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“Why does he not speak?” she pleaded. “You said he had not sustained any injury to make him dumb. What is wrong with him, Corriden? Why has he changed so terribly?”
He hesitated. He glanced at his sister, then drew in his breath as if to answer, but remained silent.
“Why?” Sylvestra demanded, her voice rising.
“I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “I don’t know, and my dear, you must brace yourself for the fact that we may never know. Perhaps he will only recover if he can forget it entirely. Begin life again from now onward. And possibly in time that may happen.” He turned to Hester, his eyes wide in question.
She could not answer. They were all staring at her, waiting for her to offer some kind of hope. She longed to be able to, and yet if she did, and it proved false, how much harder would it be then? Or was getting through that night and the next day all that mattered at this moment? A step at a time. Don’t attempt the entire journey in one leap of thought. It will be enough to cripple you.
“That may well be the case,” she agreed aloud. “Time and forgetting may heal his spirit, and his body will follow.”
Sylvestra relaxed a little, blinking back tears. Surprisingly, even Corriden Wade seemed to be pleased with her answer.
“Yes, yes.” He nodded slightly. “I think you are very wise, Miss Latterly. And of course you have experience with men who were fearfully injured and who must have seen the most terrible sights. We will do all we can to help him forget.”
Hester rose to her feet. “I must go up and see if there is anything I can do for him now. Please excuse me.”
They murmured assent, and she left the room wishing them good-bye and hurried across the hall and up the stairs. She found Rhys lying hunched up in the bed, the sheets tangled, a bowl of bloodstained bandages left by the door, half covered with a cloth. He was shivering, although the blankets were up around his chest and the fire was burning briskly.
“Shall I change your bed—” she began.
He glared at her with blazing eyes of such rage she stopped in mid-sentence. He looked so savage she thought he might even attempt to strike at her if she came close enough, and he would damage his broken hands again.
What had happened? Had Dr. Wade told him how seriously ill he was? Had he suddenly realized there was a possibility he would not get better? Was this rage his way of concealing a pain he could not bear? She had seen such rage before, only too often.
Or had Dr. Wade examined him and been obliged to hurt him physically in order to look more carefully at his wounds? Were the fury in his eyes and the tearstains on his cheeks from unbearable pain and the humiliation of not having been able to live up to his ideal of courage?
How could she begin to help him?
Perhaps fussing was the last thing he wanted at the moment. Maybe even a rumpled bed, stale and uncomfortable, sheets smeared with blood, was better than the interference of somebody who could not share his pain.
“If you want me, knock the bell,” she said quietly, looking to make sure it was still where his fingers could reach it. It was not there. She glanced around. It was across on the tallboy. Dr. Wade had probably moved it because he had wished to use the bedside table for his instruments or the bowl. She replaced it where it usually sat. “It doesn’t matter what time it is,” she assured him. “I’ll come.”
He stared at her. He was still furious, still imprisoned in silence. His eyes brimmed over with tears, and he turned away from her.
8
Monk walked briskly along Brick Lane, head down under the wind which was clearing the last of the fog. He must see Vida Hopgood again before he pursued the case any further. She had
the right to know of Runcorn’s refusal to involve the police in the case in spite of the mounting proof that there had been a series of crimes of increasing violence. Memory of their encounter still angered him, the more so because part of his mind knew Runcorn was right, and in his place Monk might well have made the same decision. He would not have done it out of indifference, but as a matter of priorities. Runcorn had too few men as it was. They only touched the surface of crime in areas like Seven Dials. It was an easy excuse to ignore people like Vida Hopgood, but it was also unfair to all the countless other victims to put men where they could make no effective difference.
Thinking of it made him angrier still, but it was better than thinking of Hester, which was so natural to him, and at the same time so full of all kinds of discomfort. It was the same kind of temptation as pulling a bandage off a wound to see if it had healed yet, touching the place that hurt in the hope that this time it would not. It always did … and he did not learn by experience.
He turned the corner into Butcher’s Yard and was suddenly sheltered. He almost slipped where there was ice on the cobbles. He passed a man shouldering a heavy load covered in sacking, probably a carcass. It was quarter past four and the light was fading. In late January the days were short.
He reached Vida Hopgood’s door and knocked. He expected her to be in. He had found this a good time to call. He looked forward to the warmth of her fire and, if he were fortunate, a hot cup of tea.
“You again,” she said when she saw him. “Still got a face like a pot lion, so I s’pose yer in’t found nothin’ useful. Come on in, then. Don’t stand there lettin’ in the cold.” She retreated along the passageway, leaving him to close the door and follow her.
He took his coat off and sat down uninvited in front of the fire in the parlor, rubbing his hands together and leaning towards the grate to catch the warmth.
She sat opposite him, her handsome face sharp-eyed, watchful.
“Did yer come ’ere ter warm yerself ’cos yer got no fire at ’ome, or was there summink in particular?”
He was used to her manner. “I put all we have before Runcorn yesterday. He agrees there is plenty of proof of crime but says he won’t put police onto it because no court would prosecute, let alone convict.” He watched her face for the contempt and the hurt he expected to see.
She looked at him equally carefully, judging his temper. There was a gleam in her eyes, a mixture of anger, humor and cunning.
