'Thank you, no," said Doyle. He wanted nothing to cloud his mind during the coming night.
"Miss Temple asked for one as a soporific before retiring last night. Perhaps I shall bring her one as well."
With a slight bow, Stoker took his leave. Doyle reentered the room. Eileen was sitting up awake on the bed, deftly rolling a cigarette from a pouch of shag tobacco. Doyle's eyes widened.
"Do you have a match?" she asked. "Yes, I believe I do. Just a moment. Here we go," Doyle fumbled through his pockets, produced a match, and lit the cigarette for her. To steady the trembling—the result of nothing more complicated than being alone in the room with her—as he held the match near, she gripped his hand.
"Do you really think they'd attack us here with all these people about?" she asked, with a casualness and familiarity he'd not heard in her voice before.
"Oh, it is possible, yes, I would have to say, that it is, quite." Why did English suddenly seem something a great deal less than his native tongue?
"You ought to sit down. You look terribly tired." She crossed her legs and blew smoke into the air.
"Do I? Thank you, I am. I shall," said Doyle formally, and he looked busily around for a place to sit. He finally picked up the straight-backed chair from across the room, set it facing the windows, picked up the shotgun, sat down, and tried to appear purposeful.
"You look like you know how to shoot," she said after watching him for a moment, with the slightest trace of a smile. "I sincerely hope I won't have occasion to demonstrate
while you are in such, uh, proximity." He felt himself blushing. Blushing!
"And I have no doubt that if the occasion were to arise, I would be most suitably impressed."
Doyle nodded and smiled like a mechanical bird. It was hard to look at her. Was she toying with me? he asked himself. Is it because I'm behaving like such a filbert?
"Do you treat many women, Dr. Doyle?" she asked, that Gioconda smile surfacing again.
"What's that?"
"In your practice. Do you have many female patients?"
"Oh my, yes. That is, I have my share. I'd say a good half, at any rate. Half of the whole, that is." Half of eight, at its height, truth be told: all lost to him now. And not a one of them under the age of fifty with a swan's neck and skin like the petals of a rose and ...
"Are you not married?" she asked.
"No. Are you?"
She laughed a little. It reminded him of tinkling crystal goblets at an impossibly glamorous dinner. "No, I'm not married."
Doyle nodded intently, looked down at the shotgun in his hands, and with great concentration rubbed an imaginary smudge off the barrel.
"I've never given you proper thanks," she said more soberly.
"None necessary," he said with a casually dismissing wave.
"Still. I owe you my life. You and Mr. Sparks."
"There's no reason for you to feel indebted in even the slightest way, Miss Temple. Given the chance, I would gladly do the same again and more," he said, feeling emboldened. This time he held her eyes until she looked away.
She needed somewhere to stub out her cigarette. There was no ashtray on the bedstand. Casting around, Doyle came up with the wrapper from the biscuits and held it for her on the table as she tapped out the smoke. Their fingers brushed together lightly with an electric tingle that he didn't believe he was imagining.
"I want to help you," she said in a low and husky voice. "In any way I can. You must convey that to Mr. Sparks. Because, you see, I feel a certain responsibility."
"You acted out of need. Urgent financial need. You couldn't know what would happen. You had no way of knowing."
As she finished with the cigarette, she looked up, and their faces were only inches apart.
"Nevertheless," she said. "Will you convey that to him? Perhaps there is a way. I can be very resourceful."
"Of that I have no doubt whatsoever."
Her tongue flicked a tiny speck of tobacco off her lower lip. Their eyes met, and her look was far from discouraging. Doyle felt a sharp tug in his chest, as if caught in a strong gravitational field. Beauty is the promise of happiness, that phrase leapt in his mind from some long-forgotten source. He found himself leaning in to kiss her when multiple footsteps preceded the opening of the door. With a single sharp rap, Sparks entered the room. Doyle hastily pulled away and disposed of the biscuit wrapper. Larry and Barry took up stations on either side of the door.
"I've had a look at the other inn; we must move ourselves there at once," said Sparks. "It's a far less vulnerable structure. We will be able to protect ourselves for the night more efficiently there."
"I hope that you're not organizing this defense around any presumed incapacity of mine," said Eileen, rising energetically to her feet, "because I'm quite capable of defending myself as well as if not a good deal better than any man could ever do."
"Miss Temple, after the fate that's befallen your colleagues, surely you do comprehend that you are a target of considerable urgency and importance to our enemies," said Sparks, with measured reasonableness.
"What I comprehend is that you, sir, have no comprehension whatsoever of my ability to aid and abet you in this matter," said Eileen, not backing down an inch.
"This is not the time to—"
"And if you expect me to remain locked in a room like so much bait on a hook waiting for trouble to arrive while you men are free to come and go as you please, you, sir, are very much mistaken—"
"Miss Temple, please—"
"I will not be a party to it, nor will I honor your antiquated
notions of what a woman is or is not capable of: I begin to suspect that you would be equally disapproving of giving women the vote—"
"What on God's green earth has that to do with moving to the other inn?" Sparks protested. Doyle could not remember seeing Sparks so beleaguered. Barry and Larry were staring at their shoes, trying hard to keep the smiles off their faces.
"I have been an expert shot since the age of ten: A man-raises his hand against me at his own peril—I've shot a man before; I would not hesitate to do it again—"
"Don't be a fool—"
In a single, swift move, Eileen seized the shotgun from Doyle's hand, drew back the hammers, dexterously swung the gun around to draw a bead on the hat rack in the corner, pulled the trigger, and blew Stoker's bowler hat to kingdom come. Larry and Barry dropped to the floor. Stoker chose that unfortunate moment to appear in the doorway toting two full snifters of brandy; Eileen spotted movement in the corner of her eye and whipped around to train the second barrel on him. Stoker's hands flew up, and the snifters fell to the ground.
"Lord, no!" cried Stoker.
"How emphatically do you wish me to demonstrate my point, Mr. Sparks?" she asked calmly.
"Your point," said Sparks, his face taut with rage, "is made."
Eileen lowered the gun. Other guests, curious about the loud report, appeared in the hallway.
"Everything's all right," said Doyle to them, taking Stoker by the arm and pulling him into the room. "Go on about your business. No trouble here."
"What in great heaven's name is going on?" said Stoker shakily as Doyle closed the door behind them. "Miss Temple, please, these are our friends."
Eileen broke down the barrels, slipped out the remaining live round, and handed the gun back to Doyle. "Mr. Stoker, I owe you a new hat."
Larry and Barry sat up on the floor and tried unsuccessfully to keep from laughing out loud. Doyle was unable to resist joining them.
"I'm sure there's been some terrible misunderstanding.
Can't we discuss this reasonably?" said Stoker, retrieving the shredded corpse of his bowler.
"If a move to the other inn is no longer in order, Mr. Sparks, what is your alternate plan?" asked Eileen.