The Silent Cry

Chapter Two

Rhys Duff was kept in hospital for a further two days, and on the Monday, the fifth day after the attack, he was brought home, in great pain, and still without having spoken a word. Dr. Corriden Wade was to call every day, or as he progressed, every second day, but of course it would be necessary to have him professionally nursed. At the recommendation of the young policeman on the case, and having made appropriate enquiries as to her abilities, Wade agreed to the employment of one of the women who had gone out to the Crimea with Florence Nightingale, a Miss Hester Latterly. She was, of necessity, used to caring for young men who had suffered near mortal injuries in combat. She was considered an excellent choice.

To Hester herself it was an agreeable change after having nursed an elderly and extremely trying lady whose problems were largely matters of temper and boredom, only slightly exacerbated by two broken toes.

She could probably have managed just as well with a competent lady's maid, but she felt more dramatic with a nurse, and impressed her friends endlessly by likening her plight to that of the war heroes Hester had nursed before her.

Hester kept a civil tongue with difficulty, and only because she required the employment in order to survive. Her father's financial ruin had meant she had no inheritance. Her elder brother Charles would always have provided for her, as men were expected to provide and care for their unmarried female relations, but such dependence would be suffocating to a woman like Hester, who had tasted an extraordinary freedom in the Crimea, and a responsibility at once both exhilarating and terrifying. She was certainly not going to spend the rest of her days in quiet domesticity being obedient and grateful to a rather unimaginative if kindly brother.

It was infinitely preferable to bite one's tongue and refrain from telling Miss Golightly she was a fool… for the space of a few weeks.

She thought as she settled herself in the hansom that was to take her to this new position that there were other very considerable advantages to her independent situation. She could make friends where and with whom she chose. Charles would not have had any objection to Lady Callandra Daviot; well, not any severe objection.

She was well bred and had been highly respectable while her army surgeon husband was alive. Now as a fairly wealthy widow, she was becoming rather less so. Indeed some might have considered her a trifle eccentric. She had made a pact with a private agent of enquiry that she would support him financially during his lean times, as long as he shared with her his more interesting cases. That was not in any sense respectable: but it was enormously diverting, at times tragic and always absorbing. Frequently it accomplished if not happiness, at least a resolution and some kind of justice.

The hansom was moving at a brisk pace through the traffic. She shivered in the cold.

And there was the agent of enquiry himself. Charles would never have approved of William Monk. How could Society possibly accept a man without a memory? He could be anyone! He could have done anything!

The possibilities were endless, and almost all of them unpleasant. Had he been a hero, an aristocrat or a gentleman, someone would have recognised him and owned him.

Since the one thing he knew about himself for certain was that he was a policeman, that automatically placed him in a social category somewhere beneath even the most regrettable trade. And of course trade was beneath any of the professions. Younger sons of the gentry went into the army or the church or the law those who did not marry wealth and relieve themselves of the necessity of having to do anything. Elder sons, naturally, inherited land and money, and lived accordingly.

Not that Hester's friendship with Monk could easily be categorised.

Pressing through the traffic in the rain, she thought of it with a mixture of emotions, all of them disturbingly powerful. It had lurched from an initial mutual contempt, to a kind of trust which was unique in her life, and, she believed, in his also. And then as if suddenly afraid of such vulnerability, they had been quick to quarrel, to find fault and keep little rein on temper.

But in times of need, and the mutual caring for some cause, they had worked together in an understanding that ran deeper than words, or the need or time for explanations.

In one fearful hour in Edinburgh, when they had believed they faced death, it had seemed to be that kind of love which touches only a few lives, a depth of unity which is of the heart and mind and soul, and for one aching moment of the body also.

In the lurching of the cab and the hiss of wheels in the rain she could remember Edinburgh as if it had been yesterday.

But the experience had been too dangerous to the emotions, too demanding for either of them to dare again.

Or had it only been he who would not dare?

That was a question she did not want to ask herself, she had not meant to allow the thought into her mind… and there it was, hard and painful. Now she refused to express it. She did not know. She did not want to. Anyway, it was all irrelevant. There were parts of Monk she admired greatly: his courage, his strength of will, his intelligence, his loyalty to his beliefs, his passion for justice, his ability to face almost any kind of truth, no matter how dreadful, and the fact that he was never, ever a hypocrite.

She also hated the streak of cruelty she knew in him, the arrogance, the frequent insensitivity. And he was a fool where judgement of character was concerned. He could no more read a woman's wiles than a dog could read Spanish! He was consistently attracted to the very last sort of woman who could ever make him happy.

Unconsciously she was clenching her hands as she sat in the cold.

He was bewitched, taken in again and again by pretty, softly spoken, outwardly helpless women, who were shallow of nature, manipulative and essentially searching for comfortable lives far from turmoil of any kind. He would have been bored silly by any one of them within months.

But their femininity flattered him, their agreement to his wildest assertions had seemed like good nature and good sense, and their charming manners pleased his notion of feminine decorum. He fancied himself comfortable with them, whereas in truth he was only soothed, unchallenged, and in the end bored, imprisoned and contemptuous.

But still he made the same mistake! His recent visit to one of the smaller German principalities was the perfect example. He had fallen under the spell of the extremely shallow and utterly selfish Countess Evelyn von Seidlitz. She was deliciously pretty with her enormous brown eyes and dimpling laugh. She had a wicked sense of humour and knew precisely how to charm, flatter and entertain. She was lovely to look at and fun to be with. She was also cold, manipulative and greedy.

They were pressed in on all sides by hansoms, drays, carriages. Drivers were shouting. A horse squealed.

Monk had seen through the Countess eventually, of course, but it had required unarguable evidence to convince him. And then he was angry, above all, it seemed, with Hester! She did not know why. She recalled their last meeting with twinges of pain which took her unexpectedly. It had been highly acrimonious, but then so had a great many of their meetings. Normally it caused her irritation that she had not managed to think of a suitable retaliation at the right moment, or satisfaction that she had. She was frequently furious with him, and he with her. It was not unpleasant, in fact at times it was exhilarating. There was a kind of honesty in it, and it was without real hurt. She would never have struck at any part of him she felt might be genuinely vulnerable.

So why did their last encounter leave her this ache, this feeling of being bruised inside? She tried to recall exactly what he had said.

She could not now even remember what the quarrel had been about: something to do with her arbitrariness, a favourite subject with him.

He had said she was autocratic, that she judged people too harshly and only according to her own standards, which were devoid of laughter or humanity.

The hansom lurched forward again.

He said she knew how to nurse the sick and reform the dilatory, the incompetent or the feckless, but she had no idea how to live like an ordinary woman, how to laugh or cry and experience the feelings of anything but a hospital matron, endlessly picking up the disasters of other people's lives, but never having one of her own. Her ceaseless minding of other people's business, the fact that she thought she always knew better, made her a bore.

