The Silent Cry

by Anne Perry

  “And if I told you I have not been paying close attention to it, that my mind was elsewhere, could you tell me what I have missed?” he said gently. “So I may understand the second act.”

  She thought quickly. She must concentrate on what he was saying, not on what he might mean—or might not! She must not leap to conclusions and perhaps embarrass them both. Then she would never be able to resume their friendship. It would be over, even if neither of them acknowledged it, and that would hurt. She realized with surprise how very much it would hurt.

  She looked at him with a smile, quite a casual one, but not so slight as to appear cool or studied.

  “Have you a case which troubles you, a new one?”

  Would he retreat into that excuse, or was it the truth anyway? She had left the way open for him.

  “No,” he said quite directly. “I suppose in a sense it has to do with law, but it was most certainly not the legal aspect of it which was on my mind.”

  This time she did not look at him. “The legal aspect of what?”

  “Of what concerns me.” He put his hand on her back to guide her through the throng of people, and she felt the warmth of it ripple through her. It was a safe feeling, disturbingly comfortable. Why should comfort disturb her? That was ridiculous.

  Because it would be so easy to get used to. The gentleness, the sweetness of it was overwhelmingly tempting. It was like coming into sunlight and suddenly realizing how chilled you had been.

  “Hester?”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps this is not really the best place, but …”

  Before he could finish what he was about to say, he was accosted by a large man with sweeping silver hair and an avuncular manner.

  “My goodness, Rathbone, you are miles away, man! I swear I have seen you pass half a dozen acquaintances as if you were unaware of their existence. Do I credit that to your charming companion or a particularly challenging case? You do seem to select the very devil of the lot of them.”

  Rathbone blinked slightly. It was something very few situations had ever caused him to do.

  “To my companion, of course,” he replied without hesitation. “Hester, may I introduce Mr. Justice Charles? Miss Hester Latterly.”

  “Ah!” Charles said with satisfaction. “Now I recognize you, ma’am. You are the remarkable young lady who uncovered such damning evidence in the Rostova case. In the Crimea, weren’t you? Extraordinary! How the world is changing. Not actually sure I care for it, but no choice, I suppose. Make the best of it, eh?”

  At another time she would have challenged him as to what he meant. Did he disapprove of women having the opportunity to make such a contribution as Florence Nightingale had? Their freedom? Their use of knowledge and authority, and the power it gave them, even if only temporarily? Such an attitude infuriated her. It was antiquated, blind, rooted in privilege and ignorance. It was worse than unjust, it was dangerous. It was precisely that sort of blinkered idiocy which had kept inadequate men in charge of the battles in the Crimea and cost countless men their lives.

  She drew in her breath to begin the assault, then remembered Rathbone standing so close to her he was actually touching her elbow, and she let out her breath in a sigh. It would embarrass him dreadfully, even if in truth he half agreed with her.

  “I am afraid we are all in that situation, sir,” she said sweetly. “There is a good deal I am quite certain I do not care for, but I have not yet found a way of altering it.”

  “Not for want of seeking,” Rathbone said dryly when they had bidden Mr. Justice Charles good-evening and moved a few yards away. “You were remarkably tactful to him. I expected you to take him thoroughly to task for his old-fashioned views.”

  “Do you think it would have changed his mind one iota?” she asked, looking at him with wide eyes.

  “No, my dear, I don’t,” he said with a smile, on the verge of laughter. “But that is the first time I have seen such a consideration halt you.”

  “Then perhaps the world really is changing?” she suggested.

  “Please do not allow it to change too much,” he said with a gentleness that amazed her. “I appreciate the tact—it has its place—but I should not like you to become like everyone else. I really care for you very much exactly as you are.” He put his hand on hers lightly. “Even if at times it alarms me. Perhaps it is good to be disturbed now and again? One can become complacent.”

  “I have never thought of you as complacent.”

  “Yes, you have. But I assure you that you would be wrong if you thought so now. I have never been less comfortable or less certain of myself in my life.”

  Suddenly she was not certain either. Confusion made her think of Monk. She liked Rathbone immensely. There was something in him which was uniquely valuable. Monk was elusive, unyielding, at times arbitrary and cold. But she could not turn away from him. She did not wish Rathbone to say anything which would require an answer.

  Her heart was quieter again. She smiled and put up her hand to touch his cheek.

  “Then let us forget yesterday and tomorrow, and simply be certain that this evening is an island of friendship, and of a trust of which there is no doubt at all. I have no idea what the play is about either, but since the audience is laughing every few moments, I expect it is just as witty as they say.”

  He took a deep breath and smiled back at her. There was a look in his face of sudden ease. He took her hand and moved it softly to his lips.

  “I should enjoy that enormously.”

  When Dr. Wade called the next day he was accompanied by his sister, Eglantyne, who expressed the same concern for Sylvestra as before, coming to her with a kind of silent understanding which Hester now appreciated more than on the previous occasion. Then it had seemed as if she were at a loss for what to say. Looking at her more closely, it now appeared instead to be a knowledge that no words would serve any purpose; they might end in belittling what was too large for everyday speech.

  When Sylvestra and Eglantyne had gone together into the withdrawing room, Hester looked at Corriden Wade. He was quite obviously tired and the strain was showing in the lines of weariness around his mouth and eyes. There was no longer the same energy in his bearing.

