The Dark Assassin (39 page)

The shot still
took him by surprise, ricocheting off the wall and sending brick chips and dust
flying. He threw himself against the wall, sheltering Scuff as much as he could
with his own body.

There was
another shout, and another, but they sounded further away. He looked around and
at first thought there was no one there. Then he saw the lantern held high,
Orme's familiar figure behind it. Relief washed over him like a warm tide,
almost robbing him of the little strength he had left.

"Orme!"
he shouted. "Here! Help me!"

"Mr. Monk,
sir! Are you all right?" Orme ran over, slipping in the water, his lantern
swaying wildly, his face crumpled with concern.

"Scuffs
shot," Monk said simply. "We've got to get him up."

Orme was aghast.
"Now? Just now?"

"No! No ...
we caught up with the assassin and he shot at us."

"Right,
sir. I'll lead the way," Orme said steadily. "Come with me."

It seemed a long
way before they finally emerged into the open cutting. By now Monk had
abandoned his lantern, simply following Orme's light ahead. He wanted to hold
Scuff gently, in both arms. The boy was beginning to stir, and every now and
then he let out a soft groan.

When they
reached the end of the cutting and were on level ground again, they stopped.
For the first time Monk saw Scuffs face in the daylight. He was ashen, and
there were already hollows of shock around his eyes. Monk felt a tight pinching
in his heart. He looked up at Orme.

"You better
get 'im to a doctor, Mr. Monk," Orme said anxiously.

Scuffs eyes
flickered open. "I want Crow," he said weakly. "It 'urts summink
awful! Am I gonna die?"

"No," Monk
promised. "No, you're not. I'm going to take you to the hospital-"

Scuffs eyes grew
wide and dark with terror. "No! No 'ospitil! Don't take me there, please,
Mr. Monk, don't take me ..." he gasped. His face turned even whiter. He
tried to reach out his hand as if to ward off something, but only his fingers
moved. "Please ..."

"All
right," Monk said quickly. "No hospital. I'll take you home. I'll
look after you."

"You've got
to get 'im treated proper, Mr. Monk." Orme's voice was sharp with fear.
"Just carin' isn't gonna be enough. That bullet's gotter come out an' the
'ole stitched up ... an' cleaned."

"I
know," Monk answered, more sharply than he meant to. "Get a message
to Crow and have him come to my house. My wife's a battlefield nurse."

Orme saw the
futility of arguing when time was so desperately precious. He ran out into the
street and stopped the first hansom passing, ordering the startled passenger
out to find another hansom. This was police business. The man saw the injured
child and made no demur.

Orme left to
look for Crow.

It was a
nightmare journey. Monk sat cradling Scuff in his arms, talking to him all the
time about anything and nothing, wishing he knew how to help. The trip seemed
to last forever, and yet it was perhaps no more than half an hour before he
climbed out, paid the driver, and carried Scuff to the front door.

The house was
dark, empty, and cold. God! Had she gone back to Portpool Lane already? He
could have wept with fear and the aching loneliness of knowing he was
inadequate to do what was needed. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? What
could he do without her? He felt panicky and sick. There was no time to wait!

He must keep
Scuff warm! He was slipping away, bleeding too fast. His face was gray and
there was barely a flutter of his eyelids.

Monk must warm
up the room, riddle the stove, put on more fuel. He should boil water to make
it clean. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? He had no idea how to get a
bullet out! He could kill Scuff just by trying!

He moved
quickly, ramming the fire with the poker. He must be careful; if he added too
much coal, he would put the fire out. Then it would take ages to light again.
He blew on it, to make it draw. Then he filled the biggest pan with water, but
changed his mind and put on a small one instead. It would be quicker.

Finally there
was no excuse to wait any longer. He lifted Scuff from the chair where he had
put him and laid him on the table under the light. He must take off his coat and
remove the bit of scarf Orme had put in to pack the wound. It was soaked
through with blood. His hands shook as he pulled it off and saw the scarlet
hole in the white skin, still welling up scarlet inside. Scuff was unconscious
and barely breathing. Perhaps it was too late already?

He did not even
hear the front door. It was not until Hester was standing beside him that he
realized his face was wet with tears of relief. He did not ask if she could
save Scuff because he could not bear the answer.

She said nothing
except to give orders: "Pass me the knife . . . clean this for me ... cut
up my petticoat, it's soft.. . put the vinegar on this- yes, it's clean. They
used to use it in the navy, in ships of the line. Just do it!"

They worked
together. She probed for the bullet, pulled it out, packed the wound, and
finally drew the flesh closed and stitched it over with a darning needle dipped
in boiling water. She used the only silk thread she had, a dark blue from a
dress she had been altering. He obeyed, his teeth clenched, his body now
shuddering with cold and exhaustion, his heart pounding with fear.

Finally they
were finished. Scuff was bandaged and dressed in one of Hester's nightgowns,
which was the only thing that was anywhere near his size, and laid gently on
her side of the bed. Only then did Monk finally ask. "Will he live?"

She did not lie
to him. Her face was pinched with grief and tiredness, and her blue dress was
irrevocably stained with blood. "I don't know. We'll just have to wait.
I'll sit here with him, try to keep his temperature down. There's nothing else
to do now except wait. Go and wash, and put dry clothes on."