The sum of it had been that he could do very well without her, and while her qualities were admirable, and socially very necessary, they were also personally unattractive.

That was what had hurt. Criticism was fair, it was expected, and she could certainly give him back as much in quality and quantity as she received. But rejection was another thing altogether.

And it was completely unfair. For once she had done nothing to warrant it. She had remained in London nursing a young man desperately damaged by paralysis. Apart from that, she had been occupied trying to save Oliver Rathbone from himself, in that he had undertaken the defence in a scandalous slander case, and very nearly damaged his own career beyond repair. As it was, it had cost him his reputation in certain circles. Had he not been granted a knighthood shortly before the affair, he could certainly abandon all hope of one now! He had shed too ugly a light on royalty in general to find such favour any more. He was no longer considered as 'sound' as he had been all his life until then. Now he was suddenly 'questionable'.

But she found herself smiling at the thought of him. Their last meeting had been anything but acrimonious. Theirs was not really a social acquaintance, rather more a professional friendship. He had surprised her by inviting her to accompany him to dinner, and then to the theatre. She had accepted, and enjoyed it so much she recalled it now with a little shiver of pleasure.

At first she had felt rather awkward at the sudden shift in their relationship. What should she talk about? For once there was no case in which they had a common interest. It was years since she had dined alone with a man for other than professional reasons.

But she had forgotten how sophisticated he was. She had seen the vulnerable side of him in the slander case. At dinner and at the theatre he was utterly different. Here he was in command. As always he was immaculately dressed in the understated way of a man who knows he does not need to impress, his position is already assured. He had talked easily of all manner of things, art, politics, travel, a little philosophy and a touch of trivial scandal. He had made her laugh. She could picture him now sitting back in his chair, his eyes looking at her very directly. He had unusual eyes, very dark in his lean, narrow face with its fairish hair, long nose and fastidious mouth. She had never known him so relaxed before, as if for a space of time duty and the law had ceased to matter.

He had mentioned his father once or twice, a man Hester had met several times, and of whom she was extraordinarily fond. He even told her a few stories about his student days and his first, disastrous cases. She had not been sure whether to sympathise or be amused. She had looked at his face, and ended laughing. He had not seemed to mind in the least.

They had nearly been late for the theatre and had taken their seats almost as the curtain rose. It was a melodrama a terrible play. She had sat trying not to acknowledge to herself how bad it was. She must keep facing the stage. Rathbone sitting beside her would be bound to be aware if she gazed around or took more interest in the other members of the audience. She had sat rigidly facing forwards, trying to enjoy it.

Then she had glanced at him, after one particularly dreadful sequence of lines, and saw him wince. A few moments later she had looked at him again, and this time found him looking back, his eyes bright with rueful amusement.

She had dissolved in giggles, and knew that when he pulled out a large handkerchief and held it to his mouth, it was for the same reason. Then he had leaned across to her and whispered, "Shall we leave, before they ask us not to disrupt the performance?" and she had been delighted to agree.

Afterwards they had walked along the icy street still laughing, mimicking some of the worst lines and parodying the scenes. They had stopped by a brazier where a street peddler was selling roasted chestnuts, and he had bought two packets, and they had walked along together trying not to burn their fingers or their tongues.

It had been one of the happiest evenings she could remember, and curiously comfortable.

She was still smiling at its recollection when the hansom reached her destination in Ebury Street and set her down, with her luggage. She paid the driver and presented herself at the side door, where a footman helped her in with her case and directed her to where she should wait to meet the mistress.

Hester had been told little about the circumstances of Rhys Duffs injuries, only that they were sustained in an attack in which his father had been killed. She had been far more concerned with the nature of his distress and what measures she could take to help him. She had seen Dr. Riley at the hospital, and he had professed a continuing interest in Rhys Duffs ease, but it was the family doctor, Corriden Wade, who had approached her. He had told her only that Rhys Duff was suffering from profound bruising both external and internal. He was in a state of the most serious shock, and had so far not spoken since the incident. She should not try to make him respond, except in so far as to make his wishes known regarding his comfort. Her task was to relieve his pain as far as was possible, to change the dressings of his minor external wounds. Dr. Wade himself would care for the more major ones. She must keep him clean, warm and prepare for him such food as he was willing to take. This, of course, should be bland and nourishing.

She was also to keep his room warm and pleasant for him, and to read to him if he should show any desire for it. The choice of material was to be made with great care. There must be nothing disturbing, either to the emotions or the intellect, and nothing which would excite him or keep him from as much rest as he was able to find. In Hester's view, that excluded almost everything that was worthy of either the time or effort of reading. If it did not stir the intellect, the emotions or the imagination, what point was there in it? Should she read him the railway timetable?

But she had merely nodded and answered obediently.

When Sylvestra Duff came into the room she was a complete surprise.

Hester had not formed a picture of her in her mind, but she realised she had expected someone as anodyne as Dr. Wade's regimen for Rhys.

Sylvestra was anything but bland. She was, very naturally, dressed entirely in black, but on her tall, very slender figure and with her intense colouring, it was dramatic and most flattering. She was pale with shock still, and moved as if she needed to be careful in case in her daze she bumped into things, but there was a grace and a composure in her which Hester could not help but admire. Her first impression was most favourable.

She stood up immediately. "Good morning, Mrs. Duff. I am Hester Latterly, the nurse Dr. Wade engaged in your behalf, to care for your son during his convalescence.”

"How do you do, Miss Latterly." Sylvestra spoke with a low voice, and rather slowly, as if she measured her words before she uttered them. "I am grateful you could come. You must have nursed many young men who have been terribly injured.”

"Yes, I have." She considered adding something to the effect that a large number of them had made startling recoveries, even from the most appalling circumstances, then she looked at Sylvestra's calm eyes, and decided it would be shallow, and sound as if she were minim ising the truth. And she had not yet seen Rhys Duff, she had no idea for herself of his condition. Dr. Riley's pinched face and anxious eyes, his expressed desire to hear of his progress, indicated that his fears were deep that he would recover slowly, if at all. Dr. Wade had also seemed in some personal distress as he spoke of it to her when engaging her.

"We have prepared a room for you, next to my son's," Sylvestra continued, 'and arranged a bell so that he can call you if he should need you. Of course he cannot ring it, but he can knock it off on to the floor, and you will hear." She was thinking of all the practical details, speaking too quickly to cover her emotion. "The kitchen will serve you meals, of course, at whatever time may prove most suitable.

You must advise Cook what you think best for my son, from day to day. I hope you will be comfortable. If you have any other requirements, please tell me, and I shall do all I can to meet them.”

"Thank you," Hesteracknowledged. "I am sure that will be satisfactory.”

The shadow of a smile touched Sylvestra's mouth. "I imagine the footman has taken your luggage upstairs. Do you wish to see your room first, and perhaps change your attire?”

