was a delightful village, most of its houses thatched, the country around it peaceful. He drove down its main street and turned into a narrow lane, and then through open gates to his home, which was black and white timber-framed with its thatched roof curling round the upstairs windows. It was a fair size, and the garden around it was sheltered by trees. He drove round the side, parked the car, and went in through the side door, along a flag-stoned passage and into the kitchen. Peach and his wife were there. She sat at the table rolling out pastry, Peach at the other end of the table, cleaning the silver.
Peach got up at once. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said mildly. ‘You’ll be wanting lunch…’
‘No, no, Peach. One of Mrs Peach’s magnificent teas in half an hour would be fine. Everything all right?’
‘Right as rain, sir. Barker and Jones are in the garden. Tea in half an hour, sir.’
The professor picked up his bag and went through a door into the hall, which was long and narrow with a door at each end. He opened his study door, put his bag on the desk and went out of the end door into the garden. Two dogs were waiting for him, uttering pleased barks, running to him as he bent to fondle them: a coal-black Alsatian and a small dog of no known parentage, with a foxy face, heavy whiskers and a feathery tail. The three of them made their way down a path bordered by flowerbeds already full of colour, skirted a large lawn with a small pond at its end and went through a gate into the fields beyond. The dogs raced on ahead now, and the professor sauntered along, his thoughts idle, vaguely irritated that they turned every so often to the events of the other morning.
He went indoors presently, to Mrs Peach’s tea, and then spent an hour or so in his study with his dogs for company. He went back there after his dinner too, making notes for the book he was writing concerning his work. He was a clever man, wrapped up in his profession but by no means a hermit; he had friends, close friends he had known for years, and a host of acquaintances and family scattered throughout the country, but as yet he had found no one whom he wished to make his wife. And that was a pity, Peach had confided to his wife. A good man like the master ought to have been married years ago, with a handful of children. ‘Knocking forty,’ Peach had grumbled. ‘And dear knows he meets enough ladies to pick and choose.’
‘She’ll turn up,’ said Mrs Peach. ‘Just you let Fate take its course.’ Fate must have been listening.
It was a week or so after Katrina’s accident that she noticed that Aunt Thirza didn’t look well. Indeed, now she thought about it, she hadn’t looked well for some weeks. But Aunt Thirza wasn’t a woman to angle for sympathy for herself, and when once or twice Katrina had asked her if she felt all right, she had responded in her usual blunt manner. All the same, there was no denying that she was paler than usual, and lacked energy. And when one morning Katrina found her sitting in the living room with her eyes shut, instead of turning out the sideboard drawers which she had intended to do, Katrina took matters into her own hands.
Despite her aunt’s protests, she got on her bike and went to Dr Peters’ surgery and left a message with his receptionist. It wasn’t a day on which the surgery was open, but she knew that he would come and see her aunt as soon as he could; they had been friends for years and, however brusque Aunt Thirza was feeling, she would listen to his advice.
He came that evening, examined his old friend, taking no notice of her waspish replies to his questions and, despite her protests, taking a sample of her blood.
‘Well, what’s wrong with me?’ demanded Aunt Thirza.
‘You’ve been doing too much,’ he told her, and Katrina thought that she detected the impersonal cheerfulness with which the medical profession conceal their true opinion. ‘I’ll get this blood tested—it will take a day or two. I’ll let you know when I’ve the result and give you something to put you back on your feet. In the meantime, just take things easily. You won’t, of course!’
Three days later he called again. ‘Anaemia,’ he told her. ‘Nothing which can’t be put right with treatment. But I want you to see a specialist, just to endorse my opinion.’ And when Miss Gibbs began an indignant refusal, he said, ‘No, Thirza, my dear. We want the quickest solution, don’t we? So we’ll get expert advice.’
Katrina, walking with him to the gate, said, ‘Is it serious, Dr Peters?’
‘Perhaps, my dear. We must see what the specialist says. I’ll get an appointment for your aunt. You’ll go with her, of course.’
When he got back to his surgery he lifted the phone and asked to speak to Professor Glenville.
CHAPTER TWO
AUNT THIRZA was surprised to receive a letter within the next few days, bidding her to attend a clinic at St Aldrick’s on the following Monday. She was inclined to grumble about this—such short notice and the awkward journey to the hospital. ‘A waste of time,’ she declared. ‘I think I shall not go.’
Katrina waited for her first annoyance to subside before saying mildly, ‘Well, since Dr Peters had taken the trouble to arrange for someone to see you it would be rather unkind to refuse to go. The appointment’s for eleven o’clock—we can catch an early train from Warminster and probably be home again by teatime.’
Bob from the garage drove them to the station—an unavoidable extravagance which for once Miss Gibbs ignored. It was a lovely morning, warm for the time of year, so that Katrina was able to wear the jersey dress and matching jacket which she kept for special occasions. And this was a special occasion—a day out in London, even if most of it would be spent on a bench in the hospital waiting room. The unbidden thought that she might see Professor Glenville again she squashed instantly; he would have for gotten about her, and even if he hadn’t he would hardly wish to renew their acquaintance…
The waiting room was large and crowded, and although they were in good time a nurse told them that they would probably have to wait for half an hour or so.
Aunt Thirza was tired, and had no objection to sitting quietly, and Katrina found plenty to interest her. Moreover, there was always the chance that Professor Glenville might appear. Unlikely, she thought. She didn’t know much about hospitals, but she thought that a well-known man such as Dr Peters had described would have consulting rooms, and only go to the hospital for some emergency or consultation.
It was almost noon by the time Miss Gibbs’ name was called.
‘I prefer to go by myself, Katrina,’ she said firmly. ‘No doubt if you are needed someone will come and tell you.’
She went off with a nurse, her back as stiff as a poker, and was ushered into one of the consulting rooms where she was asked to sit down while a sister took her blood pressure, her temperature, and asked her if she took medicine of any sort, and, if so, what?
‘I do not believe in pills and potions,’ said Aunt Thirza severely. ‘I am a healthy woman and do not need such things.’
Sister murmured in a non-committal manner and ushered her into the inner room, going to stand by the desk facing the door. Miss Gibbs fetched up by it. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she declared sharply. ‘I do hope you understand that I have only agreed to come because Dr Peters and I are old friends and I wished to oblige him.’
The professor stood up and offered a hand. ‘Miss Gibbs. This is tiresome for you, I feel sure. Please sit down and tell me how I can help you.’
Miss Gibbs sat, still very erect. ‘I
