by Anne Perry
He had forgotten that he was still sodden himself, and the stench of the sewer probably filled the whole house. “But…,” he started, then realized she was right. There was nothing further he could do to help Scuff, and catching pneumonia himself would help no one. He was shaking with cold, his teeth chattering. He would change and then make them both a cup of tea. His stomach was empty and sick, and his arm was throbbing.
He was in the kitchen with the teapot when Crow arrived. “How is he?” he asked, searching Monk’s face. “God, you look awful!” His voice shook, his emotions too raw to hide.
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “Hester took the bullet out and stitched the wound, but he’s terribly weak. He’s upstairs, in my bed. Can you…”
Crow had a gladstone bag with him; he had not even put it down. He turned and went up the stairs two at a time. Monk followed him five minutes later with scalding hot tea.
Crow was standing beside the bed. Hester was still sitting on the chair, Scuff’s white hand in hers. Crow turned. “She did a good job,” he said simply. “There’s nothing more that I can do. It’s a bad wound, but the bullet’s out and it’s clean. It’s not bleeding much anymore. I’ve got bandages here and spirit to clean with, and a drop of port wine to lift him when he wakes.” He did not say if, but they all knew he meant it.
“Just…wait?” Monk wanted to do more than that. There must be something.
“Tea,” Crow said with a bleak smile.
Monk poured it, and they sat down to endure the long night.
Scuff tossed and turned. By midnight he was feverish. Monk fetched a bowl of cool water from the kitchen, and Hester kept sponging him down. By half past one Scuff was more settled, breathing shallowly but not thrashing around, and no longer covered with sweat.
Crow took off the bandage and repacked the wound. It looked clean, but it was still bleeding slowly. He tried to give Scuff a teaspoonful of wine, but the boy would not take it.
Monk dozed a little in the chair, then changed places with Hester by the bed, watching and waiting.
Outside the rain turned to sleet, then to snow.
At five o’clock Scuff opened his eyes, but he was only half awake. He did not speak, and it seemed as if he had little idea where he was. Hester lifted him very slightly and gave him a teaspoonful of wine. He choked on it, but she gave him some more, and the second time he smiled very faintly. Almost immediately he slipped back into unconsciousness, but his breathing was a little steadier.
Monk went down to build the stove up again and boil more water for tea.
A little after seven Scuff spoke.
“Mr. Crow? That you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” Crow said quickly.
“Yer came….”
“Of course I did. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Nah…I knowed. I done it.” He smiled weakly. “Told yer.”
“What did you do?” Crow asked him.
“I found the feller fer Mr. Monk. I ’elped ’im.”
“Yes, I know,” Crow agreed. “He told me.”
“Did ’e?” Scuff frowned. He gave a deep sigh and fell back to sleep again, smiling.
“Is he going to be all right?” Monk demanded, his voice hoarse.
“Looks better” was all Crow would say.
At eight o’clock Crow left, needing to see his other patients. There was no more he could do for Scuff now, and his manner more than his words said that he trusted Hester’s ability as much as his own. He promised to return in the evening.
Monk was weary. His bones were aching and his eyes were smarting each time he blinked, as if there were sand in them. Nevertheless, he knew he must go and tell Rathbone that he had seen the assassin, exactly as Melisande Ewart had described him, and that the killer had shot Scuff and escaped. At least Monk could attest to his existence and his nature.
Hester was exhausted, too, but she dared not sleep in case Scuff suddenly grew worse and she was not there to do all she could. Even so she was only half awake when he spoke to her.
“ ’Oo are yer? Are yer Mr. Monk’s wife?” His voice was surprisingly clear.
She opened her eyes, blinking. “Yes, I am. My name’s Hester. How are you?”
He bit his lip. “I ’urt. I got shot. Did Mr. Monk tell yer?”
“Yes. I took the bullet out of your shoulder. That’s why it hurts so much. But it looks as if it’s getting better. Would you like something to drink?”