"Thank you, but I should prefer to meet Mr. Duff before anything else," Hester replied. "And perhaps you could tell me a little more about him.”

"About him?" Sylvestra looked puzzled.

"His nature, his interests," Hesteranswered gently. "Dr. Wade said that the shock has temporarily robbed him of speech. I shall know of him only what you tell me, to begin with. I should not like to cause him any unnecessary annoyance or distress by ignorance. Also…" she hesitated.

Sylvestra waited, with no idea what she meant.

Hester took a breath.

"Also I must know if you have told him of his father's death…”

Sylvestra's face cleared as she understood. "Of course! I'm sorry for being so slow to understand. Yes, I have told him. I did not think it right to keep it from him. He will have to face it. I do not want him to believe I have lied to him.”

"I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you," Hester acknowledged. "I am sorry I had to ask.”

Sylvestra was silent for a moment, as if she too were stunned even by the thought of what had happened to her in the space of a few days. Her husband was dead and her son was desperately ill, and locked in his own world of isolation, hearing and seeing, but unable to speak, unable to communicate with anyone the terror and the pain he must feel.

"I'll try to tell you something about him," Sylvestra replied to the request. "It… it is difficult to think of the kind of things which would help." She turned to lead the way out of the room and across the hall to the stairs. At the bottom she looked back at Hester. "I am afraid that because of the nature of the incident, we have the police returning to ask questions. I cannot believe they will trouble you, since naturally you can know nothing. When Rhys regains his speech, he will tell them, but of course they don't wish to wait." A bleakness came over her face. "I don't suppose they will ever find who did it anyway. It will be some pack of nameless ruffians, and the slums will protect their own." She started up the stairs, back very straight, head high, but there was no life in her step.

Following after her, Hester imagined that inside she was barely beginning to lose the numbness of shock, and only in her mind did she turn over and over the details as their reality emerged. She could remember feeling the same when she first heard of the suicide of her father, and then within weeks of her mother's death from loneliness and despair. She had kept on worrying at the details, and yet at the same time never really believed the man responsible for her family's ruin would be caught.

But that was all in the past now, and all that needed to be retained in her mind from it was her understanding of the changing moods of grief.

The Duff house was large and very modern in furnishings. Everything she had seen in the morning room and now in the hall dated from no further back than the accession of the Queen. There was none of the spare elegance of the Georgian period, or of William IV. There were pictures everywhere, ornate wallpaper, tapestries and woven rugs, flower arrangements and stuffed animals under glass. Fortunately both the hall and the upstairs landing were large enough not to give an air of oppression, but it was not a style Hester found comfortable.

Sylvestra opened the third door along, hesitated a moment, then invited Hester to accompany her inside. This room was completely different.

The long windows faced south and such daylight as there was fell on almost bare walls. The space was dominated by a large bed with carved posts and in it lay a young man with pale skin, his sensitive, moody face mottled with blue-black bruises, and in several places still scabbed with dried blood. His hair, as black as his mother's, was parted to one side, and fell forward over his brow. Because of the disfigurement of his injuries, and the pain he must feel, it was difficult to read his expression, but he stared at Hester with what looked like resentment.

It did not surprise her. She was an intruder in a very deep and private grief. She was a stranger, and yet he would be dependent upon her for his most personal needs. She would witness his pain, and be detached from it, able to come and go, to see and yet not to feel. He would not be the first patient to find that humiliating, an emotional and physical nakedness in front of someone who always had the privacy of clothing.

Sylvestra went over to the bed, but she did not sit.

"This is Miss Latterly, who is going to care for you, now you are home again. She will be with you all the time, or else in the room along the landing, where the bell will ring to summon her if you need her.

She will do everything she can to make you comfortable, and help you to get better.”

He turned his head to regard Hester with only mild curiosity, and still what she could not help feeling was dislike.

"How do you do, Mr. Duff," she said rather more coolly than she had originally intended. She had nursed very awkward patients before, but for all her realisation, it was still disturbing to be disliked by someone for whom she had an instinctive pity, and with whom she would spend the next weeks, or months, constantly, and in most intimate circumstances.

He blinked, but stared back at her in silence. It was going to be a difficult beginning, whatever might follow.

Sylvestra looked faintly embarrassed. She turned from Rhys to Hester.

"Perhaps I had better show you your room?”

"Thank you," Hesteraccepted. She would change into a plainer and more practical dress, and return alone to try to get to know Rhys Duff, and learn what there was she could do to help him.

Her first evening in the Duff house was unfamiliar and oddly lonely.

She had frequently been among people who were profoundly distressed by violence, bereavement, even by crime. She had lived with people under the pressure of investigation by strangers into the most private and vulnerable parts of their lives. She had known people whom dreadful circumstances had caused to be suspicious and frightened of each other.

But she had never before nursed a patient who was conscious and yet unable to speak. There was a silence in the whole house which gave her a sense of isolation. Sylvestra herself was a quiet woman, not given to conversing except when she had some definite message to impart, not talking simply for companionship, as most women do.

The servants were muted, as if in the presence of the dead, not chattering or gossiping among themselves as was habitual.

When Hester returned to Rhys's room she found him lying on his back staring up at the ceiling, his eyes wide and fixed, as if in great concentration upon something. She hesitated to interrupt him. She stood watching the firelight flickering, looked to make certain there were enough coals in the bucket for several hours, then studied the small bookcase on the nearer wall to see what he had chosen to read before the attack. She saw books on various other countries, Africa, India, the Far East, and at least a dozen on forms of travel, letters and memoirs of explorers, botanists and observers of the customs and habits of other cultures. There was one large and beautifully bound book on the art of Islam, another on the history of Byzantium. Another seemed to be on the Arab and Moorish conquests of North Africa and Spain before the rise of Ferdinand and Isabella had driven them south again. Beside it was a book on Arabic art, mathematics and inventions.

She must make some contact with him. If she had to force the issue, then she would. She walked forward where he must see her, even if only from the corner of his eye.

"You have an interesting collection of books," she said conversationally. "Have you ever travelled?”

He turned his head to stare at her.

"I know you cannot speak, but you can nod your head," she went on.

"Have you?”

He shook his head very slightly. It was communication, but the animosity was still in his eyes.

"Do you plan to, when you are better?”

Something closed inside his mind. She could see the change in him quite clearly, although it was so slight as to defy description.

"I've been to the Crimea," she said, disregarding his withdrawal. "I was there during the war. Of course I saw mostly battlefields and hospitals, but there were occasions when I saw something of the people, and the countryside. It is always extraordinary, almost indecent to me, how the flowers go on blooming and so many things seem exactly the same, even when the world is turning upside down with men killing and dying in their hundreds. You feel as if everything ought to stop, but of course it doesn't.”

She watched him, and he did not move his eyes away, even though they seemed filled with anger. She was almost sure it was anger, not fear.

