photograph but they were paired with her Ego unit. Yes: the location of her Ego unit appeared. It was ten miles away, and in a low-power state, waking every thirty minutes to register its position. It had not moved in three hours.
‘Thank you, Ms Schild,’ said Saskia. She removed her spectacles and returned them to the rucksack along with the rest of her possessions. ‘We’re very grateful for your help.’
‘You should talk to the police, you know,’ said Ms Schild. ‘The person who attacked you is still at large.’
‘The situation will be resolved in that regard,’ said Saskia. ‘You can count on that.’
‘You’re something to do with the police, aren’t you?’ asked Ms Schild. She looked both suspicious and interested.
‘A police “woman”,’ said Saskia, raising her eyebrows at Gaus. ‘How futuristic. Why do you say that?’
Ms Schild shrugged. ‘You have the air of a professional.’
Saskia merely inclined her head and waited, signalling that Gaus should take his lantern. He did so. Ms Schild led them to the parlour, unlocked the outer door, and bid them good-night.
As Saskia stepped out, she turned back and said, ‘In two days, I would like you to contact my friend here. His real name is Gaus, and he will now tell you his address.’
Gaus seemed uncertain. He patted his breast pocket, found nothing, then pulled a business card from the watch pocket of his waistcoat. He glanced at the card and passed it to Ms Schild.
‘I apologise that the design is somewhat ornate,’ he said. ‘I live near the Cathedral of St Peter. It is not far from here.’
‘Gaus has, or will have, certain funds at his disposal,’ said Saskia. ‘He will be happy to arrange a loan, on very good terms, for your attendance at the University of Geneva’s medical programme.’ At Schild’s emerging protest, Saskia held up her hand. ‘This is an entirely philanthropic gesture. You will be under no obligation to me or Gaus.’
‘What makes you think I want to be a doctor?’ Ms Schild asked. Though she tried to conceal her pleasure by staring at the details on the card, her excitement was plain.
‘Call it your “air of professionalism”, if you like. Moreover, is it not true that you have already been playing doctor rather more than you should? Dr Vetsch isn’t on a call, is he? He’s somewhere in the house, dead drunk.’
‘Medical training is expensive,’ said Ms Schild, not meeting her gaze.
Saskia said nothing. She bowed and walked into the street: silently, as was her habit. She waited for Gaus to catch up.
‘Taxi rank?’ she said, before he could ask any questions.
‘Left turn ahead, then right.’
They walked on. Doctor and nurse once more their disguise.
‘Why so helpful, Gaus? Just your nature?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘No Agents Intemporal have ever joined the ranks of the Singular,’ she said. Her voice was soft, the better to deliver this lesson. ‘Your circle closes elsewhere.’
They did not speak again until they found the rank. Theatre-goers crowded the short stretch of road, and Saskia feared that they would take all the available motorised taxicabs, but there remained a Unic cab and one of the more popular Renaults. The Unic was a thin, black contraption with the apparent tensile strength of a top hat. Saskia loved it. She told Gaus to reserve it for an extended fare in the direction of Lausanne.
Its portly driver helped them into the covered back. Gaus sat with his doctor’s bag between his legs; Saskia put the rucksack on her lap. As the driver blared his horn twice, ushering pedestrians aside, Saskia heard the first drops of rain on the canvas.
The driver cleared his throat. ‘Where are we heading tonight, lady and gentleman? I need to tell my runner before we set off.’
‘Yverdon-les-Bains,’ she said, remembering the location signalled by the Ego unit. ‘The Rue de la Maladaire. Do you know it?’
The driver nodded amiably and repeated this to the boy at the window, who ran off with the news. Then the taxicab rattled slowly across Geneva. The lake would remain on their right for the next few minutes, but Saskia was not looking at the scenery. She was about to relive her lost days through the amber spectacles.