His eyes widened. “Yer looked? Din’t yer faint, nor nuffink?”
“No. I was a nurse in the army. I don’t faint.”
He stared at her, then moved experimentally. Suddenly he saw the lace on his sleeve. “Wo’s that? Wot yer done wi’ me clothes?”
“It’s one of my nightgowns,” she replied. “Your own clothes were wet from the sewers, and pretty dirty.”
He blushed scarlet, still staring at her.
“I’ve tended to soldiers before,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s all the same, in battle. Not that I gave them my own nightgowns, of course. But I didn’t have anything else for you, and no time to go and get anything. You needed to be warm and clean.”
“Oh.” He looked away, confused.
“Would you like something to drink?” she offered again.
He turned back to her slowly. “Wot yer got?”
“Tea with sugar and a little port wine,” she replied.
“I don’ mind if I do,” he said, a trifle warily. He was obviously still turning over in his mind the fact that he was wearing her nightgown and he had no idea where his own trousers were.
Hester went down to the kitchen and made tea, then brought it up and added a few spoonfuls of port. She helped him drink it without any further conversation. His color was definitely better when he lay back.
“Yer looked arter soldiers?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yes.”
“W’y d’yer do that? Din’t Mr. Monk mind?”
“I didn’t know him then.”
“In’t yer got no ma and pa ter look arter yer?” He frowned, as she evidently did not fit his picture of an orphan.
“Yes, I had then. They didn’t like it a lot,” she said frankly. “But quite a few young ladies, even very respectable ones, went out to help Florence Nightingale.”
“Oh! Yer one of ’em?”
“Yes.”
“Were yer scared?”
“Sometimes. But when things are at their worst you don’t think of yourself so much—more of the men who are wounded, and if you can help them.”
“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t need no ’elp. Least, not most o’ the time. I ’elp Mr. Monk. ’E don’t know much ’bout the river. Not that ’e in’t clever, an’ brave, like,” he added quickly. “ ’E’s just…”
“Ignorant,” she supplied for him with a smile.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “If yer knowed that, why’d yer let ’im go?”
“Because if you love someone, you can’t stop them doing what they believe they have to.”
He looked at her more seriously, with the beginning of something that could even have been respect. “Is that why yer pa let yer go inter the army?”
“Something like that.”
“Wot’s it like?”
She told him, fairly factually, what the troop ship had been like crossing the Mediterranean, and her first sight of Scutari. She was describing the hospital when she realized he was asleep. His breathing was even, his brow cool, his skin dry.
She lay down on Monk’s side of the bed and, in spite of her intention not to fall asleep, almost immediately drifted off too.
When she woke Scuff was awake, looking uncomfortable. He had been lying close to her, perhaps afraid to move in case he disturbed her. Yet he remained there now when he did not have to, his eyes wary, waiting for her to say something, perhaps make some kind of demand.
She knew better. He might have been frightened, lonely, and hungry for affection, but if she offered it too
soon he would reject it instantly. He needed his independence to survive, and he knew it.
“How are you?” she asked quite casually. “I fell asleep,” she added unnecessarily.
“It ’urts,” he said, then instantly seemed ashamed of himself. “I’m better, ta. I can go ’ome soon.”
It was not the time to argue with him. He needed to feel some part of his fate was in his own hands. He was afraid of losing his freedom, of becoming dependent, of coming to like warmth and soft beds, hot food—even belonging.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “As soon as you are a little better. I am going to get something to eat. Would you like something, too?”
He was silent, uncertain whether to accept or not. In his world, food was life. One never took it or gave it lightly. All his surroundings were unfamiliar, and he was conscious enough now to be fully aware of that.
She stood up, tidying back a few strands of hair and making a poor job of it. In spite of her determination not to care for the boy, she cared intensely. If he knew, he would resent it and feel trapped. She must not allow it to show. She went to the door without looking back, then forgetting at the last moment, she turned. He was lying in her place, white-faced, the skin pinched around his mouth, shadowed around his eyes. He looked very small. It was Monk’s opinion he cared about, not hers.