She looked down to where his broken and splinted hands lay on the sheets. The ends of the fingers below the bandages were slender and sensitive. The nails were perfectly shaped, except one which was badly torn. He must have injured them when he had fought to try to save himself… and perhaps his father too. What did he remember of it?

What terrible knowledge was locked up in his silence?

"I met several Turkish people who were very charming and most interesting," she went on, as if he had responded wishing to know. She described a young man who had helped in the hospital, talking about him quite casually, remembering more and more as she spoke. What she could not recall she invented.

Once, during the whole hour, she saw the beginning of a smile touch his mouth. At least he was really listening. For a moment they had shared a thought or a feeling.

Later she brought a salve to put on the broken skin of his face where it was drying and would crack, painfully. She reached out with it on her finger, and the moment her skin touched his, he snatched his cheek away, his body clenched up, his eyes black and angry.

"It won't hurt," she promised. "It will help to stop the scab from cracking.”

He did not move. His muscles were tight, his chest and shoulders so locked, the pain of it must have pulled on the bruises which both Dr.

Riley and Dr. Wade had said covered his body.

She let her hands fall.

"All right. It doesn't matter. I'll ask you later, and see if you've changed your mind.”

She left and went downstairs to the kitchen to fetch him something to eat. Perhaps the cook would prepare him a coddled egg, or a light custard. According to Dr. Wade, he was well enough to eat, and must be encouraged to do so.

The cook, Mrs. Crozier, had quite an array of suitable dishes, either already prepared, or easy to make even as Hester waited. She offered beef tea, eggs, steamed fish, bread and butter pudding, baked custard or cold chicken.

"How is he, Miss?" she asked with concern in her face.

"He seems very poorly still," Hesteranswered honestly. "But we should keep every hope. Perhaps you know which dishes he likes?”

Her face brightened a little. "Oh yes, Miss, I certainly do. Very fond o' cold saddle o' mutton, he is, or jugged hare.”

"As soon as he's ready for that, I'll let you know." Hester took the coddled egg and the custard.

She found him in a changed mood. He seemed very ready to allow her to assist him to sit up and take more than half the food prepared for him, in spite of the fact that to move at all obviously caused him considerable pain. He gasped and the sweat broke out on his face. He seemed at once clammy and cold, and for a little while nauseous as well.

She did all she could for him but it was very little. She was forced to stand by helplessly while he fought waves of pain, his eyes on her face, filled with desperation and a plea for any comfort at all, any relief. She reached out and held the ends of his fingers below the bandages, regardless of the bruising and the broken, scabbed skin, and gripped him as she would were he slipping away from her literally.

His fingers clung so hard she felt as though she too would be bruised when at last he let go.

Half an hour passed in silence, then finally he began to relax a little.

The sweat was running off his brow and standing in beads on his lip, but his shoulders lay easy on the pillow and his fingers unclenched.

She was able to slip her hand out and move away to wring the cloth again and bathe his face.

He smiled at her. It was just a small curving of the lips, a softening of his eyes, but it was real.

She smiled back, and felt a tightness in her throat. It was a glimpse of the man he must have been before this terrible thing had happened to him.

Rhys did not knock the bell for her during the night; nevertheless she woke twice of her own accord and went in to see how he was. The first occasion she found him sleeping fitfully. She waited a few moments, then crept out again without disturbing him.

The second time he was awake, and he heard her the moment she pushed the door. He was lying staring towards her. She had not brought a candle, using only the light from the embers of the fire. The room was colder. His eyes looked hollow in the shadows.

She smiled at him.

"I think it's time I stoked the fire again," she said quietly. "It's nearly out.”

He nodded very slightly, and then watched her as she crossed the room and took away the guard, and bent to riddle the dead ash through the basket and very gently pile more small pieces of coal on what was left, then wait until it caught in a fragile flame.

"It's coming," she said for no reason other than a sense of communication. She looked around and saw him still watching her. "Are you cold?" she asked.

He nodded, but it was half-hearted, his expression rueful. She gathered he was only a very little chilly.

She waited until the flames were stronger, then put on more coals, piling them high enough to last until morning.

She went back to the bed and looked at him more closely, trying to read in his expression what he wanted or needed. He did not seem in physical pain any more than before, but there was an urgency in his eyes, a tension around his mouth. Did he want her to stay or to go? If she asked him, would it be too clumsy, too direct? She must be delicate. He had been hurt so badly. What had happened to him? What had he seen?

"Would you like a little milk and arrowroot?" she suggested.

He nodded immediately.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she promised.

She returned nearly a quarter of an hour later. It was further to the kitchen than she had remembered, and it had taken longer to bring the cooking range to a reasonable heat. But the ingredients were fresh and she had a handsome blue and white porcelain mug filled with steaming milk, just the right temperature to drink, and the arrowroot in it would be soothing. She propped the pillows behind him and held it to his lips. He drank it with a smile, his eyes steady on hers.

When he was finished she was not sure whether he wanted her to stay or not, to speak or remain silent. What should she say? Usually she would have asked a patient about themselves, led them to talk to her.

But anything with Rhys would be utterly one-sided. She could only guess from his expression whether her words interested or bored, encouraged or caused further pain. She had hardly seen Sylvestra to learn any more about him.

In the end she said nothing.

She took the empty cup from him. "Are you ready to sleep?" she asked.

He shook his head slowly but decisively. He wanted her to stay.

"You have some very interesting books." She glanced towards the shelf.

"Do you like to be read to?”

He thought for a moment, then nodded. She should choose something far removed from his present life, and it must be something without violence. Nothing must remind him of his own experience. And yet it must not be tedious either.

She went over to the shelf and tried to make out the titles in the firelight, which was now considerable. "How about a history of Byzantium?" she suggested.

He nodded again, and she returned with it in her hand. "I'll have to light the gas.”

He agreed, and for three-quarters of an hour she read quietly to him about the colourful and devious history of that great centre of Empire, its customs and its people, its intrigues and struggles for power. He fell asleep reluctantly, and she closed the book, marking the page with a taper from the box by the fire, put out the light again, and tip-toed back to her room with a feeling of something close to elation.

There was not a great deal she could do for him beyond making sure he was as comfortable as possible, that his bedroom was clean and that the bandages on his more minor wounds were changed as often as was consistent with healing. Eating was difficult for him and seemed to cause him immediate distress. Obviously his internal injuries affected his ability to accept and digest food. It was distressing, and yet she knew that if he did not take nourishment he would waste away, his organs would cease to function and he would damage them irreparably.

Fluid was vital.

She brought him milk and arrowroot again, beef tea, and a little dry, very thin toast, and then half an hour later, more egg custard.

It was not without pain, but he did retain it.

Dr. Wade came in the late morning. He looked anxious, his face pinched, his eyes shadowed. He himself was limping and in some pain from a fall from his horse over the previous weekend. He came upstairs almost immediately, meeting Hester on the landing.

