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‘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 a
nswered 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.
