Corridors of the Night (3 page)

Sherryl’s voice was harsh, as if her throat were so tight she could barely force the words out.

‘What didn’t? He was in awful pain, first in his back, then down his sides, and tops of his legs. He was chilling one minute and feverish the next. His urine was full of blood.’ She stared at Hester as if she were still desperate for some kind of help.

‘I didn’t know what to do,’ Sherryl went on. ‘He was in agony worse than his wounds, and terrified. I was useless. He was dying and I couldn’t think of anything to do for him. He was faint. Some parts of him went absolutely white, as if there were no blood inside him. Others were dark red and, strong man as he was, he wept with the pain of it. God in heaven, that’s not a way for anybody to die!’ Now the tears ran unashamedly down her cheeks. ‘Why the hell weren’t you there?’ she said furiously.

Hester knew this was anger at helplessness, at pain, and death. They were the tears of exhaustion, and the need not to be alone.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hester said quietly. ‘I was with another patient. A child. I told Mary Ann.’

‘She’s no damn use!’ Sherryl said desperately. ‘She thought Wilton was going to live, after Dr Rand took him away for treatment yesterday. He . . . he was so full of hope when he came back.’ She stopped abruptly, unable to keep her self-control any longer.

‘Did you know there was a children’s ward here?’ Hester asked, wondering even as she spoke if she was wise to mention it.

Sherryl’s eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about? Where? There are no children here. It’s all soldiers and sailors.’ Disbelief was heavy in her face.

‘No it isn’t,’ Hester contradicted her. ‘I found a child in one of the corridors, looking for help. She was about six, and her brother was in crisis. I went with her. That’s where I was.’

Sherryl’s eyes widened again.

‘We got him through the night, but I don’t know what good it will do. He was very weak.’

‘A child too?’ Sherryl asked.

‘About seven,’ Hester replied. ‘I couldn’t leave her alone to watch him die . . .’

Indecision flickered in Sherryl’s face, and then she chose to believe. ‘You couldn’t have done anything here anyway,’ she conceded, turning away after a moment to master her feelings, and wipe her face with the corner of her apron.

Hester was uncertain what to say. She really did understand the sense of helplessness, the going over and over every step, every decision, all the possibilities that could have been tried, and then the agony of watching such a painful, horrible death. Everyone who cared questioned themselves.

Sherryl O’Neill was a difficult person to get to know. Their first real conversation had been when Hester asked about her unusual name, one she had not heard before, and Sherryl had told her of its origins in France. Her parents had been touring the country and had never forgotten its beauty. When their daughter was born the intended name of ‘Rose’ had been replaced with a version of the French word for ‘dear’ or ‘beloved’, and she had been trying to live up to it ever since.

Hester, who had always felt herself to look rather ordinary, understood exactly. It had not started a friendship, but at least rather more than simply an acquaintance.

As soon as Hester knew that Dr Magnus Rand was due in the hospital, and before he could begin any rounds, she went to tell him about Charlie. She found him in his office towards the front of the building. It was an imposing room with an oak desk and a couple of other tables with books, papers and instruments spread out, as if there were always a new work in progress.

Two of the walls were lined with shelves, the books packed in. At a glance they seemed at random. There were no obvious sets of volumes. Once she had had the chance to read the titles and she was impressed with the breadth and variety of his interest, but always in some form of medicine. There were studies dating from the ancient Greeks, through the developing knowledge of the Arabs and Jews, and such giants as Maimonides. Then the herbalists of the Middle Ages, to the modern histories of new discoveries in anatomy and physiology. Harvey, who had discovered the circulation of the blood, was clearly Dr Rand’s greatest hero.

He was a mild-seeming man, several years younger than his brother, Hamilton, but his features were not dissimilar, perhaps a little blunter. Unlike Hamilton, his fairish hair was thick and always seemed to have escaped his control.

He looked up as Hester knocked lightly on the open door.

‘Ah, come in, Mrs Monk.’ His expression appeared mild but his blue eyes were sharp with interest. ‘How went the night?’