  “Can I help you at all, Dr. Wade?” she asked gravely. “Surely there must be something I can do to lessen the burden upon you? I imagine you have many other patients, both in hospital and in their homes.” She searched his eyes. “When did you last take any thought for yourself?”

  He stared at her as if for a moment he was not sure what she meant.

  “Dr. Wade?”

  He smiled, and his face altered completely. The dejection and anxiety vanished, although nothing could mask the tiredness in him.

  “How generous of you, Miss Latterly,” he said quietly. “I apologize for allowing my own feelings to be so obvious. It is not a quality I intend, or admire. I admit, this case does trouble me deeply. As you have no doubt observed, both my sister and I are very fond of the whole family.” A shadow of pain crossed his eyes, and the surprise of it was naked to see. “I still find it hard to accept that Leighton … Mr. Duff … is dead. I had known him for years. We had shared … a great deal. That it should all end”—he took a deep breath—“like this … is appalling. Rhys is much more than a patient to me. I know …” He made a slight gesture with his hands. “I know a good doctor, or a good nurse, should not allow himself or herself to become personally involved with any patient. It can affect their judgment to offer the best care possible. Relatives can lend sympathy and grief, moral support and love. They look to us to provide the best professional treatment, not emotion. I know all this as well as anyone. Still, I cannot help being moved by Rhys’s plight.”

  “And I too,” she confessed. “I don’t think anyone expects us not to care. How could we dedicate our time to helping the sick and injured if we did not care?”

  He looked at her closely for several moments.

  “You are a remarkable wo
man, Miss Latterly. And of course you are right. I shall go up and see Rhys. Perhaps you will keep the ladies company and …”

  “Yes?” She was now used to his pattern of seeing Rhys alone, and no longer questioned it.

  “Please, do not offer them too much encouragement. I do not know if he is progressing as well as I had hoped. His outer wounds are healing, but he seems to have no energy, no will to recover. I detect very little returning strength, and that disturbs me. Can you tell me if I have missed something, Miss Latterly?”

  “No … no, I wish I could, but I also have wished he would develop more desire to sit up longer, even get into a chair for a while. He is still very weak and not able to take as much food as I had expected.”

  He sighed. “Perhaps we hope too much. But guard your words, Miss Latterly, or we may unintentionally cause even more pain.” And with an inclination of his head, he went up the stairs past her and disappeared across the landing.

  Hester went to the withdrawing room and knocked on the door. She had a fear of interrupting a moment that could be confidential. However, she was invited in immediately and with apparently genuine pleasure.

  “Do come in, Miss Latterly,” Eglantyne said warmly. “Mrs. Duff was telling me about Constance’s letters from India. It sounds extraordinarily beautiful, in spite of the heat and the disease. Sometimes I regret there is so much of the world I shall never see. Of course, my brother has traveled a great deal …”

  “He was a naval surgeon, wasn’t he?” Hester sat in the chair offered her. “He mentioned something of it to me.”

  Eglantyne’s face showed little expression. It was plain that her brother’s career did not excite in her either the imagination of danger, personal courage, and desperate conditions or the knowledge of suffering that it did in Hester. But then how could it? Eglantyne Wade had probably never witnessed anything more violent or distressing than a minor carriage accident, the odd broken bone or cut hand. Her grief would be … what? Boredom, a sense of life passing by without touching her, of being very little real use to anyone. Almost certainly a loneliness, perhaps a broken romance, a love known and lost, or merely dreamed of. She was pretty—in fact, very pretty—and it seemed she was also kind. But that was not enough to understand a man like Corriden Wade.

  Eglantyne avoided Hester’s eyes. “Yes, he does speak of it occasionally. He believes very strongly in the power of the navy, and the life at sea, to build character. He says it is nature’s way of refining the race. At least I think that is what he said.” She seemed uninterested. There was no life in her voice, no lift of understanding or care.

  Sylvestra looked at her quickly, as if sensing some emotion, perhaps loneliness, beyond her words.

  “Would you like to travel?” Hester asked to fill the silence.

  “Sometimes I think so,” Eglantyne answered slowly, recalling herself to the polite necessities of conversation. “I am not sure where. Fidelis … Mrs. Kynaston … speaks of it sometimes. But of course it is only a dream. Still, it is pleasant to read, is it not? I daresay you read a great deal to Rhys?”.

  The conversation continued for nearly an hour, touching on a dozen things, exploring none of them.

  Eventually Corriden Wade returned looking very grave, his face deeply lined, as if he were close to exhaustion. He closed the door behind him and walked across to stand in front of them.

  Silently Eglantyne reached out and took Sylvestra’s hand, and Sylvestra clung to it until her knuckles shone white with the pressure.

  “I am sorry, my dear,” he said quietly. “I have to warn you that Rhys is not progressing as well as I would like. As no doubt Miss Latterly will have told you, his outer wounds are healing well. There is no suppuration and certainly no threat of gangrene. But internally we cannot tell. Sometimes there is damage to organs that we have no way of knowing. There is nothing I can do for him except prescribe sedatives to give him as much rest as possible, and bland food that will not cause him pain, and yet will be nourishing and easy to digest.”

  Sylvestra stared up at him, her face stricken.

  “We must wait and hope,” Eglantyne said gently, looking from Sylvestra to her brother and back again. “At least he is no worse, and that in itself is something to be thankful for.”

  Sylvestra attempted to smile, and failed.

  “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?”