"How is he, Miss Latterly? I fear it is a wretched job I've given you.

I'm truly sorry.”

"Please don't apologise, Dr. Wade," she responded sincerely. "I don't wish to have only the easy cases…”

His face softened. "I'm very grateful for that! I had heard well of you, it seems with good reason. Nevertheless, it must be disturbing when there is so little you can do, anyone can do, to help." He frowned and his voice dropped. He stared at the floor. "I've known the family for years, Miss Latterly, ever since I came out of the Navy…”

"The Navy?" She was caught by surprise. It was something she had not even imagined. "I'm sorry… I have no right to…”

He smiled suddenly, illuminating his features and changing his appearance entirely. "I was a naval surgeon twenty years ago. Some of the men I tended had served with Nelson." His eyes met hers, bright with memory, seeing in his mind another age, another world. "One old sailor, whose leg I amputated after a canon had broken loose and pinned him to the bulkhead, had served in the victory at Trafalgar." His voice was thick with concentration. "I don't suppose there is another woman I know to whom I could say that, and she would have some idea of what it means. But you have seen battle, you have watched the courage amid horror, the heart and the strength, the endurance through pain and in the face of death. I think we share something that the people around us can never know. I am extremely grateful that you are nursing poor Rhys, and will be here to support Sylvestra through what can only be a dreadful ordeal for her.”

He did not say so in words, but she saw in his eyes that he was preparing her for the fact that Rhys might not recover. She steeled herself.

"I shall do everything I can," she promised, meeting his gaze steadily.

"I'm sure you will." He nodded. "I have no doubt of it whatever. Now… I will see him. Alone. I am sure you understand. He is a proud man… young… sensitive. I have wounds to tend, dressings which must be changed.”

"Of course. If I can be of assistance, just ring the bell.”

"Thank you, thank you, Miss Latterly.”

In the afternoon Hester left Rhys to rest, and spent a little time with Sylvestra in the withdrawing room. It was crowded with furniture, as was the rest of the house, but warm and surprisingly comfortable, to the body if not to the eye.

The house was very quiet. She could hear only the flames in the fireplace and the driving of rain against the window. There were no sounds of servants' feet across the hallway, or whispers or laughter as there were in most houses. Tragedy seemed to have settled over it with peculiar loneliness.

Sylvestra asked after Rhys, but it was merely to make conversation. She had been in to see him twice during the day, the second time she had stayed for a painful half-hour, trying to think of something to say to him, recalling happiness in the distant past, when he was still a child, and half promising that such peace and joy would come again. She had not mentioned Leighton Duff. Perhaps that was natural. The shock and wound of his loss was far too new, and she certainly would not wish to remind Rhys of it.

In the silences between them, Hester looked around the room for something to prompt a conversation. Again she was unsure whether speech was wanted or not. She was conscious of a painful isolation in the woman who sat a few feet away from her, a polite smile on her face, her eyes distant. Hester did not know if it was loneliness, or simply a private dignity of grief.

She saw among the group photographs one of a young woman with dark eyes and level brows and a nose too strong to be pretty, but her mouth was beautiful. She bore a marked resemblance to Rhys, and the gown she was wearing, the top half of which was very clear in the picture, was of very modern style, not more than a year or two old.

"What an interesting face," she remarked, hoping it was not touching on another tragedy.

Sylvestra smiled and there was pride in it.

"That is my daughter, Amalia.”

Hester wondered where she was, and how soon she could be here to help and support her mother. Surely no family duty could be more important?

The answer came immediately, again with a lift of pride and shadow of puzzlement.

"She is in India. Both my daughters are there. Constance is married to a captain in the army. She had the most terrible time during the Mutiny three years ago. She writes often, telling us about life there." She looked not at Hester, but into the dancing flames of the fire. "She says things can never be the same again. She used to love it, even when it was most boring for many of the wives. During the heat of the summer the women would all go up to the hill stations, you know?" It was a rhetorical question. She did not expect Hester to have any knowledge of such things. She had forgotten she had been an army nurse, or perhaps she did not understand what it really meant. It was another world from hers.

"They can never trust now as they used to. It has all changed," she went on. "The violence was unimaginable, the torture, the massacres.”

She shook her head. "But of course they can't come home. It is their duty to remain." She said it without bitterness or the slightest resentment. Duty was a strength and a reason for life, as well as its most rigid boundary.

"I understand," Hester said quickly. She did. Her mind flew back to officers she had known in the Crimea, men, clever ones and foolish ones, to whom duty was as simple as a flame. At no matter what cost, personal or public, even when it was painful or ridiculous, they would never think of doing other than what was expected of them. At times she could have shouted at them, or even lashed out at them physically, through sheer frustration at their rigidity, at the sometimes unnecessary and terrible sacrifices. But she never ceased to admire it in them, whether at its noblest, or its most futile or both together.

Sylvestra must have caught something in her voice, a depth of answering emotion. She turned to look at her and for the first time smiled.

"Amalia is in India too, but her husband is in the Colonial Service, and she takes a great interest in the native peoples." There was pride in her face, and amazement for a way of life she could hardly imagine.

"She has friends among the women. Sometimes I worry that she is very rash. I fear she intrudes where Westerners are not wanted, thinking she will alter things for the good, when in truth she may only do damage. I have written advising her, but she was never good at accepting counsel. Hugo is a nice young man, but too busy with his own tasks to pay sufficient attention to Amalia, I think.”

Hester's imagination pictured a rather stuffy man shuffling papers on a desk, while the spirited, more adventurous Amalia explored forbidden territories.

"I'm sorry they are not closer, to be with you at this time," she said gently. She knew it would be months before any letters from Sylvestra with the news of her father's death could circle round the Cape of Good Hope and reach India, and the answers return to England. No wonder Sylvestra was so terribly alone.

Mourning was always a time for family closeness. Outsiders, no matter how excellent their friendship, felt intrusive, and did not know what to say.

"Yes…" Sylvestra agreed, almost as if speaking to herself. "I would dearly like their company, especially Amalia. She is always so… positive." She shivered a little, in spite of the warmth of the room, the heavy curtains drawn across the windows against the rain and the dark, the empty tea tray with the remains of crumpets and butter. "I don't know what to expect… the police again, I suppose. More questions, for which I have no answers.”

Hester knew, but it was kinder not to reply. Answers would be found, ugly things uncovered, even if only because they were private, and perhaps foolish or shabby. They would not necessarily include finding the man who had murdered Leighton Duff.

Again Rhys ate only beef tea and a little dry toast. Hester read to him for a while, and he fell asleep early. Hester herself did not put out her light until after midnight, and awoke again in the dark with a ripple of horror going over her like an icy draught. The bell had not fallen, yet she rose immediately and went through to Rhys's room.

The fire was still burning well and the flames cast plenty of light.

