‘Oh, thank goodness she’s here. Dr Glass—’
‘She isn’t here,’ said Daniel shortly, not bothering to look round. ‘This isn’t Maud Lincoln. Bryony, would you help me, please? Whoever this girl is, she’s been heavily drugged.’
‘There’ll probably be mustard and salt in the kitchen,’ said Bryony. ‘I can make an emetic.’
‘No need, I’ve got apomorphine in my bag,’ said Daniel. ‘I dislike using it, but she’s clearly taken some kind of opiate–her pupils are massively dilated–and apomorphine will be quicker than mustard. I’ll inject it, but I’ll need to do it in the scullery or the bathroom, because she’ll start vomiting almost at once.’
‘The kitchen will be easier,’ said Bryony. ‘Nearer.’
‘So it will. Good girl. Can you give me a hand?’
‘Nurse Sullivan is better placed for that,’ said Freda at once. ‘I cannot undertake to lift any patient—’
‘Then perhaps you’d help by lighting the kitchen range,’ said Daniel, ‘and setting a kettle to boil and a hot brick or a stone water bottle to heat up.’
He did not bother to see if these orders were carried out, and in fact Bryony never discovered if they were. She and Daniel carried the unknown girl into the kitchen, and propped her against the big square sink. The injection had been given, and they had been working on her for an unpleasant quarter of an hour, when Daniel suddenly said, ‘This house is far too quiet. Where on earth is George Lincoln?’
‘I’ll go upstairs and take a look round,’ offered Bryony.
‘Would you? This one’s on the way back to us, I think. Matron, is that kettle boiling yet? We’ll see if we can get some hot tea into her now.’
Bryony took the lamp from the big drawing room, and went cautiously up the stairs.
It was ridiculous to feel so uncomfortable about this; there would be some perfectly ordinary explanation for George Lincoln’s apparent absence and for the drugged girl downstairs. But the stillness of Toft House was starting to rasp against her nerves. As she reached the head of the stairs, and looked along the passageway with its narrow strip of carpet along the centre, she was aware of her heart starting to race, and she was very thankful indeed to know that Daniel was within calling distance.
This must be the main bedroom, just off to the right. It would look out over the front–there must be quite a nice view of the lanes and fields. Would this be George Lincoln’s room? Bryony thought it would, and when she cautiously turned the handle and pushed the door open, a faint scent of bay rum met her.
The bed was behind the door–a massive rather old-fashioned bed, with a mahogany bedhead and posts. A washstand stood against one wall, and there was a big deep wardrobe in the corner. Bryony glanced at it, and then shone the lamp onto the bed.
George Lincoln, his face contorted and frozen in the last agony of death, glared sightlessly at her.
Bryony cried out, and began to back away from the bed, still clutching the lamp, her free hand thrust out in front of her as if to ward off the sight of the terrible thing lying on the bed. Stupid, he’s dead–he’s been dead for hours by the look of him…he can’t possibly hurt you, poor old George.
She was halfway along the landing, heading for the stairs, to summon Daniel Glass and Prout, when above her head–which presumably was Toft House’s attic floor–came a series of soft creakings exactly as if someone was walking stealthily across a floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE