Free An Irish Country Christmas by Patrick Taylor Page B

receding chin and a narrow, high-bridged Roman nose. Gold-rimmed pince-nez with thick lenses clung to it, distorting Barry’s view of what seemed to be grey, lustreless eyes. If I’d had to guess this man’s occupation, he thought, I’d swear he was an undertaker’s assistant.
    “Take these.” Doctor Fitzpatrick tossed his gloves into his hat and handed them to Barry like a condescending master to his valet. Barry set them on the table of the hall clothes stand. The stranger unbuttoned his coat and was slipping the sleeves down his arms when Barry spotted Mrs. Kincaid heading down the hall from her kitchen. She took in the scene before her and halted at the foot of the stairs, arms folded across her bosom, chins thrust out, agate eyes flashing.
    “My coat.” Doctor Fitzpatrick handed Barry his raincoat.
    Barry hung the garment on a hook on the stand above the man’s hat and gloves.
    “You must be Laverty,” Doctor Fitzpatrick remarked.
    “Yes,” Barry said levelly. “I am Doctor Laverty.”
    The man’s gaze swept over Barry from head to toe. His thin lip curled. “You look to me as if you should still be at school.” He sniffed. “I’m not here to waste my time with minions. I’ve come to see the principal of the practice. Where is O’Reilly?”
    Barry’s eyes narrowed. He kept his voice level as he said, “
Doctor
O’Reilly is a bit under the weather today. He’s upstairs.” Barry glanced above his head. “He’s not receiving visitors.”
    He heard a strange, dry, braying noise and realized that the man was laughing. “From what I hear, I suppose you mean he’s hungover.”
    “I do not.” Barry’s hands, which had been hanging loosely at his sides, curled into fists. He hesitated before continuing, but he decided that as the man in front of him was medically qualified, it would not be breaching a confidence. “My senior colleague has tracheobronchitis.”
    “Smoker too?”
    “Yes. Doctor O’Reilly smokes a pipe.”
    “Filthy habit. Bronchitis, is it? Serves him right.”
    “Now listen—”
    But Doctor Fitzpatrick was already striding to the foot of the staircase, head turned back as he remarked over his shoulder, “I’m not a visitor. I am a medical man with every right to visit a sick colleague.”
    “Is that a fact, sir?” Barry heard the tone in Kinky’s voice. It was the same kind of understated growl that Lady Macbeth would give—seconds before she sank her fangs into the nearest piece of yieldingflesh. He saw the man’s head turn. He slammed to a halt and took two steps backward. To Barry it seemed as if Fitzpatrick, who had been proceeding like a square-rigger under full sail, had run up on the reef of Kinky Kincaid, where she still stood at the foot of the staircase, arms folded, feet apart, legs braced to withstand any shock.
    Fitzpatrick shuddered, as would the masts and yards of the grounded vessel, collected himself, and then demanded, “And who might you be?”
    “I,” said Kinky very civilly, “am Mrs. Kincaid, housekeeper to Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.”
    Barry thought of how O’Reilly had described Kinky when he had first introduced her: his Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guarded the entrance to Hades. Except Kinky was such an effective guard she probably merited a fourth head.
    Yet her effectiveness seemed to be lost on Doctor Fitzpatrick. As a grounded ship might try to force its way over an obstruction and might succeed with soft, yielding coral, he bore on. “Well, Mrs Kincaid, I am here to visit my colleague. If you would kindly show me the way . . .”
    “I’ll not, sir.” Barry saw Kinky’s shoulders rise. The good ship Fitzpatrick had hit granite, and jagged rocks at that. “When you phoned this morning, I told you himself was not receiving.”
    “Rubbish. I’m a medical man.”
    “That’s as may be. Doctor O’Reilly told me he wasn’t up to having visitors today.”
    As if to give emphasis to her words Barry heard a hoarse