Page 176 of Feathers in the Wind
‘Without wishing to be offensive, Nathaniel, I would prefer if you did have a bath before lying down on my spare bed. Follow me.’
I threw open the door to the bathroom. ‘I will run the bath and that is...’ I indicated the toilet, groping for a word he might recognize in his confused state, ‘...the privy.’ I demonstrated its flushing properties. ‘Now, towels are here and in the bottle is soap for your hair. You can use this dressing gown.’
I pulled out the large, white, fluffy toweling gown left by Mark, and no doubt “borrowed” from one of the many expensive hotels Mark frequented on his holidays.
My guest seemed more interested in the toilet. He kept pressing the flush button. ‘Give it a chance to refill,’ I said with infinite patience. ‘There, your bath is run. I’ll leave you to it.’
As I closed the door on him, I added, ‘Try not to get the bandage wet.’ I had used a waterproof dressing but knowing men, thought it worth pointing out.
He swept me a low bow. ‘Mistress Shepherd, I am indebted to you.’
‘I will put some supper on while you have a bath.’
It had been a long time since I had cooked anything more than baked beans on toast and I rather enjoyed the challenge of throwing together a simple meal of spaghetti Bolognese.
As I sliced the onion, tears starting in my eyes, Alan knocked at the kitchen window, nearly causing me to slice my finger.
‘So where is your mystery man?’ he asked as I let him in.
‘Having a bath,’ I sniveled.
‘It’s a bit of a risk inviting strange men into your house, Jess. Why didn’t you call the police?’
That was a question I couldn’t answer. ‘I don’t feel threatened by him and there’s something about his story that... I don’t know--promise me you won’t laugh--has a ring of truth to it.’
Alan picked up Nathaniel’s torn and stained jacket and shirt from the back the kitchen chair.
He let out a low whistle and I looked up blinking through my streaming eyes.
Alan turned to me, holding the shirt in his hand. ‘Jess. This stuff is genuine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The cloth, the hand stitching, the lace. It’s all authentic seventeenth century.
‘Nonsense. If it was genuine it would be antique, hardly the stuff to wear while you go scrambling over someone’s wall or playing your silly war games, come to that.’
‘Jessie, I’m telling you, I know all the makers of reproduction clothing, and there is no way they would ever get this degree of accuracy just in the choice of fabric. Look at the blackwork embroidery on the shirt... unless it was purloined from some museum...’ He frowned and screwed his nose. ‘But even then it couldn’t possibly be in such good condition, bloodstains aside.’
‘What do you know about blackwork embroidery?’ I scoffed, wiping my eyes on the tea towel.
‘More than you,’ he countered and turned his attention to the sword, drawing it from its scabbard. He turned the blade over, weighing it in his hand. ‘Lovely.’
‘A Wilkinson sword?’ I grinned at the avaricious glint in his eye.
‘Hardly. Jess, this is a genuine seventeenth century sword.’ His eyes widened, and he gave a low whistle. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, that is genuine seventeenth century blood.’
I glanced at the darkening substance on the sword and recoiled. ‘Oh my God, he’s killed someone. I’m harboring a mad serial killer.’
‘Or he is exactly who he says he is,’ Alan responded, his expression grave. ‘What does he call himself?’
I reached for a tissue to wipe my nose and said, ‘You’ll laugh. He says he is Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill Hall.’
‘There was a Colonel Nathaniel Preston living at Heatherhill Hall at the time of the Civil War,’ Alan said.
‘Are you telling me there is a chance my friend in the bathroom is who he says he is?’ I could hardly keep the sarcasm out of my tone.
Alan shrugged. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’ he quoted.
