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Rathbone was disturbed by it. It was the verdict he had wanted and expected, but now he was unsatisfied. He went to see Monk, and more importantly, Hester.
‘No,’ she said quietly in answer to his question. ‘Rand is blind to other people’s pain, if it isn’t connected with injury or white blood disease. He can’t imagine any other kind of pain. But I don’t believe he killed Adrienne. I think Radnor did it himself, to be rid of her dependence on him, to be free of the expense and the obligation of his debt to her.’
‘Is that because yer knew ’im when he was sick?’ Scuff asked seriously.
Hester was too tired to argue, but she was clearly uncomfortable.
Scuff looked down. ‘Sorry . . .’
‘Not just that,’ she said quietly. ‘I think Hamilton Rand has all kinds of faults, but he wasn’t afraid of Adrienne. He didn’t even see her as a threat. I don’t think he thought of her at all after she left the cottage.’
‘Her own father?’ Monk bit his lip. ‘I wanted Hamilton Rand to pay for what he did to the children, and for taking you – but not for something he didn’t do.’
‘We lost.’ Rathbone said, looking from one to the other of them. ‘Rand is going to hang for something he didn’t do. We have no idea whose bodies were buried in the orchard. And Radnor is going to walk away! I can’t think of anything we can do about it.’
Chapter Sixteen
THE WEEKS passed very slowly until Hamilton Rand was hanged. Hester continued to work at the hospital. There was no more experimental work, but she stayed out of a sense of loyalty to her patients, who were in as much desperate need as before. They required reassurance, and even a new insistence upon hope.
She also stayed with a certain loyalty to Magnus Rand. The brothers had never seemed very close in life, but watching Magnus now, she realised that there had been a silent affection between them taken for granted. Growing up, Magnus had always known Hamilton was in the background, taking care of the material things, believing in their purpose, always having the energy of mind to press forward, however difficult it might appear, or however exhausted he was. Even hopeless causes did not deter him. He might have seemed cold, but there was a unique determination in him that drove him to believe in the work, regardless of temporary failure, other people’s disapproval, even derision.
It was a different kind of heart from most other people’s. It was not comfortable or attractive. Sometimes it was frightening. But it was admirable.
Certainly he had bought the Roberts children to use them in his experiments, although they were now healthier than ever before. Their parents not only feared public opinion enough not to neglect them, but also had the means to care for them, thanks to Mr Roberts obtaining work. He did not dare fail at
it.
Certainly Rand had kept Hester prisoner in order both to use her skills and prevent her telling anyone about his use of the children. But she was sure that he had not killed Adrienne Radnor. He had not been sufficiently afraid of her to care one way or the other, and had no belief she would attempt to harm him.
What about the bodies in the orchard? Hester did not doubt that Hamilton and the gardener had buried them. But they might have died of natural causes, such as white blood disease. Perhaps they were people whom he had tried to save, and failed. It was probably a crime to experiment on patients without their consent, but that was not the offence for which he had been tried, and not one for which he should hang. All doctors lose patients. Sometimes error or carelessness contribute, but usually doctors have done everything they could, and still failed. She knew that all too well. She had lost too many herself.
Now Hamilton had been dead two weeks, and Hester was nursing in the hospital, still waiting for Jenny Solway to return, and doing what she could to offer some kind of comfort to Magnus Rand.
As if seeing that she was one of the very few people who both understood Hamilton’s manner, and believed he had not killed Adrienne, he sought her company when time allowed. She was actually standing in the corridor talking to him when one of the nurses came running towards them. This was against hospital rules, but there was such panic in her face that neither Rand nor Hester thought to criticise her.
‘What is it?’ Hester stepped forward and the woman almost stumbled into her. ‘What’s happened?’ Hester demanded firmly.
‘Mr Radnor . . .’ she gasped. ‘He’s back an’ he looks terrible. Bad as he ever did . . .’
‘Where is he?’ Hester asked, shock all but freezing her. Her calmness was the result only of the training of years.
‘In the hall, by the front,’ came the reply. ‘I called the porter to get him to a bed before he passed out right where he stood. Dr Rand, I dunno what to do with him.’
Rand, too, was stunned. He fumbled for words. It was Radnor’s whole case that had brought Hamilton to ruin.
And yet there was no proof. And even if there had been, could he now turn away and ruin a man whose life was in such jeopardy, and who had come to him for help?
‘Take us to him,’ Hester directed the nurse. ‘We’ll do what we can.’
Looking relieved and intensely grateful, the woman swivelled on her heel. She strode at a brisk pace back the way she had come, with Hester and Magnus a yard behind her. They looked neither to right nor left, as they rushed straight across the entrance hall and the room where Bryson Radnor lay on the bed, fully clothed. His face was ashen grey, his eyes sunken in their sockets, sweat on his skin. But ill as he was, he was fully conscious and he looked first at Magnus, then at Hester. His gaze remained on her, as if he considered her the one who was in charge, and would decide his fate.
Magnus turned to Hester. He looked as desperate as Radnor, as if posed on a cliff edge with the devil behind him and the long fall to the rocks below.
Hester looked at Radnor, meeting his eyes. He stared back at her without flinching. There was a terrible black laughter inside him, as if even in dying he had won a victory over her, his will over hers. In that moment the last doubt in Hester’s mind vanished that he had killed Adrienne. She realised that he was quite aware that she knew it, and could do nothing. He was also perfectly sure that she would care for him now, whatever she felt. If she failed to do so, that would be his final victory over her. He would have destroyed what she believed in. It was not the defeat over death that he wanted, but it would be a defeat of the life he had to leave to others, and no longer share.
He smiled at her, past Magnus, as if he had not been there.
‘I need another transfusion,’ he said a little hoarsely. His voice was weak. ‘You know how to do that, don’t you, Mrs Monk? You’ve helped poor Hamilton often enough – you know it by heart. And I’m sure you will have children you can use somewhere in the hospital.
