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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.