“I’ll be back,” she said, feeling foolish, and went down the stairs.
She returned half an hour later having made an egg custard, something at which she was not skilled. She had had to work hard to get it right. She had it now in two bowls on a tray. She set them down on the dresser and closed the door, then offered him one dish.
He stared at it, no idea what it was, and raised his eyes to hers, uncertain.
She put some on a spoon and held it to his lips.
He ate it, tasting it slowly, carefully. He might never admit it, but it was clear in his expression that he liked it very much.
Slowly she fed him the rest, then ate her own. She had a ridiculous feeling of success, as if she had won a great prize. She looked forward to making something else for him.
“Is that wot yer feed soldiers when they’re ’urt?” he asked.
“If we have the supplies, yes,” she replied. “Depends where we’re fighting. It can be hard to get things over great distances.”
“Wot kind o’ things? Yer gotter ’ave food. D’yer ’ave guns an’ things too?”
“Yes, and ammunition, and medical supplies, and more boots and clothes. All kinds of things.” Then she elaborated on army life, and he sat with his eyes never leaving hers. They were still talking when Monk came back in the late afternoon.
He came up to the room quietly. He looked exhausted, but the moment he saw Scuff sitting up against the pillow he smiled.
Hester rose, anxious for him now. It was already darkening outside, and he was spattered with rain even after having taken his coat off downstairs.
“Are you hungry?” she asked gently, trying to read from his face what he needed most.
“Yes,” he answered, as if surprised by it. “Rathbone thinks they may all be convicted, including Sixsmith.”
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely.
“Navvies’ evidence,” he explained. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have started this, but it’s too late to undo it now.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“More navvies, clerks, people who probably had no idea of any of it,” he answered. “Let’s eat. I’ve done all I can. Are you hungry, Scuff?”
Scuff nodded. “Yeah, I am.”
ELEVEN
By the time Monk returned home to Paradise Street after the following day’s court, it was dark and raining again. The gutters were awash, slopping over onto the cobbles. The reflections from the lamps danced on wet stone, and the clatter of hooves was broken by splashing. The cold wind coming up from the river carried wreaths of mist that stretched out, wrapped around trees and even houses, then elongated and disappeared again.
Inside, the house was warm. The kitchen smelled of new bread, clean linen, and something savory. Hester greeted him at the door.
“He’s fine,” she said before he asked.
He smiled as the sweetness of it soaked into him.
“He’s been asleep on and off,” she went on. “He looks a lot better.”
He held her close, kissing her mouth, then her cheek and eyes and hair, allowing the rest of the world to be closed out for a few precious minutes. Then he went upstairs to change into dry clothes and to see Scuff.
“How are you?” he asked.
Scuff stirred and sat up very slowly, blinking a little. He seemed uncertain how to answer.
“Are you worse?” Monk said anxiously.
Scuff grinned lopsidedly. “It ’urts like bleedin’ ’eck,” he said frankly. “But that egg stuff as she makes is real good. D’yer know some o’ ’em places she’s bin?” His eyes were huge with amazement and more admiration than he was probably aware of. “I in’t never ’eard o’ some o’ ’em!”
“Neither have I,” Monk conceded, coming in and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“She told me ’bout wot she done in the army an’ such.”
“Me too, now and then. She doesn’t talk about it a lot.”
“Sad, eh? All ’em men ’urt bad.” Scuff frowned. “Lot o’ ’em died. She din’t say so, but I reckon as they did.”
“Yes, I reckon so, too. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yes.”
Scuff tried to climb over to the edge of the bed, as if he would come downstairs to eat.
“No!” Monk said sharply. “I’ll bring it up to you!”
“Yer don’t ’ave ter,” Scuff began.
“I’d rather carry the supper up than have to carry you again,” Monk told him dryly. “Stay where you are!”
