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“Lord Ravensbrook!” Hester glanced once at the gaoler, still holding the blood-soaked handkerchief against Ravensbrook’s chest, then moved forward and dropped to her knees. “Where are you hurt?” she said, as if he had been a child—quite soothingly, but with the voice of authority.
He raised his head and stared at her.
“Where are you hurt?” she repeated, putting her hand gently over the gaoler’s and moving the kerchief away very slowly. No gush of blood followed it; in fact, it seemed to have clotted and dried already. “Please, allow me to take your coat off,” she asked. “I must see if you are still bleeding.” It seemed an unnecessary comment. There was so much blood he must still be losing it at a considerable rate.
“Should you, miss?” Jimson asked. He had returned with her and was staring at Ravensbrook dubiously. “Might make it worse. Better wait till the doctor gets ’ere. ’E’s bin sent fer.”
“Take it off!” Hester ignored Jimson, and started to pull on Ravensbrook’s shoulders to ease the jacket away from him. He did nothing, and she moved his arm aside from where he had been holding it across his chest. “Take the other one!” she ordered Monk. “It will slip away if you hold it properly.”
He did as he was bid, and gently she pulled the coat off, leaving it in Monk’s hands. The shirt beneath was surprisingly white and not nearly as badly stained as Monk had expected. Indeed, there were only four marks that he could see, one on the front of the left shoulder, one on the left forearm, and two on the right side of the chest. None of them were bright scarlet or puddled in blood. Only the one on the shoulder that he had been holding was still shining wet.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Hester said dispassionately. She turned to the first gaoler. “I don’t suppose you have any bandages? No, I thought not. Have you cloths of any sort?”
The man hesitated.
“Right,” she nodded. “Then take off your shirt. It will have to do. I’ll use the tails.” She smiled very dryly. “And yours too, Mr. Rathbone, I think. I need a white one.” She ignored Monk, and his immacul
ate linen. Even in this contingency she was apparently aware of his finances.
Rathbone drew in a sharp breath, and thoughts of voluminous petticoats floated into his mind, and out again. He obeyed.
“Have you any spirits?” she asked the gaoler. “A little brandy for restorative purposes, perhaps?” She looked at Ravensbrook. “Have you a hip flask, my lord?”
“I don’t require brandy,” he said with a very slight shake of the head. “Just do what is necessary, woman.”
“I wasn’t going to give it to you,” she answered. “Have you any?”
He stared at her with seeming incomprehension.
“Yer feelin’ faint, miss?” the gaoler said with concern.
The shadow of a smile touched her lips. “No thank you. I wanted to clean the wounds. Water will do if that’s all there is, but brandy would have been better.”
Rathbone passed her the glass of water Ravensbrook had declined. Monk moved forward and fished in Ravensbrook’s jacket and found the flat, silver engraved flask, opened it and set it where she could reach it.
In silence they watched her work, cleaning away the blood first with cloths from the gaoler’s coarse shirt, then with a little brandy, which must have stung when it was applied, from the involuntary oath escaping Ravensbrook, and the clenched teeth and gulp of pain.
But even Monk could see that the wounds were not deep, more gashes and cuts than genuine stabs.
She then bound them with bandages made from almost all of Rathbone’s fine Egyptian cotton shirt, which she tore with great abandon and considerable dexterity, and, Monk thought, not a little satisfaction. He glanced at Rathbone and saw him wince as the cloth ripped.
“Thank you,” Ravensbrook said stiffly when she was finished. “I am obliged to you again, Miss Latterly. You are extremely efficient. Where is my wife?”
“In your carriage, my lord,” she replied. “I daresay she will be at home by now. I took the liberty of instructing the coachman to take her. She may become ill if she sits waiting in this chill. I am sure someone will find you a hansom immediately.”
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Of course.” He looked at Rathbone. “If you need me for anything, I can be found at my home. I cannot think what else there is to do now, or to say. I assume the judge will make whatever remarks he believes necessary, and that will be an end to it. Good day, gentlemen.” He stood up and, walking very uprightly and with a slight sway, made his way to the door. “Oh.” He turned and looked at Rathbone. “I presume I may have the liberty of giving him a decent burial? After all, he has not been found guilty of anything, and I am his only relative.” He swallowed painfully.
“I can see no reason why not,” Rathbone agreed, suddenly touched by a sense of overwhelming loss, deeper than mere death, a bereavement of the spirit, of the past as well as the future. “I will attend to the formalities, my lord, if you wish?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you,” Ravensbrook accepted. “Good day.” And he went out of the door. Now no longer locked, it swung to heavily behind him.
Hester looked towards the cell.
“You don’t need to,” Rathbone stepped in front of her. “It’s most unpleasant.”
“Thank you, Oliver, for your sensitivity,” she said bleakly. “But I have seen far more dead men than you have. I shall be quite all right.” And she walked in, brushing his shoulder. He had replaced his jacket and it looked odd with no shirt beneath.
Inside she stood still and looked down at the crumpled form of Caleb Stone. She stared at him for several seconds before she frowned a little, then with a deep sigh, straightened up and came out again. Her eyes met Rathbone’s.
