Sarah’s expression went from amused to shocked. “Good heavens! But—well, you wouldn’t have brought him here, miss, if you thought there was anything bad about him, would you?”
Strange—she works here, surrounded by some of the worst criminals and roughest characters in London, and yet she worries about this man? But Maya understood her concern. Even the worst wretch of the slums feared the mad, and even if Paul Jenner was as sane as Maya (and of course he was), a man who set a pack of dogs on another was ruthless enough to be very, very dangerous.
“It’s all right, Sarah,” Maya interrupted gently. “If there were any justice in the world, the shoe would be on the other foot, and Paul would be able to press legal charges against the wretch. He’s a poor, good fellow that’s been badly wronged by a very rich man, and we wanted to make sure no further harm came to him, that’s all.”
Sarah sighed and nodded. “And it’s a bad world where a rich man can buy the harm of a poor one. There’s no justice but in the hands of God,” she said piously. “Well, Miss Amelia is that taken with the lad, I wouldn’t want to see her feelings trifled with. Not—” she added hastily, at Maya’s raised eyebrow, “—that he doesn’t look and act every bit as taken with her. But you and I know that there are some men that are better actors than ever played on a stage when it comes to their dealings with women!”
“Not with half a grain of morphine in them,” Maya chuckled, finishing her tea. “The old Romans had a saying that there was truth in wine—there’s just as much truth in morphine, I think.”
“Well, that’s the case, sure enough,” Sarah agreed, and laughed. “Some of the things I’ve heard out of people’s mouths when the drug’s in them! Well, I just wanted to know what we were dealing with, miss, that’s all. Now that I know, I won’t worry.”
Maya thought about warning Sarah specifically about Simon Parkening, then thought better of it. Sarah knew enough now to be wary of rich men asking questions, and a rich man (or a rich man’s servants) prowling about this neighborhood would stand out like pampered white spaniels in a dustbin.
And serve them right if they come to grief as well, if they come sniffing about here, she thought. I wouldn’t mind seeing Simon Parkening bruised and bleeding and robbed of everything but his trousers.
She got to her feet; since Amelia was taking such proprietary care of “the new lad,” someone would have to do the same for the rest of the patients—and that “someone” was definitely Maya.
It would have been overstating the case to say that the disappearance of Paul Jenner from the ward caused an uproar. There were no orderlies searching the hospital, no policemen questioning the staff. When Maya returned the next day to check on Bill Joad, however, it was apparent that someone had been very upset about it, and had left signs of his agitation in the wards. The head nurse was sitting behind her desk with an expression of outraged innocence on her face, and stormclouds of temper on her brow that boded no good for anyone who crossed her today. Maya, however, had come armed, since she was expecting a tempest, and had brought some oil for the troubled waters in the form of a neat white pasteboard bakery box.
“Nurse Haredy,” she said cheerfully, as the head nurse looked up, hearing her footstep. “You’ve been such a help with that old reprobate Bill Joad that I thought you were overdue for a treat for your tea by way of thanks.” She dropped the box on the desk with a smile, knowing that the aroma of fresh-baked sugar-biscuits was unmistakable.
The sweet scent banished the stormclouds, and Nurse Haredy’s expression softened. “Oh, Miss, there was no need of that,” she replied, even as her hand cupped protectively around a corner of the box. “Bill Joad hasn’t been any bother. Not like some,” she added darkly. “But, then—well, never mind. No matter what that limb of Satan thinks he can do around here, he’s no doctor, and it’s his uncle that runs this hospital.”
“Or thinks he does, when we all know it’s you, Nurse,” Maya retorted with amusement, pretending to have no interest at all in “limbs of Satan.” As Nurse Haredy chuckled reluctantly, she turned and made her way down the ward to Bill Joad’s bed. As she had expected, there was already another man in the one that Paul Jenner had so lately occupied. The newcomer was blissfully snoring away. He had a splinted and bandaged leg, and looked like an Irish day laborer, and Maya suspected that his presence in that bed had a great deal to do with the actions of Doctor O’Reilly.
Bill was fairly bursting with impatience when she settled on the chair next to him, and if the nurse’s expression had been stormy, his was of barely contained hilarity. “Bloody ‘ell ‘as broke out ‘ere, Miss!” he chortled under his breath. “By God, you shoulda bin ‘ere! First th’ bleedin’ bastard comes lookin’ fer that Jenner feller, an’ ‘e finds Shamus there instead—goes to find out if Jenner’s died or sumpin’—an’ no papers! Storms up an’ down the place, lookin’. No Jenner, no papers, no sign! Tries t’ cut up th’ old bat there, an’ damn if she doesn’t cut ‘im up right an’ proper, brings in O’Reilly t’ back ‘er up, an’ ‘e brings in th’ Big Man! Jesus, Mary, an’ Joseph, you shoulda seen that! Th’ Big Man don’ like bein’ dragged outa ‘is cushy orfice for no puppy, an’ I wisht y’d bin ‘ere to ‘ear ‘im! ‘Twoulda done yer sweet ‘eart good! An ‘Aredy lookin’ like a righteous plaster saint, an’ O’Reilly like th’ cat in th’ cream!”
Maya put her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “I’m glad I wasn’t, Bill. I doubt I could have kept a straight face, and then where would we be? I take it he was sent away with a flea in his ear?”
Bill wheezed with laughter. “More loik a burr up ‘is bum!” he chortled. “An’ th’ on’y one in trouble is ‘isself. Big Man told ‘im t’ get shut uv the ‘orspital, and never show ‘is face ‘ere agin!”
Maya heaved a deep sigh of relief. Paul Jenner was safe, and no one had gotten into trouble over his escape. She gave Bill a perfunctory examination, more for the benefit of the head nurse than for his own well-being, and continued on her rounds.
But as she was halfway through them, another thought occurred to her; what if this Simon Parkening had other ways of tracing his former secretary—ways that didn’t involve detectives and spies—
Or rather, one that involves spies that aren’t of this world—
She checked the watch she kept hung around her neck. If she hurried, she could just make the morning mail. She scribbled a hasty note to Peter Scott, sealed it, and dropped it in the tray with the rest of the hospital missives. Feeling that caution was the order of the day, she didn’t mention Paul Jenner either by name or by implication.
Something interesting has come up that I’d like to discuss with you, she had written. Can we meet at the Reading Room in the British Museum after tea?
Innocuous enough, and the Reading Room was a sufficiently neutral place to meet a casual male acquaintance in. Beneath the eyes of the librarians, with all of the weight of centuries of scholastic propriety behind them, no one would even consider so much as a mild flirtation. I don’t want him to have any—ideas, she told herself. But to be absolutely honest, it was her own feelings that she didn’t trust. She would be able to put the firm hands of control on the reins of her emotions in the staid surroundings of the British Museum.
An even briefer note than hers was waiting on her desk at home when she returned from her morning rounds, a short acceptance and an exact time. She tried not to be disappointed that it was so very short, and busied herself with afternoon patients.