She stood in front of the desk. Only then did she realise that Hamilton Rand was in the room also. He was visibly the elder of the two. His face was leaner and more deeply lined, his hair thinner. It was difficult to tell what colour his eyes were, but impossible to miss the acute intelligence in them. Now he watched her silently. She was not a social acquaintance so he did not feel it necessary to acknowledge her.

There was no escape. Hester could feel the colour burn up her face. She did not have any doubt that she had done the right thing, but she was by no means certain that either man would see it that way. They would have heard of Wilton’s death. To lose a patient was always a kind of failure, and they had not expected this one.

She told them exactly what her own notes had said, until the time she had left to walk along the corridor to fetch more paper for recording patients’ progress.

‘Wilton was restless.’ Magnus affirmed. ‘What then?’

‘What time was he restless, Mrs Monk?’ Hamilton interrupted without looking at his brother. ‘Be precise, if you please.’

‘Ten minutes past midnight he got tangled in the sheet and started to struggle,’ Hester replied. She was used to his manner. He looked for reason in the details and she understood that. He was a man of penetrating intelligence and accustomed to dealing with those who generalised where he required exactness.

‘Awake, Mrs Monk? Were his eyes open? Did he focus?’

‘His eyes were open but he seemed to focus only now and then. I would say less than half the time,’ she replied.

‘What did you do for him?’ Magnus asked, taking over control of the questions again, but he looked to his brother as he did so, and observed Hamilton’s brief nod before he continued. ‘And how did he respond?’

‘I disentangled him so he would be less distressed,’ Hester replied. ‘Then I bathed him in cool water to reduce his fever. At first he responded well. He became calmer and spoke quite lucidly for several minutes, perhaps almost ten. He went back to sleep, and I went to see the other patients.’

‘Then what?’ Hamilton demanded, moving forward a step or two.

‘I did much the same for another patient, Latimer. He—’

Hamilton waved a hand sharply. ‘He is of no concern in this issue, Mrs Monk. Keep your mind on the subject, if you please . . .’

‘You asked her where she went, Hamilton,’ Magnus pointed out.

Hester knew he intended it kindly, and yet she found his need to defend her faintly patronising. Or was it that Magnus was so used to his elder brother’s manner that he tried to offset it simply out of habit?

Hamilton shrugged irritably. ‘I know what I said, Magnus. The woman can take care of herself. For heaven’s sake, come to the point. Wilton could have lived!’ He swivelled back to Hester. His eyes were fixed on hers intently. ‘How did he die? Details, woman!’

Hester drew in her breath. ‘I don’t know, sir. You will have to ask Miss O’Neill. When I—’

‘What?’ Hamilton demanded, the colour rising up his cheeks. ‘Where the devil were you? I’m not paying you to—’

Magnus put out his hand and gripped his brother’s arm. Hester could see his knuckles white and the wrinkles in the sleeve of his suit where he pulled it out of shape. ‘Let her tell us, Hamilton. The woman must answer the call of her own nature now and then.’

Hester felt herself blushing, which was absurd.

Hamilton shook off the offending hand, and Magnus let go. He had made his protest.

‘Well?’ Hamilton demanded, staring at Hester as if he could make the acuteness of his vision bore into her head.

Hester stood a little straighter. She did not avert her eyes. ‘When I was returning along the corridor I encountered a small girl, perhaps six or seven years old. She was in extreme distress and said that her brother was dying.’

‘What?’ Magnus turned to Hamilton, his expression filled with alarm.

Hamilton ignored him, not moving his eyes from Hester’s.

‘And what did you do, Mrs Monk?’ he said, enunciating each word deliberately.

‘I went with her to see what I could do to help,’ Hester replied. ‘It could have been true. As it turns out, I believe it was . . .’

Magnus was ashen. He half rose in his seat.

Hamilton took a deep breath. His voice grated between his teeth. ‘What about the nurse, Mrs . . . what’s her name? Mrs Gilmore?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hester replied. ‘When I had time I looked for her. I never found her.’

Hamilton swore savagely.

‘I have come precisely to tell you about this, Mr Rand,’ she answered him. ‘I discussed Wilton first because Charlie did not die.’

‘The boy is still alive?’ Magnus asked hurriedly.

‘Yes, Dr Rand. He is weak, but I think improving.’

