a Saturday, Dragan had the day to himself. He used most of it to follow a trail of Nancy Barrow’s known acquaintances, which led him to some more interesting places than he expected.
At last, he dropped into the coffee house in Tottenham Court Road, where he often met friends, particularly those who had escaped Hungary with him. He almost didn’t go in, for it was always a bittersweet experience, reminding him of home and all he had lost. But it seemed he couldn’t wean himself off the habit. They were the only people who truly understood.
As usual, he left them both recharged and melancholic.
Almost as soon as he walked out of the shop, he had to side-step someone running hell for leather down the road.
“Sorry!” the runner yelled, then skidded to a halt. It was a lad whose broken wrist he had set not long after arriving in London. “Will you come?” he gasped. “I was looking for Dr. Cordell, but it turns out you are closer!”
“What has happened?” Dragan asked, resigned.
“Old Marty at the soup kitchen was taken ill.”
“I know the way.”
The soup kitchen in St. Giles was a brave charity run by a Mr. Wells, a clergyman who seemed to be vaguely attached to the parish church. Wells appeared to be a good man, apparently unworldly by his speech, and yet he was responsible for many practical good works among his poor and often dangerous flock, including the running of a soup kitchen in a not quite derelict building close to the church.
To Dragan’s surprise, the lad, who he thought was called Bill, strode along beside him.
“I work for Mr. Wells now,” he said proudly. “And the vicar.”
“Good for you,” Dragan said, surprised but pleased. “How did that come about?”
“Couldn’t thieve with my wrist broken, could I? Couldn’t work at much either. Ended up in the soup kitchen, and I cleaned the tables one-handed, just for something to do. Helped him more as my wrist got better. Like it better than thieving. Here we are.”
The place smelled of over-cooked food and unwashed humanity. Once, it might have offended Dragan. Now, he had smelled much worse.
The tables were still set up in the kitchen, though most of the diners had gone, save for a group standing in a huddle to one side. Between then, Dragan glimpsed a man stretched out on the floor.
“I brought the doctor,” Bill said, and the vicar turned toward them.
“Excellent.” Mr. Wells held out his hand in a welcoming plea. For a moment, his expression was baffled, then his face cleared. “Ah, you are the assistant, of course! Here is your patient. He just collapsed, clutching his chest, clearly in pain.”
The solemn watchers, who appeared to be a mix of the vicar’s diners and his charitable helpers, parted to let Dragan through. A rough-looking old man in a coat tied with string lay on the floor with his eyes shut. His head was pillowed on a rolled-up cloak or blanket, and one of Mr. Wells’s charitable ladies knelt beside the patient, stroking the pock-marked old forehead.
“He is still breathing,” she said anxiously, twisting around to face him.
Dragan gazed down at the bespectacled beauty of Lady Grizelda Niven. Her smooth, brown hair was pinned rather more severely than on their previous meetings, and her garments were old and drab, her skirts narrow to the point of unfashionable. Lady Grizelda incognita?
He would have laughed at her ludicrous expression of surprise, except that he suspected his own face mirrored it. And in any case, he was in a hurry to reach his patient. He crouched on the other side of Marty, dropping his bag and finding his stethoscope by feel. Only when he had listened to the old man’s heart and was taking his pulse did he murmur to Grizelda, “This is becoming a habit.”
“You are a doctor?” she exclaimed with unflattering astonishment.
“Opinions vary.” He released Marty’s wrist and gazed at the tranquil face. “Feeling better?”
The eyes opened, watery and a little muddy. “Am I dying?”
“No, you seem to be recovering. Is the pain gone?”
“Yes, but—”
As he lifted his head, trying to get up, Dragan held him down by the shoulder. “No, no, stay put for a little. The strain on your heart has been considerable. Where do you live?”
“He don’t live anywhere,” Bill supplied. “Sleeps rough, wherever he can.”
“That is part of the problem,” Dragan murmured. “Marty, is there anywhere you can stay even for few days? Somewhere comfortable you can rest up?”