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Even with Gary Coldwood’s grudging patronage, this was one crime scene I wasn’t going to be reading for the Met if I could possibly help it.
Susan Book’s doorbell played the first four bars of ‘Jerusalem’: for some reason that made me laugh, even though laughing hurt right then.
Juliet opened the door, and stood there for a moment staring at me in silence, taking in all the details – the bruising on my face, the split lip and the blood on my shirt. She nodded slowly, as if acknowledging that I probably had a valid excuse.
‘You’re an hour and a half late, Castor,’ she said sternly.
‘I know,’ I answered. ‘And I’m sorry. I got held up.’
‘At gunpoint?’
‘At clawpoint. Can I come in before I fall down?’
She considered for a moment longer.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All right. But we ate without you.’
She held the door open for me and I lurched in out of the night. Susan Book bustled out of the kitchen wearing a Portmeirion apron – passion flower, it said and showed – and opened her mouth to speak, but then changed her mind and shut it again.
‘I’m really sorry, Sue,’ I said. ‘I hope I didn’t spoil your evening. I was on my way here when something came up.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Juliet, who knows me pretty well. I nodded. ‘Then come on through into the living room,’ she said. She pronounced the phrase with careful emphasis, as though it was still a little alien to her.
‘I think,’ Susan said, hastily, ‘that we should probably take Felix into the bathroom first.’
Juliet stared at her, momentarily puzzled. Susan pointed at the crusted blood on my shoulder, where the loup-garou’s claws had pierced the cloth of my greatcoat and dug deeply into the flesh beneath.
‘Oh,’ said Juliet.
It turned out they had both, and Susan did a good job of cleaning my wounds, although she drew in her breath slightly when she first saw them, her eyes widening.