Rhys was half sitting against the pillows, his eyes wide open and filled with blind, unspeakable terror. His face was drenched in sweat.

His lips were stretched back over his teeth. His throat convulsed over and over again, and he seemed unable to draw breath except in gasps between each soundless scream. His splinted hands were held up near his face to ward off the terror his mind saw.

"Rhys!" she cried, going towards him quickly.

He did not hear her. He was still asleep, isolated in some terrible world of his own.

"Rhys!" she repeated more loudly. "Wake up! Wake up you are safe at home!”

Still his mouth was working in the fearful screams which racked his body. He could not see or hear Hester, he was in a narrow alley somewhere in St. Giles, seeing agony and murder.

"Rhys!" Now she shouted peremptorily and put out her hand to touch his wrist. She was prepared for him to strike at her, seeing her as part of the attack. "Stop it! You are at home! You are safe!" She closed her hand over his wrist and shook him. His body was rigid, muscles locked. His nightshirt was wet through with sweat. "Wake up!" she shouted at him. "You must wake up!”

He started to shake, violently, moving the whole bed back and forth.

Then slowly he crumpled up and silent sobs shuddered through him, tears running down his face, the breath dragging in his throat.

She did not even think about it; she sat on the bed and reached out her arms and held him, touching his thick hair gently, smoothing it off his brow, following the line of it on the nape of his neck.

She sat there for a length of time she did not' measure It could have been as long as an hour.

Then at last gently she let him go and eased herself away to stand up.

She must change the damp and crumpled linen and make sure that in his distress he had not torn or moved any of his bandages.

"I'm going to fetch clean sheets," she said quietly. She did not want him to think she was simply walking away. "I'll be back in a moment or two.”

She returned to find him staring at the door, waiting for her. She put the linen down on the chair and moved over to help him on to one side of the bed so she could begin changing it around him. It was never an easy task, but he was too ill to get out altogether and sit in a chair.

She was uncertain what internal injuries might be strained, or what wounds Dr. Wade had seen and she had not, which might be broken open.

It took her some time, and he was obviously in considerable pain and she had to be patient, working around him, smoothing and straightening, rolling up and unfolding again. At last it was re-made and he lay exhausted. But his nightshirt had to be changed as well. The one he was wearing was soiled not only with sweat but with spots of blood. She longed to redress the larger wounds, to make sure they were properly covered, but Dr. Wade had forbidden her to touch them, in case removal of the gauze should tear the healing tissue.

She held out the clean nightshirt.

He stared at it in her hands. Suddenly his eyes were defensive again, the trust was gone. Unconsciously he pressed backwards into the pillows behind him.

She picked up the light top quilt and spread it over him from waist to feet. She smiled at him very slightly, and guardedly, cautiously, he allowed her to pull the nightshirt up and off over his head. It hurt his shoulders to raise his arms, but he gritted his teeth and did not hesitate. She replaced it with the clean one and, fumbling guardedly under the sheets, pushed it down to cover him. Very carefully she smoothed the sheet and blankets again, and at last he relaxed.

She re-stoked the fire, then sat down in the chair and waited until he should fall asleep.

In the morning she was tired and extremely stiff herself. She never got used to sleeping in a chair, for all the times she had done it.

She told Sylvestra about the incident, but briefly, without the true horror of pain she had witnessed. It was only in order to make sure that Dr. Wade did indeed come, and not perhaps feel that Rhys was recovering and another patient might need him more.

"I must go to him," Sylvestra said immediately, her face pinched with anguish. "I feel so… useless! I don't know what to say or do to help him! I don't know what happened!" She stared at Hesteras if believing she could supply an answer.

There had never been an answer, not to Rhys, or to all the other young men who had seen atrocities more than they could bear, except that time and love can heal, at least a part of the pain.

"Don't try to talk about what happened," she advised. "All the help you can give is simply to be there.”

But when Sylvestra came into the bedroom Rhys turned away. He refused to look at her. She sat on the edge of the bed, putting out her hand to touch his arm where it lay on the coverlet, and he snatched it away, then when she reached after him again he lashed out at her, catching her hand with his splints, hurting both her and himself.

Sylvestra gave a little cry of distress, not for the physical pain, but the rebuff. She sat motionless, not knowing what to do.

Rhys turned his head and kept his face away from her.

She looked at Hester.

Hester had no idea why he had acted with such sudden cruelty, beyond that she had already considered. It was impossible even to guess the reason his recent injury, a feeling of guilt that perhaps he should have been able to save his father, or if not, that he should also have died. She knew of men whose shame at their own survival, when their comrades had perished, was beyond any reason or comfort to console. It was unreachable, and attempts in words by those who could never truly understand only highlighted the gulf between them, the utter loneliness.

But none of that would touch the hurt in Sylvestra.

"Come downstairs," Hester said quietly. "We'll let him rest, at least until the doctor comes.”

"But…”

Hester shook her head. Rhys was still lying motionless and stiff.

Persuasion would not help.

Reluctantly Sylvestra rose and followed Hester out and across the corridor and landing and downstairs again. She did not say anything.

She was closed in a world of her own confusion.

Shortly after luncheon the maid announced that the man from the police was here again.

"Will you stay?" Sylvestra asked quickly. "I should prefer it.”

"Are you sure?" Hester was surprised. Usually people chose to keep such invasions of their privacy from as many as possible.

"Yes." Sylvestra was quite decisive. "Yes. If he has anything to tell us, it will be easier for Rhys if you know it also. I…" It was not necessary to say how frightened she was for him, it was only too plain in her face.

Evan was shown in. He looked cold and unhappy. The maid had taken his hat and outer coat, but his trouser legs were wet at the bottom, his boots were soaked, and his cheeks glistened with splashes of rain. It was some time since Hester had last seen him, but they had shared many experiences, both of triumph and of fear and pain, and she had always liked him. There was a gentleness and honesty in him which she admired. And he was sometimes more perceptive than Monk gave him credit for. Now it was discreet to behave as if they were strangers.

Sylvestra introduced them, and Evan made no reference to past acquaintance.

"How is Mr. Duff?" he asked.

"He is very ill," Sylvestra said quickly. "He has not spoken, if that is what you are hoping. I am afraid I know nothing further.”

"I'm sorry." His face crumpled a little. It was highly expressive, mirroring his thoughts and feelings more than he wished. He was a trifle thin, with bright hazel eyes and an aquiline nose, rather too long. His words came from sympathy, not annoyance.

"Have you… learned anything?" she asked. She was breathing rather quickly and her hands were held tightly together on her lap, fingers clenched around each other.

"Very little, Mrs. Duff," he replied. "If anyone saw what happened, they are not willing to say so. It is not an area where the police are liked. People live on the fringes of the law, and have too much to hide to come forward voluntarily.”

"I see." She heard what he said, but it was a world beyond her knowledge or comprehension.

