The cop accepted his dismissal with good humor. Right, then.
Good night, all. His retreating footsteps clomped along the hall.
Pulling up a chair, Cynda examined the wound more closely.
It’s just a contusion, the doctor said, observing her with a benign expression. He seemed less tense now that the cop was gone. His eyes weren’t on her face, but focused further south.
What about the bone? Does it feel broken? she asked.
No. It might be cracked, but that’s very hard to determine.
His eyes hadn’t moved.
Enjoying the view? she asked.
The eyes snapped upright, but there was no chagrin to accompany them. Yes, I was, actually, was the straightforward answer.
Smart ass. Any numbness in the fingers?
Initially, but not now. So where did you obtain your medical license? he teased.
My father’s a doctor, she said. He taught me a number of things.
I see, Alastair replied, his tone more contrite. He studied the wound. I don’t think sutures are required.
It wouldn’t help much; it’s more mashed than sliced, she said, scrutinizing him. His face had dirt on it, his usually tidy hair disheveled. Someone had worked him over with a vengeance.
As if in answer to her thoughts, he added, I sincerely damaged one of the ruffian’s kneecaps.
She inclined her head in respect. Well done.
I thought so. He didn’t, of course.
Mildred jumped in. After your clothes, I wouldn’t doubt. I heard about a man they stripped and left in the street raw as the day he was born. She rattled the lid of the teapot as the kettle sang on the stove.
Alastair winked. Cynda returned it.
The doctor offered no further comments while Cynda cleansed the wound and dressed it, speaking only to thank Mildred for the tea that appeared near his uninjured arm.
Do you have something in your bag for the pain? Cynda asked, rummaging amongst its contents. It seemed an archaic jumble of bottles and ointment tins.
It isn’t that bad, the doctor allowed.
She eyed him and then sighed. Well, it’s your night’s sleep, not mine. After one last examination of the bandage, she announced, We’ll change it again in the morning.
Thank you. That was very well done.
Now go to bed, will you?
I will. He wiggled his fingers on the injured hand. You should be a doctor.
In this time period? You have to be kidding. She opted for Thank you, instead.
Cynda followed him to his room, carrying the bag, handing it over once he’d opened his door.
A thought dropped into her mind. Ah, Alastair?
Yes? he asked. The sweat had returned to his forehead. She suspected he was regretting his decision to forego the pain medication.
Has that constable ever been here before?
A noticeable hesitation. That particular constable? No, not as such.
Not as such? Well, then, good night.
Once she’d locked the door, she slumped on the bed. Bouncing the skeleton key from palm to palm, she murmured, Then how did the cop know which room was yours?