Corridors of the Night (24 page)

‘I’ll go upstairs and wash,’ Rathbone replied. ‘Trains always make me feel grubby. Then you will tell me whatever it is. Is . . .’ He found his mouth dry. ‘Is Sir Ingram York dead?’

‘No, sir, not so far as I am aware.’

Rathbone felt a faint stirring of disappointment. Ingram York was the judge who had inveigled Rathbone into the case that had caused his ruin. No, that was not true. York had dug the pit for him, but Rathbone himself had stepped into it, in the arrogant belief that he could bring about justice in spite of the law, and without paying the price for it.

Ingram York was also the now mentally broken husband of Beata, whom Rathbone had learned to love in spite of all his best judgement. Best judgement! What an inappropriate term to use for his recent decisions, personal and professional.

And yet it was Beata he had wanted to turn to and share the aching, melancholy beauty of the Trossachs, of Loch Lomond with its rocky shore and glimpses of light on the water.

He returned downstairs, cleaner and no longer in his travelling clothes, but in an old smoking jacket instead. Dover had the sandwiches on the table and a glass of deep ruby-red claret warmed to room temperature, breathing its fragrance into the air.

‘So what is the news?’ Rathbone asked as he sat in the armchair and picked up the first sandwich.

Dover remained standing, as was his custom. He considered it the way of a good manservant to conduct himself. It was part of his identity.

‘First of all, sir, I would like you to know that Mrs Monk is quite well and safe at home . . .’

Rathbone found himself suddenly almost unable to breathe.

‘What do you mean, Dover? Why would she not be? What has happened? What about Monk himself?’

‘Quite well, sir, but he was never in danger. It was Mrs Monk who was kidnapped, along with three small children, apparently from the river-bank.’

Rathbone stared at him. ‘Three children? Who? And for God’s sake, Dover, why? Tell me the story properly, man!’ He knew he was being unreasonable but he could not help himself. He was now sitting up rigidly and his sandwich and claret were forgotten.

‘Mrs Monk was working at the Royal Naval Hospital at a special annexe there, mostly at nights, to stand in for a friend from her army days, who was sick herself,’ Dover said steadily. ‘Somehow she discovered that the doctor and chemist brothers who run that part of the place were conducting experiments on sick people, and injured ones, and using the blood of children they had picked up on the river-bank.’

Rathbone shut his eyes as if doing that would somehow close out the pictures in his imagination.

‘When they realised that she knew what they were doing,’ Dover continued, ‘they took her and the children, along with their current patient, and went off into the countryside with them. Had them locked up in some farmhouse, both to keep them quiet and to use them for this thing they were doing. Of course, Mr Monk found out where they were, and he went and rescued them. Took the chemist brother prisoner, and the daughter of the patient they were trying to cure. They’ll be coming up for trial soon. It’s going to be all over the newspapers, so I thought you should know before you read it, sir.’

‘Yes,’ Rathbone said slowly, his mind still reeling. ‘Yes, of course. You are quite right. Thank you, Dover.’

‘Sir.’ Dover inclined his head and turned towards the door.

‘Dover?’ Rathbone said quickly.

He turned back. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘What happened to the children?’

‘Wasn’t reported, sir, except that they’re being taken care of somewhere safe. Best that way, if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir.’

Rathbone did not argue, but his mind was racing. He determined to find Hester the following day, and make certain for himself that she was really unhurt, and not actually far more distressed than she was allowing anyone else to know. Perhaps there was something he could do to help.

As it turned out in the morning, he was forestalled in his intentions before he had even finished his breakfast. He was still tired from the long train journey. There was no urgency to rise, since his disbarment over the case where he had so signally taken the law into his own hands. He had been permitted recently to take second chair, a mere assistant to the lawyer conducting the case. It was a position he was unused to, and in which he was uncomfortable. It was many years since he had accepted small cases: petty theft, public nuisance or minor affray. It was a long fall from where he had been before, as probably the finest criminal lawyer in the country, and then a newly acclaimed judge on the bench. The slow climb back was bitter; even at best, it was difficult.

But sleep often eluded him, and lying in bed wide awake was the most debilitating of all to the spirits. He needed to find something worthwhile to do, a cause that would stir his blood again.