Hamilton leaned forward. ‘What did you do for him? Tell me precisely what you did, and how he responded.’

Hester’s mind flashed back to her time as an army nurse in the Crimea. She had heard generals give orders to soldiers in just such a tone of voice. Sometimes it had sent them to their deaths. She forced it from her mind. Hamilton Rand would remember every word she said, or omitted to say.

‘I asked the girl, Maggie, what she knew of his illness—’ she began.

‘And what did she tell you?’ Hamilton snapped, cutting across her.

‘Very little, other than that you used what sounded from her description to be a syringe.’

‘Go on! Go on!’

‘I touched Charlie,’ she replied, refusing to be hurried. Charlie was what mattered, and the other children, not what Hamilton Rand thought of her. ‘He was lying still, breathing shallowly and did not appear to be aware of us. I pinched his skin, to see if it came away from his flesh easily, in order to judge if he was lacking moisture. He had vomited recently and had not urinated for a time. He was very seriously lacking moisture. I sent the girl for water. I propped Charlie up and gave him a few sips as often as he would take them. It was four glasses in all, by morning.’ She did not look away from him but met his eyes steadily. Now she was not alarmed, only angry that he should have let it come to this point.

Hamilton let out his breath slowly, pursing his lips. He did not look at his brother.

‘Indeed,’ he said almost without expression. ‘You showed some initiative.’ At last he looked at Magnus. ‘That explains her absence satisfactorily.’

‘Of course it does,’ Magnus said impatiently. ‘Thank you, Mrs Monk. We are obliged to you. We shall take care of the matter now, and get a full report on poor Wilton from Miss O’Neill. We had great hopes that we could save him.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Hamilton, do you think—’

‘No,’ Hamilton said instantly. ‘Not yet. It would not be wise. I must speak to you further.’ He lifted his hand slightly without turning to Hester. ‘You may go, Mrs Monk. Thank you.’

Hester wanted to know more, but Hamilton had forgotten her already. He was picking up a bundle of papers off the desk in his part of the office as if she were no longer present. ‘Magnus, I think we should consider this. I assume you have read it?’

Magnus turned to respond.

Hester went out of the door, closing it behind her, and walked straight-shouldered, head high, along the corridor to the entrance hall and way out. She was annoyed, but that was personal and of no importance at all. What mattered was the men she nursed . . . and Charlie, and for the moment she had done all she could.

MONK WAS sitting at his desk at the Thames River Police Station at Wapping. Outside the river sounds were muted: the whisper of water as the tide rose, slurping against the stone steps up to the quayside. Now and again came the voices of lightermen calling to each other, or the clank of metal as a chain was hauled through a winch, and the cry of gulls fighting over food.

Sunlight came in through the open door, pooling in bright patches on the floor, the desk, and catching the pallor in Orme’s face. He looked tired, and the white in his hair was more pronounced than it had been even a few months ago.

Orme had served on the River Police all of his working life and he was now nearing seventy. He had been Monk’s mentor since his coming here, the one who had taught him without lecturing or criticism, and never in front of the other men. It was Orme who had rescued him from the few serious errors he had made, without ever referring to them again. But he was growing tired. He did not need to tell Monk that he wanted to retire; it was there in the tone of his voice, the stiffness in the way he climbed the steps up from the water’s edge to the dock, and the frequency with which he spoke of his daughter and his new grandchild. Quietly, in his own way, he was desperately proud of them.

‘Is Laker back yet?’ Monk asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ Orme replied immediately.

‘Send him in,’ Monk told him.

Orme nodded and went out silently.

A moment later the door opened again and Laker came in, closing it behind him. He was young, just over thirty, and he stood almost to attention, facing Monk impassively. He was totally unlike Monk in appearance. He was fair-skinned with vividly blue eyes and the sort of hair that the sun bleached flaxen blond on the top. He was good-looking by any standard, and he was aware of it.

Monk was both amused and uncomfortable. There was something in the quiet arrogance of Laker that, he gathered, was like he himself had been a few years ago, before the accident that had robbed him of all memory, except occasional, disturbing flashes. People had spoken of him in just the words he would have used to describe Laker. Laker had all the quick wits that Monk had, the self-assurance before the total amnesia had taken away his safety.