Read Online Cold Vengeance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online Page B

that Esterhazy could only admire. Quickly determining that the chest pains were nothing serious, Roscommon nevertheless recommended a few days of rest. Esterhazy had expected this, and in fact welcomed it: now he had an excuse to hang around the village. And he had met the local doctor: his main purpose. He’d hoped to befriend the doctor and extract some information from him, but the man had proven the very picture of Scottish reserve, with little to say beyond what was necessary for medical advice. That might be his nature—or he might be hiding something.
    As he sipped the fresh Guinness, Esterhazy wondered again what a man like Roscommon was doing in a one-horse town like Inverkirkton. He clearly had the ability to open a lucrative practice in a bigger city. If Pendergast, against all odds, had survived the mire, Roscommon was the man he’d have gone to; he was the only game in town.
    The door to the pub opened and a woman came in—Jennie Prothero. Already, Esterhazy felt like he’d met practically the whole damn town. Mrs. Prothero ran the village’s curio-and-souvenir shop and—since that business wasn’t exactly lucrative—took in laundry on the side. She was plump and amiable, with a face almost as red as a lobster. Despite the mild October day, her neck was heavily swathed in a wool scarf.
    “Hullo, then, Paulie,” she said to the bartender, settling onto one of the two free bar stools as demurely as her two hundred pounds would allow.
    “Afternoon, Jennie,” MacFlecknoe replied, dutifully wiping the scarred wooden counter in front of her, drawing a pint of bitter, and placing it on a coaster.
    The woman turned to Esterhazy. “And how are you today, Mr. Draper?”
    Esterhazy smiled. “I’m quite better, thanks. Just a pulled muscle, it would seem.”
    She nodded knowingly. “I’m glad to hear that.”
    “I have your Dr. Roscommon to thank.”
    “He’s a fine one, and no mistake,” the bartender said. “We’re lucky to have him.”
    “Yes, he seems like an excellent doctor.”
    MacFlecknoe nodded. “London trained, and all.”
    “Frankly, I’m surprised there’s enough here to keep him occupied.”
    “Well, he’s the only medical fellow for twenty miles ’round,” Prothero said. “At least, since old Crastner passed away last spring.”
    “So he’s quite busy?” Esterhazy asked, taking a casual pull from his pint.
    “That he is,” said MacFlecknoe. “Takes callers at all hours.”
    “All hours? I’m surprised to hear that. I mean, with a country practice.”
    “Well, we have emergencies here, just like everywhere else,” the bartender replied. He nodded across the street toward the doctor’s practice. “Sometimes you’ll see every light in his house ablaze, well after midnight.”
    “You don’t say,” Esterhazy replied. “When was the last time that happened?”
    MacFlecknoe thought. “Oh, maybe three weeks back. Maybe more. Can’t say for sure. It isn’t all that common. I remember that time, though, because his car came and went twice. Late it was—past nine.”
    “It might have been poor Mrs. Bloor,” Jennie Prothero said. “She’s been poorly these past few months.”
    “No, he didn’t head toward Hithe,” the bartender said. “I heard the car going west.”
    “West?” the woman said. “There’s nothing that way but the Mire.”
    “Maybe it was one of the guests up the lodge,” said MacFlecknoe.
    The woman took a pull of bitter. “Now that you mention it, there were some linens from the doctor’s practice sent in for laundry around then. Bloody as you please, they were.”
    “Really?” Esterhazy asked, his heart quickening. “What kind of linens?”
    “Oh, the usual. Dressings, sheets.”
    “Well, Jennie, that’s not uncommon,” said the barkeep. “Farmers ’round these parts are always having accidents.”
    “Yes,” said Esterhazy, speaking more to himself than the others. “But not in the middle of the night.”
    “What was that,