He ate reasonably early. Dover was always awake and ready. Rathbone should show more appreciation of his loyalty. He had poured his second cup of tea from a fresh pot when Dover came in looking fairly smug.

‘Mr Ardal Juster is here to see you, sir. He apologises for the earliness of the call, but he says it is important. Shall I bring another cup, sir? The tea is quite fresh.’

In spite of himself Rathbone felt a stir of interest, even excitement. Ardal Juster was the lawyer who had defended him in his own case, and since then had quite often asked his advice on other matters.

‘Yes, by all means,’ he agreed without hesitation. ‘And do bring a cup for him. Ask him if he has eaten, and if he would care for something more?’

Dover disappeared and a moment later Ardal Juster came in. He was several years younger than Rathbone, in his mid-thirties, slender and dark. He was almost handsome, but the quality that took the attention most was the keenness of his face, the vitality in him.

‘Good morning, Sir Oliver,’ he said, holding out his hand as Rathbone rose to greet him. ‘Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but a case has arisen in your absence that I have accepted to prosecute, and I am certain will interest you, both professionally and personally. I would consider your counsel invaluable, and would actually seek more than that: your actual help in court, if you are willing?’

Rathbone gestured for Juster to take the other chair at the table. As Dover returned with a clean cup and saucer, he offered him tea, and poured it as soon as Juster inclined his head.

Dover went off to make fresh toast and Juster began immediately, leaning forward across the table in his eagerness.

‘Are you aware yet of the kidnap of Hester Monk and the three Roberts children? All safely rescued, and Hamilton Rand taken into custody, along with Adrienne Radnor, the daughter of the patient on whom the experiments were conducted.’

‘I have heard a little,’ Rathbone answered, watching Juster’s face, trying to assess the nature of his emotional interest. Was it outrage at the crime, fascination with the legal aspects, hunger to try his skills against powerful interests ranged in the defence? He hoped it was something better than the considerable fee and the chance of appearing in a highly publicised case. ‘But please tell me exactly who Rand is, and what is the charge, as the law sees it,’ he added.

‘It is complicated.’ Juster sat back a little and took a sip of his tea, but his eyes did not leave Rathbone’s face. ‘Hamilton Rand is a chemist of very great skill, possibly even genius, and a little madness. His brother, Magnus Rand, is a fine doctor, but not charged with him, although he may very well be an accomplice.’ He was clearly weighing what he said, trying to keep emotion out of the words he chose, as well as his tone. ‘They have been experimenting with the transfusion of blood from one human being to another, in order to prevent death from loss of blood in those seriously injured, and to treat illnesses such as white blood disease.’ He looked enquiringly at Rathbone, waiting for him to comment.

Rathbone nodded, ignoring his own tea. A tiny worm of fear stirred inside him. ‘Go on.’

‘It is not a new idea,’ Juster continued. ‘In fact, it has been tried with varying degrees of failure for more than two centuries. If it succeeded it would be one of the greatest leaps forward in the history of medicine.’

‘The point?’ Rathbone prompted him.

‘Hamilton Rand appears to have had some success. One of his patients is still alive, miraculously so. Or at least he was, until a couple of weeks ago. He has disappeared, but there is no reason to suppose he is dead, or even ill. His name is Bryson Radnor. It was in order to continue his treatment that Rand kidnapped the three small children whose blood seemed miraculously always to work. I gather that is highly unusual, although no one seems to know why. He also took Mrs Hester Monk, who was nursing Radnor.’

The chill inside Rathbone grew.

As if he had seen it, Juster answered the question. ‘Mrs Monk was taken against her will, and remained only under duress, and in order to look after the three children, who were becoming weaker and weaker as they were bled regularly, and too much—’

‘But they are alive?’ Rathbone interrupted. The idea of this madman, genius or not, bleeding children to death, was hideous.

‘Oh, yes,’ Juster assured him. ‘But too young to testify. The oldest is only about seven.’

‘The case is against Hamilton Rand? Kidnap?’

‘Yes. And against Adrienne Radnor, the daughter of the patient, a woman in her early thirties. She was entirely complicit in the kidnap, both of the children and of Hester Monk.’

‘I see.’ Rathbone drank the rest of his tea. Dover came in with fresh toast and both men ate in silence while Rathbone considered the facts and Juster waited.

