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“How did Lydiate go so wrong?” Hester asked. She looked up at him from the sofa, where she was sitting sideways with her feet curled up half underneath her.
“I didn’t remember the painting of the seahorse on the boat I saw,” he replied regretfully. “And of course it hadn’t rammed us then.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she replied, shaking her head. “It can’t be so easy to get the wrong man, and come so close to hanging him, just from the lack of one clue. Are we ever sure we have the right person, if it’s this simple to be wrong? And how many innocent others have we punished for crimes they didn’t commit, if that’s the case?”
“I know,” he admitted. “We quite often get confessions, once the evidence is in. But not always.”
“But was Beshara guilty at all?” she asked. “I know he’s apparently an unpleasant man, but that’s irrelevant—or it should be.”
He smiled at her sleepily. “Sometimes you’re more innocent than Scuff.”
“There was a pretty big cover-up, wasn’t there?” Her face was grave.
“Probably,” he agreed, moving a little in the seat to ease the ache of his ribs.
She stood up and very gently moved the cushion behind him to make him more comfortable. Then she went back to the sofa and curled up on it herself.
It was after midnight—closer to one in the morning—when there was an insistent knock on the front door. It was a moment before Hester realized what it was. By then Scuff had pattered downstairs in his nightshirt and was standing in the hall, troubled but wide awake.
“It’s all right,” she assured him. “It’s probably Hooper come to say they arrested the right man.”
Scuff did not move.
“It’s all right,” she said again, more gently. She saw the fear in his face and felt a stab of guilt for it. They should have protected him from disturbance this late in the evening.
The knock came again, more heavily.
There was no time to say anything now. She unfastened the bolt and opened the door.
Hooper was standing on the step. His face was pale even in the yellow light from the hall, and there was blood on his shirt under his old pea jacket.
Hester stepped back immediately, her fear now even stronger than Scuff’s. “Come in. Come to the kitchen. Scuff, get hot water and towels.” She held out her hand to Hooper as if to steady him, although he was probably about twice her weight. “Come with me.”
“I’m all right,” he insisted, but he came in through the door staggering a little.
She led him along the passage to the kitchen and he followed without speaking again.
“Sit down,” she told him, pointing to the hard-backed chair closest to the table and away from the stove. The last thing she wanted was him passing out and falling against the hot surface.
Scuff was busy somewhere behind her. He passed her towels without being asked.
She eased Hooper’s jacket off gently and saw where most of the blood was.
“Is that it?” she asked. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“I’m all right,” he said again, but quietly and with less certainty in his voice.
“Don’t argue,” she said firmly. She took the scissors out of the cutlery drawer and began to slice away his shirt to expose the wound in his shoulder.
“That’s a good shirt!” he protested.
She did not bother to reply, but took the basin of hot water from Scuff and began to clean the excess blood away and expose the jagged tear in the flesh. She heard Scuff gasp, and then quickly recover. She did not turn to look at him.
“It’s not bleeding too badly,” she told Hooper. “But it would be a good idea to put a stitch or two in it. You could very easily pull it open again accidentally.”
Hooper’s eyes widened.
“It just takes a needle and some strong, clean thread. I’ll sterilize it, I promise you.” She continued, “Scuff, would you please fetch me the brandy, and my sewing basket from the parlor? If you can do it without wakening Monk, that would be good.”