He looked at her high-boned, severe and oddly beautiful face, and did not try to explain, although he must have understood.

Hester guessed the question he wanted to ask, and why he found it difficult to frame it without offending. Also it was more than possible she had no idea whatever of the truthful answers. Why would a man of Leighton Duffs standing go to such an area? To gamble illegally, to borrow money, to sell or pawn his belongings, to buy something stolen or forged, or to meet a prostitute. He could tell his wife none of these things. Even if it were something as comparatively praiseworthy as to help a friend in trouble, he still would not be likely to share it with her. Such difficulties were private, between men, not for the knowledge of women.

Evan decided to be blunt, which did not surprise Hester. It was the nature she knew in him.

"Mrs. Duff, have you any idea why your husband should go to an area like St. Giles, at night?”

"I… I know nothing about St. Giles." It was an evasion, a gaining of more time to think.

He could not afford to be put off.

"It is an area of extreme poverty, and crime both petty and serious,” he explained. "The streets are narrow and dirty and dangerous. The sewage runs down the middle. The doorways are full of drunken and sleeping beggars… sometimes they are even dead, especially this time of the year when they die of cold and hunger very easily, particularly those who are ill anyway. Tuberculosis is rife…”

Her face twisted with revulsion, and perhaps pity also, but her horror was too great to tell. She did not wish to know such things, for many reasons. It jarred her past happiness, it frightened and revolted her.

It threatened the present. The mere knowledge of it contaminated the thoughts.

"More children die under six than survive," he went on. "Most of them have rickets. Many of the women work in sweatshops and factories, but a great number practise a little prostitution on the side, to make ends meet, to feed their children.”

He had gone too far. It was a picture she could not bear.

"No…" she said huskily. "I can only imagine that he must have been lost.”

He showed a streak of ruthlessness that would have been characteristic of Monk.

"On foot?" he raised his eyebrows. "Did he often walk around parts of London at night where he did not know the way, Mrs. Duff?”

"Of course not!" she responded too quickly.

"Where did he say he was going?" he persisted.

She was very pale, her eyes bright and defensive.

"He did not say, specifically," she answered him. "But I believe he went out after my son. They had had words about Rhys's behaviour. I was not in the room, but I heard raised voices. Rhys had left in anger. We had both believed that he had gone to his own room upstairs." She was sitting very upright, her shoulders high and stiff, her hands folded. "Then when my husband went up to resume the discussion, he discovered he was absent, and he was very angry. He went out also… I believe to try to find him. Before you ask me, I do not know where Rhys went, or where Leighton did find him… which obviously he did. Perhaps that was how they became hurt?”

"Perhaps," Evan agreed. "It is not unusual for a young man to frequent some questionable places, ma'am. If he is not squandering money, or paying attentions to another man's wife, it is generally not taken very seriously. Was your husband strict in his moral views?”

She looked confused. To judge from her expression, it was a question she had never considered.

"He was not… rigid… or self-righteous, if that is what you mean." Her eyebrows rose, her eyes wide. "I don't think he was ever… unfair. He did not expect Rhys to be… abstinent. It was not really a – a quarrel. If I gave that impression, I did not mean to. I did not overhear their words, simply their voices. It may even have been something else altogether." She bit her lip. "Perhaps Rhys was seeing a woman who was… married? Leighton would not have told me.

He could have wished to spare me…”

"That may be the case," Evan conceded. "It would explain a great deal. If her husband confronted them, violence might have followed.”

Sylvestra shuddered and looked away towards the fire. "To commit murder? What kind of a woman can she be? Would it not have taken several men… to… to do such terrible things?”

"Yes… it would," he agreed quietly. "But perhaps there were several… a father or a brother, or both.”

She put her hands up to cover her face. "If that is true, then he was wrong very wrong but he did not deserve a punishment like this! And my husband did not deserve any punishment at all. It was not his fault!”

Unconsciously she ran her slender fingers through her hair, dislodging a pin, letting a long, black strand of it fall. "No wonder Rhys will not face me!" She looked up at him. "How do I answer it? How do I learn to forgive him for it… and teach him to forgive himself?”

Hester put her hand on Sylvestra's shoulder. "First by not supposing it is true until we know," she said firmly. "It may not be the case.”

Although looking across at Evan, and remembering the scene in the bedroom during the night, and today when Sylvestra had been there, she found it very easy to believe they had guessed correctly.

Sylvestra sat up slowly, her face white.

Evan rose to his feet. "Perhaps Miss Latterly will take me up to see Mr. Duff. I know he cannot speak, but he may be able to answer with a nod or a shake of his head.”

Sylvestra hesitated. She was not yet ready to face even the questions, let alone the answers Rhys might give. Nor was she ready to return to the scene where only a short while ago she had witnessed such a sudden and vicious side of her son. Hester saw it in her eyes, she read it easily because she shared the fear.

"Mr. Duff?" Evan prompted.

"He is unwell," she said, staring back at him.

"He is," Hester reinforced. "He had a most difficult night. I cannot allow you to press him, Sergeant.”

Evan looked at her questioningly. He must have seen some of her feelings, the memories of Rhys cowering against the pillow as his mind relived something unspeakable, so terrible he could not say it in words… any words at all.

"I will not press him," he promised, his voice dropping. "But he may wish to tell me. We must give him the opportunity. We need to know the truth. It may be, Mrs. Duff, that he needs to know it also.”

"Do you think so?" She looked at him sceptic ally "No vengeance, or justice, is going to change my husband's death, or Rhys's injuries. It will help some distant concept of what is fair, and I am not sure how much I care about that.”

Hester thought for a moment Evan was going to argue, but he said nothing, simply standing back and waiting for her to lead the way.

Upstairs Rhys was lying quietly, splinted hands on the covers, his expression peaceful, as if he were nearly asleep. He turned his head as he heard them. He looked guarded, but not frightened or unduly wary.

"I'm sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Duff," Evan began before even Hester or Sylvestra could speak. "But investigation has taken me very little further forward. I know you cannot speak yet, but if I ask you a few questions, you can indicate yes or no to me.”

Rhys stared back at him, almost unblinkingly.

Hester found herself gritting her teeth, her hands sticky. She knew Evan had no choice but to press. Rhys was the only one who knew the truth, but she also knew that it could cost him more than even his mother could guess, let alone Evan, who stood there looking so gentle and capable of pain himself.

"When you went out that evening," Evan began, 'did you meet anyone you knew, a friend?”

A shadow of a smile touched Rhys's mouth, bitter and hurt. He did not move. "I've asked the wrong question." Evan was undeterred. "Did you go in order to meet a friend? Had you made an arrangement?”

Rhys shook his head.

"No." Evan acknowledged. "Did you meet someone by chance?”

Rhys moved his shoulder a little, it was almost a shrug.

"A friend?”

This time it was definite denial.

"Someone you do not like? An enemy?”

Again the shrug, this time angry, impatient.

