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 toP '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.
At the appointed hour, she closed up her office and walked the few blocks to the point where she could catch a 'bus to the museum—this time, one of the new motorized 'buses, which wheezed and clattered its way through the traffic, bouncing on the uneven cobblestones in a way quite unlike the horse-drawn 'buses. Maya didn't much like the things, not the way they smelled, nor the noise they made. It doesn't matter, though, she thought, gazing at the back of the passenger in front of her. It's less expensive to keep one of these than to keep horses in the city. They're pushing out the horses; it's only a matter of time.
The 'bus arrived at the museum and disgorged its passengers, Maya among them. She hurried up the steps with the rest, but passed by the enticing galleries, heading straight for the Reading Room.
She had been here before, but the sight never failed to awe and thrill her; where other children might have dreamed of toys, she had dreamed of the Reading Room and the implied treasures of the hundreds of thousands of books in it. Of course, as a child, her imagination had populated the walls with all of the most amazing story books in the world, but the reality, now that she had come to it as an adult, was just as dazzling. What wonders were here! The ceiling rose high above, like a cathedral in its proportions, and on all four walls were the books, the wonderful, wonderful books, ranged neatly on their shelves— some shelves open, others closed in with wooden doors. From floor to ceiling those shelves stood, taking the place of paintings or carvings of saints in this cathedral of knowledge. Beneath the books stood the catalogs and the carrels, the desks at which men studied (or pretended to) under the eyes of the librarians. The very air held an incense of book, a scent of old paper, parchment, vellum and ink, of leather and dust.
Maya entered and stood, just to one side of the door and out of the flow of traffic, and breathed in that beloved scent, her eyes closed. Here, if nowhere else in London, she felt completely at home. . . .