He came closer, his boots ringing on the cobbles. (Soldier, then.) Close enough for me to see that he had light blue eyes with dark smudges under them, cropped black hair, tanned skin. He was shaking. No smell of alcohol, though.
He held out a much-creased envelope and I took it. It was addressed to Sgt Alasdair Sinclair. On the back was written Daniel Cohen will help you, the words signed Sr Mary. There was no way I was going to ignore anything which came from that admirable and formidable nun. What Sister Mary said went. She was, as one of her clients had told another, ‘in damn big with God’.
‘Corinna?’ the soldier asked. Scottish voice.
‘I’m Corinna,’ I told him.
‘I’m Alasdair,’ he replied. ‘They told me about you.’ And then he promptly slid out of sight.
I caught him before he hit the ground and dragged him into the bakery. Jason grabbed his other arm and together we hauled him up to sit in the cook’s chair.
‘Who’s the undead dude?’ asked Jason.
‘Has a note to see Daniel from Sister Mary,’ I said. ‘Shut and bar the door, Midshipman. Stand here, belt him with an oven slide if he gives you any trouble, and I’ll go and get our private detective.’ Jason regarded him dubiously. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ My apprentice didn’t handle emergencies well. ‘Has he been shot or something?’
‘He’s not bleeding,’ I pointed out. ‘On second thought, I’ll watch him and you fetch Daniel – here, take the envelope. And put the coffee on before you go.’
He did as requested, then belted up the internal stairs as fast as Heckle when a tin is opened in another room. Speaking of whom, the Mouse Police had returned, fish-scented, and were giving our guest the once-over. No danger; Heckle looked away and began his post-tuna wash. I am rather relying on Heckle to take out a burglar if necessary, probably by devouring him from the ankles up. He’s an ever-hungry cat. Jekyll strolled over, put a paw on the sergeant’s dusty boot then sat down on it. Right. The bakery approved of him.
He wasn’t unconscious, but his eyes were shut, as though he had expended his last reserves of energy in getting to my bakery, though I couldn’t imagine why. I poured out a glass of chilled water and touched him gently on the shoulder.
He flinched. Not a good reaction.
‘Water,’ I told him, holding the glass to his lips so that he could drink. He drained it.
‘More?’ I asked. He was not injured as far as I could see, but very tired.
Then his eyes opened.
Oh. Not tired. Sleepless. Haunted. I got a full-on dose of terror and nightmare.
Acting entirely on instinct, I knelt down and embraced him.
He smelt of male human, cheap soap and fear in roughly equal proportions. He put his head on my shoulder and sighed; he seemed to find my shoulder quite comfortable, as if he could easily fall asleep, which might be difficult to fit into a day’s baking. But I felt so sorry for him – he had clearly seen too many horrors for one man to absorb – that I stayed where I was. Presently I became aware that tears were sliding down my neck. He was weeping, without a sound or a sob.
Jason skidded back into the bakery and stopped on a sixpence when he saw me kneeling on the floor holding a man in my arms. A man who was not Daniel. ‘Corinna?’ he quavered.
‘It’s all right,’ I assured him. ‘Where’s Daniel?’
‘On his way. He’s just getting dressed and feeding Horatio.’
‘I’ve already fed Horatio.’ That cat was an opportunist’s opportunist. He could teach classes. ‘Start on the pasta dura, will you, if you’ve finished your muffins and challah?’
‘Jeez!’ he said, and dived for the oven.
The muffins came out perfect and the challah was gorgeous, slicked golden with egg yolk. The scents began to penetrate the half-swoon of my soldier. He sniffed. Nothing is more indicative of home, of safety, than the smell of baking bread. He sighed and began to sit up.
Now he would be embarrassed and I have no patience with embarrassment. I began to talk fast. ‘What will you have with your coffee: an Oasis muffin, an egg-and-bacon one, or a slice of bread?’
‘Egg-and-bacon muffin,’ the soldier said hungrily. ‘Me mam used to make ’em. They smelt just like that.’
‘Give him one, Jason,’ I ordered. I rose from my knees, which creaked. That’s a hard floor. ‘Would you rather have tea than coffee?’ I offered, reminded by his burr that he was Scottish.
‘Tea,’ said Alasdair Sinclair. He seemed a bit bemused. He looked around the bakery, wiping his face with the back of a scarred hand.
‘Corinna Chapman,’ I introduced myself. ‘Jason, my apprentice. Heckle. Jekyll is presently sitting on your feet. She loves leather boots. It’s some kind of fetish.’
Seeing us all watching him with interest, he started to redden. ‘I’m sorry to …’
‘Food,’ I suggested briskly.
Jason watched with awe as Alasdair devoured an entire muffin in two bites. My Jason is a growing boy and could eat for Australia. Bets are taken on how fast he can demolish the Cafe Delicious trucker’s special, which is eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes and hash browns or potato pancakes, depending on who is cooking that day. He holds the cafe record. But Alasdair looked like a worthy contender, or else he was very hungry.
Fortunately, at this point nearly all the baking was either done or in the oven, and Jason could go out for his breakfast. He skittered off and I locked the door behind him, after first scanning the alley. There was no one present who shouldn’t have been.
Daniel arrived, which was a bit of a relief. He took in the ordered state of the bakery, the soldier drinking tea as though it was nectar, and, of course, the smear of flour on Alasdair Sinclair’s face from resting his head on my shoulder. Hug a baker, you get floury. Daniel gave me a quick, affectionate look. There is no jealousy in him, partly because he knows there is no need for any, partly because he is an angel in tall, dark, gorgeous form. And he so firmly believes that I am beautiful that I have begun to believe it too. I cannot imagine what I did in a previous life to deserve Daniel. I must have saved a saint’s life or rescued a number of deserving children from a house fire.
Daniel squeezed my hand then turned his attention to our visitor. ‘Alasdair, I’m Daniel. Let’s go upstairs and have some breakfast, and you can explain how I might help you.’
‘I would thank the lady first,’ Alasdair said, attempting a smile.
I patted him briskly on the cheek in an aunt-like manner, managing to get most of the flour off. ‘My pleasure,’ I told him. ‘Now, off you go, I’ve got teacakes to make.’
Alasdair went quietly. I sent another two egg-and-bacon muffins with him, since he seemed to like them. And then I got on with the teacakes.
As I stirred, I wondered how such an obviously strong, capable man as Alasdair Sinclair had been reduced to a quivering, exhausted wreck. There were transverse scars on his wrist, I’d noticed. Not clean cuts, though; the edges were blurry. From a rope, perhaps? I frowned as I slid two trays of teacakes into the oven. I do not approve of wars.
There was a rap at the bakery door, which was still locked. As I let Jason in I scanned the alley once more. Still no lurkers or assassins as far as I could see. And Alsadair had been alone when he arrived. There was no reason for me to feel nervous.