"Did you go straight to St. Giles?”

Rhys nodded very slowly, as if he had trouble remembering.

"Had you been there before?" Evan asked, lowering his voice.

Rhys nodded, his eyes unwavering.

"Did you know your father was going there also?”

Rhys stiffened, his body tightening till the muscles seemed locked.

"Did you?" Evan repeated.

Rhys cringed back into the pillow, wincing as the movement hurt him. He tried to speak, his mouth forming the words, his throat striving, but no sounds came. He started to tremble. He could not get his breath and gasped, the air dragging and catching in his throat.

Sylvestra bent forward. "Stop it!" she commanded Evan. "Leave him alone." She placed herself between them as if Evan were offering some physical threat. She swivelled round to Rhys, but he cowered away from her too as if he could not distinguish the difference.

Sylvestra's face was ashen. She struggled for something to say to him but it was beyond her reason or even her emotion to reach. She was baffled, frightened and hurt.

"You must both leave," Hester said firmly. "Please! Now!" As if assuming their obedience, she turned to Rhys who was shuddering violently and sounded in danger of choking. "Stop it!" she said to him loudly and clearly. "Nobody is going to hurt you now! Don't try to say anything… Just breathe in and out steadily! Very steadily!

Do as I tell you!”

She heard the door close as Evan and Sylvestra left.

Gradually Rhys's hysteria subsided. He began to breathe regularly. The scraping sound in his throat eased and he trembled instead of shaking.

"Keep on breathing slowly," she told him. "Gently. In out. In -out.”

She smiled at him.

Warily, shakily, he smiled back.

"Now I am going to get you a little hot milk, and a herbal draught to make you feel better. You need to rest.”

Fear darkened his eyes again.

"No one will come in.”

It was no comfort.

Then she thought perhaps she understood. He was afraid of dreams. The horror lay within him.

"You don't need to sleep. Just lie there quietly. It won't make you sleep.”

He relaxed, his eyes searching hers, trying to make her understand.

But he did sleep, for several hours, and she sat beside him, watching, ready to waken him if he showed signs of distress.

Corriden Wade came in the late afternoon. He looked anxious when Hester told him of Rhys's distress, and of the nightmare which had produced such prolonged pain and hysteria. His face creased with sharp concern, his own physical discomfort of the fall forgotten.

"It is most worrying, Miss Latterly. I shall go up and examine him.

This is not a good turn of events.”

She made to follow him.

"No," he said abruptly, holding his hand up as if physically to prevent her. "I will see him alone. He has obviously been profoundly disturbed by what has happened. In his best interest, to keep him from further hysteria, I shall examine him without the possible embarrassment of a stranger, and a woman present." He smiled very briefly, merely a flicker, more of communication than any lift of mood.

He was obviously deeply distressed by what had happened. "I have known Rhys since he was a child," he explained to her. "I knew his father well, God rest his soul, and my sister is a long-standing and dear friend of Sylvestra. No doubt she will call in the near future and offer whatever help or comfort she may…

.”

"That would be good…" Hester began.

"Yes, of course," he cut her off. "I must see my patient, Miss Latterly. It seems his condition might have taken a turn for the worse. It may be necessary to keep him sedated for a while, so he does not further injure himself in his turmoil of mind…”

She reached out to touch his arm. "But he is afraid of sleep, Doctor!

That is when he dreams…”

"Miss Latterly, I know very well that you have his interests at heart.”

His voice was quite quiet, almost gentle, but there was no mistaking the iron in his will. "But his injuries are severe, more severe than you are aware of. I cannot risk his becoming agitated again and perhaps tearing them open. The results could be fatal." He stared at her earnestly. "This is not the kind of violence either you or I are accustomed to dealing with. We know war and its heroes, which, God knows, are horrible enough. This is the trial of a different kind of strength. We must protect him from himself, at least for a while. In a few weeks he may be better, we can only hope.”

There was nothing she could do but acquiesce.

"Thank you." His face softened. "I am sure we shall work together excellently. We have much in common, tests of endurance and judgement we have both passed." He smiled briefly, a look of pain and uncertainty, then turned and continued on up the stairs.

Hesterand Sylvestra waited in the withdrawing room. They sat on either side of the fire, stiff-backed, upright, speaking only occasionally, in stifled, jerky sentences.

"I have known Corriden Wade for years," Sylvestra said suddenly. "He was an excellent friend of my husband's. Leighton trusted him absolutely. He will do everything for Rhys that is possible.”

"Of course. I have heard of him. His reputation is excellent. Very high.”

"Is it? Yes. Yes, of course it is.”

Minutes ticked by. The coals settled in the fire. Neither of them moved to ring the bell for the maid to add more.

"His sister… Eglantyne, is a dear friend of mine.”

"Yes. He told me. He said she may call upon you soon.”

"I hope so. Did he say that?”

"Yes.”

"Should you be… with him?”

"No. He said it would be better if he went alone. Less disturbing.”

"Will it?”

"I don't know.”

More minutes ticked by. Hester decided to rebuild the fire herself.

Corriden Wade returned, his face grim.

"How is he?" Sylvestra demanded, her voice tight and high with fear.

She rose to her feet without being aware of it.

"He is very ill, my dear," he replied quietly. "But I have every hope that he will recover. He must have as much rest as possible. Do not permit him to be disturbed again. He can tell the police nothing. He must not be harassed as he was today. Any reminder of the terrible events which he undoubtedly both saw and suffered, will make him considerably worse. They may even cause a complete relapse. That is hardly to be wondered at.”

He looked at Hester. "We must protect him, Miss Latterly. I trust you to do that! I shall leave you some powders to give him in warm milk, or beef tea should he prefer it, which will help him to sleep deeply, and without dreams." He frowned. "And I must insist absolutely that you do not speak of his ordeal, or bring it to his mind in any way. He is not able to recall anything of it without the most terrible distress. That is natural to a young man of any decency or sensitivity whatever. I imagine you or I would feel exactly the same.”

Hester had no doubt that what he said was true. She had seen it only too vividly herself.

"Of course," she agreed. "Thank you. I shall be glad to see him find some ease, and some rest that is without trouble.”

He smiled at her. His face was charming, full of warmth.

"I am sure you are, Miss Latterly. He is fortunate to have you with him. I shall continue to call every day, but do not hesitate to send for me more often if you should need me." He turned to Sylvestra. "I believe Eglantyne will come tomorrow, if she may? May I tell her you will receive her?”

At last Sylvestra too relaxed a little, a faint smile touching her lips.

"Please do. Thank you, Corriden. I cannot imagine how we would have survived this without your kindness, and your skill.”

He looked vaguely uncomfortable. "I wish… I wish it were not necessary. This is all… tragic… quite tragic." He straightened up. "I shall call again tomorrow, my dear, until then, have courage.

We shall do all we can, Miss Latterly and I.”