Scuff subsided and inched back to the center again. He lay against the pillow, watching Monk.
“Please don’t fall out,” Monk said more gently. “You’ll hurt yourself worse.”
Scuff said nothing, but he did not move again.
They were all three of them in the bedroom, halfway through eating, when the interruption came. Hester was cutting up vegetables for Scuff and letting him pick them up with a fork. He did it carefully, uncertain at first how to manage. Monk was eating steak and kidney pie with a vigorous appetite. Suddenly there was a loud knocking on the door, again and again, almost as if someone were trying to break in.
Monk put his plate on the tray, the last mouthful uneaten, and went downstairs to find out what it was.
Orme stood on the step in the rain, his hair plastered to his head, his face white. He did not wait for Monk to ask what it was, nor did he attempt to come in.
“There’s bin a cave-in,” he said hoarsely. “Down at the Argyll tunnel. The ’ole lot. It all came in and God knows ’ow many men’s buried.”
It was what James Havilland had feared, and Monk would have given everything he owned not to have had him proved right. “Do they know what caused it?” he asked, his voice shaking. Even his hand on the door felt cold and somehow disembodied.
“Not yet,” Orme said, ignoring the rain dripping down his face.
“Suddenly the ’ole side just slid in, wi’ water be’ind it, like a river. An’ then ’bout fifty yards further up the line ’nother lot went. I’m goin’ back there, sir, ter see if I can ’elp. Although God knows if anyone can.”
“Another slide? That means there are men trapped between the two? Is there any sewage down there?”
“Dunno, Mr. Monk. Depends on wot it were that slid. It’s close ter one o’ the old sewers as is still used. Could be. I know wot yer thinking—gas…” He did not finish.
“I’ll come with you.” There was no question of what he must do.
“Come in out of the rain while I tell my wife.” He left the door open and went up the stairs two at a time.
Hester was standing in the bedroom
doorway, Scuff sitting up on the bed behind her. Both of them had heard Orme’s voice and caught the sound of fear in it.
“There’s been a cave-in. I have to go,” he told her.
“Injuries? Can—” She stopped.
He gave her a quick smile. “No. Your place is here with Scuff.” He kissed her quickly, harder perhaps than he meant to. Then he turned and went back down the stairs again, took his coat from the hook in the hall, and followed Orme out into the street.
There was a hansom waiting. They climbed in and shouted to the driver to hurry back to the tunnel. He needed no urging.
They clattered through the streets. The long whip curled over the horse’s back, and water sprayed from the wheels on either side. It took them nearly half an hour to get there, even at this time of night, when there was no traffic. As Orme scrambled out, Monk paid the driver too generously, then followed Orme into the darkness and the rain. Ahead of them, a maze of lamps was moving jerkily as men stumbled over rubble and broken beams as carefully as they could to avoid falling.
Monk was aware of shouting, the sting of wind and rain, and—somewhere, though he could not see where—the thrum of one of the big engines for lifting the rubble. Beyond the periphery of the disaster area there were carriages waiting, and ambulances.
“Bloody awful mess!” Crow emerged into a small pool of light. His black hair was soaked. If he had ever had a medical bag, he had lost it. His hands were covered with blood. Judging by the gash on his left forearm, at least some of it was his own.
“How can we help?” Monk said simply. “Can we get anyone out?”
“God knows,” Crow answered. “But we’ve got to try. Be careful, the ground’s giving way all over the place. Watch where you put your weight, and if it goes, yell! Even in this noise, someone may hear you. Throw yourself flat—that’ll give you at least some chance of finding a beam or a piece of something to hang on to. Stand straight and you’ll go down like an arrow.” As he spoke he was leading the way towards a group of lanterns about a hundred yards further on, which were swaying as the men carrying them picked their footing to go deeper into the cave-in area.
“What happened?” Monk asked, having to raise his voice now above the thud and grind of the machine digging and unloading the rubble.