child’s eyes open, but wasn’t sure. He could feel Lily Waters’s worry and tension beside him.
Dr Fothergill’s bungalow was a simple white building close to the road.
‘You stay sitting,’ Sam said gently. ‘At least until we’ve got an answer at the door.’
In the gloom he saw her give a faint smile which felt like a huge reward.
The house was all in darkness and as soon as Sam went near the front, the doctor’s watchman leaped up and started nattering at him but of course Sam couldn’t understand a word and knocked the door anyway. He expected to have to get through a battery of servants before reaching the doctor but, to his surprise, when the door swung open, there stood a very substantial white man with a bushy, grizzled beard, wearing a vast pair of pyjama trousers, his hairy chest and ample belly covered by nothing but a blanket draped round his shoulders. With one hand he held an oil lamp and with the other he was rubbing his portly abdomen in a soothing manner.
‘Yes?’ he boomed. ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘I’m Captain Fairford’s mechanic,’ Sam blurted, foolishly.
‘ What? Charles Fairford? Well, what the blazes d’you want? Have you come to tinker with my motor car at one o’clock in the morning? What the devil’s the matter with you?’ A rather abrupt belch took the doctor by surprise as he finished speaking, followed by the groan of a man plagued by dismally acidic innards.
‘Their boy’s here with me in the car. He’s been taken ill – they said he had a fit.’
‘What – young Cosmo?’ Reluctantly, he was all attention now. ‘Well, speak up, man, do. You should have said before . . .’ Pulling the blanket closer round him he held the lamp high and came down to the car.
‘So, what’s up with this young fellow? Bring him into the house, um?’
He led them into a kind of snuggery, arranged with the rudimentary carelessness of a bachelor, with the usual animal trophies on the walls and very basic furnishings: chair and table, a mess of belongings and papers, a pair of boots slung to one side, a rug thrown on the floor. There was a thick smell of stale tobacco smoke.
‘Bit of a pickle,’ Dr Fothergill said. ‘Not meant for decent company. Put him down on here.’
He swept a few brass objects off the table, and with a laborious grunt picked up a rug from a chair and spread it on the top. Sam moved to help Miss Waters as she laid Cosmo’s distressed little body down on the table. Cosmo stirred and moaned, without opening his eyes.
‘What’s up with you, young fellow?’ Dr Fothergill was gentle with him, feeling the boy’s head and limbs. ‘Fever, obviously . . .’ he mused. ‘You say he had a fit?’
‘He was restless tonight,’ Lily Waters told him. ‘His temperature went up very fast so I stayed with him. And suddenly he just went rigid, and his eyes were rolling. He was twitching and not himself at all. And Mrs Fairford was worried.’ She looked up into the doctor’s eyes and saw that they shared knowledge about Susan Fairford.
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘I know, poor girl. Thinks she’s cursed by nature – even when she’s got a fine, healthy boy here.’
Dr Fothergill listened to Cosmo’s chest with the stethoscope, asked a few more questions, and seemed satisfied.
‘Well, Miss, er . . .’
‘Waters.’
‘Of course.’ He was speaking very kindly now. ‘Tell Susan he’ll be quite all right if he just has plenty to drink and isn’t kept wrapped up too warmly. Sometimes, if the temperature shoots up like that, they can have a bit of a turn. Febrile convulsions, we call it. There’s nothing else wrong that I can see. But I’ll call in tomorrow. Best thing for him now will be a nice ride home to bed in the breeze. Off you go, both of you.’
At the door, he stopped Sam, laying a weighty hand on his shoulder. ‘And whose employ are you in?’
‘The Daimler Motor Company, sir.’
‘Ah – the royal carriages.’ He chuckled.
Dr Fothergill’s bungalow was a simple white building close to the road.
‘You stay sitting,’ Sam said gently. ‘At least until we’ve got an answer at the door.’
In the gloom he saw her give a faint smile which felt like a huge reward.
The house was all in darkness and as soon as Sam went near the front, the doctor’s watchman leaped up and started nattering at him but of course Sam couldn’t understand a word and knocked the door anyway. He expected to have to get through a battery of servants before reaching the doctor but, to his surprise, when the door swung open, there stood a very substantial white man with a bushy, grizzled beard, wearing a vast pair of pyjama trousers, his hairy chest and ample belly covered by nothing but a blanket draped round his shoulders. With one hand he held an oil lamp and with the other he was rubbing his portly abdomen in a soothing manner.
‘Yes?’ he boomed. ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘I’m Captain Fairford’s mechanic,’ Sam blurted, foolishly.
‘ What? Charles Fairford? Well, what the blazes d’you want? Have you come to tinker with my motor car at one o’clock in the morning? What the devil’s the matter with you?’ A rather abrupt belch took the doctor by surprise as he finished speaking, followed by the groan of a man plagued by dismally acidic innards.
‘Their boy’s here with me in the car. He’s been taken ill – they said he had a fit.’
‘What – young Cosmo?’ Reluctantly, he was all attention now. ‘Well, speak up, man, do. You should have said before . . .’ Pulling the blanket closer round him he held the lamp high and came down to the car.
‘So, what’s up with this young fellow? Bring him into the house, um?’
He led them into a kind of snuggery, arranged with the rudimentary carelessness of a bachelor, with the usual animal trophies on the walls and very basic furnishings: chair and table, a mess of belongings and papers, a pair of boots slung to one side, a rug thrown on the floor. There was a thick smell of stale tobacco smoke.
‘Bit of a pickle,’ Dr Fothergill said. ‘Not meant for decent company. Put him down on here.’
He swept a few brass objects off the table, and with a laborious grunt picked up a rug from a chair and spread it on the top. Sam moved to help Miss Waters as she laid Cosmo’s distressed little body down on the table. Cosmo stirred and moaned, without opening his eyes.
‘What’s up with you, young fellow?’ Dr Fothergill was gentle with him, feeling the boy’s head and limbs. ‘Fever, obviously . . .’ he mused. ‘You say he had a fit?’
‘He was restless tonight,’ Lily Waters told him. ‘His temperature went up very fast so I stayed with him. And suddenly he just went rigid, and his eyes were rolling. He was twitching and not himself at all. And Mrs Fairford was worried.’ She looked up into the doctor’s eyes and saw that they shared knowledge about Susan Fairford.
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘I know, poor girl. Thinks she’s cursed by nature – even when she’s got a fine, healthy boy here.’
Dr Fothergill listened to Cosmo’s chest with the stethoscope, asked a few more questions, and seemed satisfied.
‘Well, Miss, er . . .’
‘Waters.’
‘Of course.’ He was speaking very kindly now. ‘Tell Susan he’ll be quite all right if he just has plenty to drink and isn’t kept wrapped up too warmly. Sometimes, if the temperature shoots up like that, they can have a bit of a turn. Febrile convulsions, we call it. There’s nothing else wrong that I can see. But I’ll call in tomorrow. Best thing for him now will be a nice ride home to bed in the breeze. Off you go, both of you.’
At the door, he stopped Sam, laying a weighty hand on his shoulder. ‘And whose employ are you in?’
‘The Daimler Motor Company, sir.’
‘Ah – the royal carriages.’ He chuckled.
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