‘The charge is kidnap,’ Rathbone continued after a few moments. ‘Why does the case interest you so much? Clearly it does.’

Juster smiled. ‘Lots of things, Sir Oliver. Kidnap of a nurse, who cannot even attempt to escape because of the children she would leave behind; indeed, who cannot leave her patient because she is the only one skilled enough to care for him. And yet if he dies, her life may be hostage. Rand dare not let her go, alive. She must hate Radnor, but she is sworn to help any sick person, however vile, and in whatever circumstances.’

Rathbone felt his whole body chill.

‘Rand is not a doctor, he is a chemist,’ Juster warned him. ‘He has sworn no oath to medicine. The Hippocratic oath says, “First, do no harm”! Yet how can you discover new medicine if you make no experiment that might end badly?’ His face was keen with the magnitude of the thought. ‘Who is to take the chances to step forward into the unknown where no one can evaluate the risks? Clearly what he did to Mrs Monk, and to the children, is wrong! But is he entirely wrong? What is the law? And what should it be?’

Rathbone nodded slowly, seeing the quagmire of Juster’s argument. ‘And what about Miss Radnor?’ he asked. ‘How much is she to blame really? And what will the law say about her?’

‘Exactly,’ Juster agreed, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘And yet they must be prosecuted. If they are not, then anybody can justify anything with the defence that they were seeking new medical insights.’ His voice became more urgent. ‘Help me with this, Sir Oliver. Mrs Monk was deeply wronged, and I seriously believe that if Commander Monk and his men had not rescued her, then both she and the Roberts children would have paid for this with their lives. Fortunately she was not injured, as it turns out – at least not physically. But fear and imprisonment are a torture to the mind, and that also is a crime whose damage we may never be able to quantify.’

‘Why me?’ Rathbone asked. He was not seeking any kind of praise, not even affirmation. He could see no reason why he was suited for this case, and he knew Juster well enough to understand his ambition.

Juster smiled. ‘Because you have known and cared for Mrs Monk for many years. You will fight hard, but fairly for her. You’ll not try to trip her on the witness stand. And if the defence does, you’ll attack them hard and mercilessly. I know your reputation with other lawyers is mixed. You are not yet fully restored to the place you want to hold. I don’t know if you ever will be. But you are the best, whether it is acknowledged or not. And the public knows it, even if their Lordships of the Bar do not.’ He smiled very slightly, but there was a warmth in it. ‘And you never give up.’

‘And you very diplomatically did not mention that I have a debt of honour to you,’ Rathbone added. ‘You defended me brilliantly, when no one else would, and at some risk to yourself.’

Juster’s smile widened, showing white teeth. ‘Really? I had forgotten that.’

Rathbone grunted. ‘Indeed. Only because you are sure that I have not. Yes, I will consider the case very carefully and do all I can to be of assistance. It is, as you say, extremely interesting. Thank you. Will you have more tea . . .?’

After Juster had gone, Rathbone very carefully weighed what he had been told. He asked Dover to bring in the newspapers that had written of the incident, and he studied them all. He was perfectly aware that what newspapers wrote, even the best of them, was not necessarily the truth. It was not facts he was looking for, it was how it was reported, as that was what would form most of the public opinion.

Just after luncheon he took a hansom. He crossed the river and went along the south bank up the slight hill to Paradise Row.

‘Oliver!’ Hester greeted him with surprise and great pleasure. ‘How good to see you! Are you well?’ She regarded him carefully, as if she wanted more than the politeness of a usual answer, which was always in the affirmative.

He smiled at her. It still filled him with a strange mixture of happiness and regret to see her. He had once asked her to marry him, and he never totally forgot it, even though he acknowledged it was Monk she truly loved, and that would always be so.

‘Don’t talk nonsense, Hester,’ he said quite gently. ‘I have read the newspapers and Ardal Juster came to see me before I had even finished my breakfast. He has asked me to help him prosecute Hamilton Rand and, of course, Adrienne Radnor. I am very well. Now tell me how you are, with no polite evasions.’

‘Then come inside,’ she invited him. ‘The sun is nice at the back and we can sit with the garden doors open and drink lemonade. I think I even have some cake.’ She turned and led the way inside.