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She followed him in, afraid he was seriously ill. He looked weaker and more exhausted than even long hours or the horror of his brother’s death could account for. She looked at him gravely.
‘I can get you a strong cup of tea, but you need more than that. Please tell me honestly what is wrong with you, and what I can do.’
He looked up at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin totally without colour.
‘Have you been up all night?’ she asked quietly.
‘Pretty well,’ he replied. ‘Bryson Radnor died at about four o’clock, or a little after. Horribly,’ he added. ‘I didn’t think it would be as bad as it was.’ He smiled with a faraway look, as if reliving what he had seen and which now was indelibly graven into his mind. ‘It’s a while since we lost a patient to the white blood disease.’
‘We did all we could,’ she told him, emphasising each word. ‘He had many months more of life than he would have had without your treatment.’
Monk walked past them into the room and stopped beside Magnus. He looked down at him with intense pity.
‘Hester, the kettle is about to boil. I think Dr Rand needs a mug of hot, sweet tea. You’d better make it as strong as you can, and put a good tablespoon of brandy into it.’
She hesitated only a moment then went to do as he asked. Rand must ache with grief and loss. Now he must feel defeat on top of that. He needed help; above all he needed some kind of friendship. Hamilton’s death had taken from him all the family he had, a man who had been both brother and father to him.
Monk sat down on the chair opposite Magnus.
‘What happened?’ he asked gently. He needed to know, in case the answer jeopardised Hester in some way. Whatever his pity for Magnus, he could not allow that.
Magnus looked across at him, no artifice in his face at all.
‘We gave him a blood transfusion,’ he replied. ‘Or more exactly, I did, and Mrs Monk helped me. She’s an extremely good nurse. But I expect you know that.’
‘You did it the same way your brother did?’
‘Exactly. Your wife would tell you that. She was with me all the time.’ He took a long, deep breath and let it out in a sigh. ‘She did everything she could. She is in no way responsible for anything that happened. And no one could think it, I promise you.’
‘Then how did Radnor die?’ Monk pressed him.
Magnus smiled with exquisite irony. ‘We did not have the Roberts children any more. They are doing well, I believe.’
‘Yes, they are. So whose blood did you give to Radnor?’
‘Two pints of it,’ Magnus answered. ‘I feel like hell . . .’
‘Whose blood?’ Monk repeated, watching Magnus’s ashen face.
‘Why, my own,’ Magnus replied, his eyes unwavering from Monk’s. ‘I couldn’t give him somebody else’s, could I? Knowing what he was . . . without their permission . . .’ He smiled very slowly. ‘I am afraid he died a very hard death, even if it was comparatively quick. Not as quick as hanging, of course.’
‘Did you know it would kill him?’ Monk whispered.
‘I was pretty sure.’
Monk was silent for several seconds – in fact, until he heard Hester’s step along the passage, bringing the tea.
‘I suppose he insisted?’ he said at last.
‘Oh, yes! Medical obligation to try,’ Magnus agreed. ‘But Hester didn’t know. She really didn’t.’
Hester came into the room carrying the tea, looking with concern at Magnus, then glancing at Monk.
‘You had better give it to him a bit at a time,’ Monk told her gently. It was completely unnecessary. She would do that anyway. Whoever he was, and whatever she knew or guessed, she would do that, always.
