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Rathbone did not argue, but his mind was racing. He determined to find Hester the following day, and make certain for himself that she was really unhurt, and not actually far more distressed than she was allowing anyone else to know. Perhaps there was something he could do to help.
As it turned out in the morning, he was forestalled in his intentions before he had even finished his breakfast. He was still tired from the long train journey. There was no urgency to rise, since his disbarment over the case where he had so signally taken the law into his own hands. He had been permitted recently to take second chair, a mere assistant to the lawyer conducting the case. It was a position he was unused to, and in which he was uncomfortable. It was many years since he had accepted small cases: petty theft, public nuisance or minor affray. It was a long fall from where he had been before, as probably the finest criminal lawyer in the country, and then a newly acclaimed judge on the bench. The slow climb back was bitter; even at best, it was difficult.
But sleep often eluded him, and lying in bed wide awake was the most debilitating of all to the spirits. He needed to find something worthwhile to do, a cause that would stir his blood again.
He ate reasonably early. Dover was always awake and ready. Rathbone should show more appreciation of his loyalty. He had poured his second cup of tea from a fresh pot when Dover came in looking fairly smug.
‘Mr Ardal Juster is here to see you, sir. He apologises for the earliness of the call, but he says it is important. Shall I bring another cup, sir? The tea is quite fresh.’
In spite of himself Rathbone felt a stir of interest, even excitement. Ardal Juster was the lawyer who had defended him in his own case, and since then had quite often asked his advice on other matters.
‘Yes, by all means,’ he agreed without hesitation. ‘And do bring a cup for him. Ask him if he has eaten, and if he would care for something more?’
Dover disappeared and a moment later Ardal Juster came in. He was several years younger than Rathbone, in his mid-thirties, slender and dark. He was almost handsome, but the quality that took the attention most was the keenness of his face, the vitality in him.
‘Good morning, Sir Oliver,’ he said, holding out his hand as Rathbone rose to greet him. ‘Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but a case has arisen in your absence that I have accepted to prosecute, and I am certain will interest you, both professionally and personally. I would consider your counsel invaluable, and would actually seek more than that: your actual help in court, if you are willing?’
Rathbone gestured for Juster to take the other chair at the table. As Dover returned with a clean cup and saucer, he offered him tea, and poured it as soon as Juster inclined his head.
Dover went off to make fresh toast and Juster began immediately, leaning forward across the table in his eagerness.
‘Are you aware yet of the kidnap of Hester Monk and the three Roberts children? All safely rescued, and Hamilton Rand taken into custody, along with Adrienne Radnor, the daughter of the patient on whom the experiments were conducted.’
‘I have heard a little,’ Rathbone answered, watching Juster’s face, trying to assess the nature of his emotional interest. Was it outrage at the crime, fascination with the legal aspects, hunger to try his skills against powerful interests ranged in the defence? He hoped it was something better than the considerable fee and the chance of appearing in a highly publicised case. ‘But please tell me exactly who Rand is, and what is the charge, as the law sees it,’ he added.
‘It is complicated.’ Juster sat back a little and took a sip of his tea, but his eyes did not leave Rathbone’s face. ‘Hamilton Rand is a chemist of very great skill, possibly even genius, and a little madness. His brother, Magnus Rand, is a fine doctor, but not charged with him, although he may very well be an accomplice.’ He was clearly weighing what he said, trying to keep emotion out of the words he chose, as well as his tone. ‘They have been experimenting with the transfusion of blood from one human being to another, in order to prevent death from loss of blood in those seriously injured, and to treat illnesses such as white blood disease.’ He looked enquiringly at Rathbone, waiting for him to comment.
Rathbone nodded, ignoring his own tea. A tiny worm of fear stirred inside him. ‘Go on.’
‘It is not a new idea,’ Juster continued. ‘In fact, it has been tried with varying degrees of failure for more than two centuries. If it succeeded it would be one of the greatest leaps forward in the history of medicine.’
‘The point?’ Rathbone prompted him.
‘Hamilton Rand appears to have had some success. One of his patients is still alive, miraculously so. Or at least he was, until a couple of weeks ago. He has disappeared, but there is no reason to suppose he is dead, or even ill. His name is Bryson Radnor. It was in order to continue his treatment that Rand kidnapped the three small children whose blood seemed miraculously always to work. I
gather that is highly unusual, although no one seems to know why. He also took Mrs Hester Monk, who was nursing Radnor.’
The chill inside Rathbone grew.
As if he had seen it, Juster answered the question. ‘Mrs Monk was taken against her will, and remained only under duress, and in order to look after the three children, who were becoming weaker and weaker as they were bled regularly, and too much—’
‘But they are alive?’ Rathbone interrupted. The idea of this madman, genius or not, bleeding children to death, was hideous.
‘Oh, yes,’ Juster assured him. ‘But too young to testify. The oldest is only about seven.’
‘The case is against Hamilton Rand? Kidnap?’
‘Yes. And against Adrienne Radnor, the daughter of the patient, a woman in her early thirties. She was entirely complicit in the kidnap, both of the children and of Hester Monk.’
‘I see.’ Rathbone drank the rest of his tea. Dover came in with fresh toast and both men ate in silence while Rathbone considered the facts and Juster waited.
‘The charge is kidnap,’ Rathbone continued after a few moments. ‘Why does the case interest you so much? Clearly it does.’
Juster smiled. ‘Lots of things, Sir Oliver. Kidnap of a nurse, who cannot even attempt to escape because of the children she would leave behind; indeed, who cannot leave her patient because she is the only one skilled enough to care for him. And yet if he dies, her life may be hostage. Rand dare not let her go, alive. She must hate Radnor, but she is sworn to help any sick person, however vile, and in whatever circumstances.’
Rathbone felt his whole body chill.
‘Rand is not a doctor, he is a chemist,’ Juster warned him. ‘He has sworn no oath to medicine. The Hippocratic oath says, “First, do no harm”! Yet how can you discover new medicine if you make no experiment that might end badly?’ His face was keen with the magnitude of the thought. ‘Who is to take the chances to step forward into the unknown where no one can evaluate the risks? Clearly what he did to Mrs Monk, and to the children, is wrong! But is he entirely wrong? What is the law? And what should it be?’