He had forgotten
that he was still sodden himself, and the stench of the sewer probably filled
the whole house. "But...," he started, then realized she was right.
There was nothing further he could do to help Scuff, and catching pneumonia
himself would help no one. He was shaking with cold, his teeth chattering. He
would change and then make them both a cup of tea. His stomach was empty and
sick, and his arm was throbbing.

He was in the
kitchen with the teapot when Crow arrived. "How is he?" he asked,
searching Monk's face. "God, you look awful.'" His voice shook, his
emotions too raw to hide.

"I don't
know," Monk admitted. "Hester took the bullet out and stitched the
wound, but he's terribly weak. He's upstairs, in my bed. Can you..."

Crow had a
gladstone bag with him; he had not even put it down. He turned and went up the
stairs two at a time. Monk followed him five minutes later with scalding hot
tea.

Crow was
standing beside the bed. Hester was still sitting on the chair, Scuffs white
hand in hers. Crow turned. "She did a good job," he said simply.
"There's nothing more that I can do. It's a bad wound, but the bullet's
out and it's clean. It's not bleeding much anymore. I've got bandages here and
spirit to clean with, and a drop of port wine to lift him when he wakes."
He did not say if, but they all knew he meant it.

"Just . . .
wait?" Monk wanted to do more than that. There must be something.

"Tea,"
Crow said with a bleak smile.

Monk poured it,
and they sat down to endure the long night.

Scuff tossed and
turned. By midnight he was feverish. Monk fetched a bowl of cool water from the
kitchen, and Hester kept sponging him down. By half past one Scuff was more
settled, breathing shallowly but not thrashing around, and no longer covered
with sweat.

Crow took off
the bandage and repacked the wound. It looked clean, but it was still bleeding
slowly. He tried to give Scuff a teaspoonful of wine, but the boy would not
take it.

Monk dozed a
little in the chair, then changed places with Hester by the bed, watching and
waiting.

Outside the rain
turned to sleet, then to snow.

At five o'clock
Scuff opened his eyes, but he was only half awake. He did not speak, and it
seemed as if he had little idea where he was. Hester lifted him very slightly
and gave him a teaspoonful of wine. He choked on it, but she gave him some
more, and the second time he smiled very faintly. Almost immediately he slipped
back into unconsciousness, but his breathing was a little steadier.

Monk went down
to build the stove up again and boil more water for tea.

A little after
seven Scuff spoke.

"Mr. Crow?
That you?"

"Yes, it's
me," Crow said quickly.

"Yer
came...."

"Of course
I did. Did you think I wouldn't?"

"Nah ... I
knowed. I done it." He smiled weakly. "Told yer."

"What did
you do?" Crow asked him.

"I found
the feller fer Mr. Monk. I 'elped 'im."

"Yes, I
know," Crow agreed. "He told me."

"Did
'e?" Scuff frowned. He gave a deep sigh and fell back to sleep again,
smiling.

"Is he
going to be all right?" Monk demanded, his voice hoarse.

"Looks
better" was all Crow would say.

At eight o'clock
Crow left, needing to see his other patients. There was no more he could do for
Scuff now, and his manner more than his words said that he trusted Hester's
ability as much as his own. He promised to return in the evening.

Monk was weary.
His bones were aching and his eyes were smarting each time he blinked, as if
there were sand in them. Nevertheless, he knew he must go and tell Rathbone
that he had seen the assassin, exactly as Melisande Ewart had described him,
and that the killer had shot Scuff and escaped. At least Monk could attest to
his existence and his nature.

Hester was
exhausted, too, but she dared not sleep in case Scuff suddenly grew worse and
she was not there to do all she could. Even so she was only half awake when he
spoke to her.

" 'Oo are
yer? Are yer Mr. Monk's wife?" His voice was surprisingly clear.

She opened her
eyes, blinking. "Yes, I am. My name's Hester. How are you?"

He bit his lip.
"I 'urt. I got shot. Did Mr. Monk tell yer?"

"Yes. I
took the bullet out of your shoulder. That's why it hurts so much. But it looks
as if it's getting better. Would you like something to drink?"

His eyes
widened. "Yer looked? Din't yer faint, nor nuffink?"

"No. I was
a nurse in the army. I don't faint."

He stared at
her, then moved experimentally. Suddenly he saw the lace on his sleeve.
"Wo's that? Wot yer done wi' me clothes?"

"It's one
of my nightgowns," she replied. "Your own clothes were wet from the
sewers, and pretty dirty."

He blushed
scarlet, still staring at her.

"I've
tended to soldiers before," she said matter-of-factly. "It's all the
same, in battle. Not that I gave them my own nightgowns, of course. But I
didn't have anything else for you, and no time to go and get anything. You
needed to be warm and clean."

"Oh."
He looked away, confused.

"Would you
like something to drink?" she offered again.

He turned back
to her slowly. "Wot yer got?"

"Tea with
sugar and a little port wine," she replied.

"I don'
mind if I do," he said, a trifle warily. He was obviously still turning
over in his mind the fact that he was wearing her nightgown and he had no idea
where his own trousers were.

Hester went down
to the kitchen and made tea, then brought it up and added a few spoonfuls of
port. She helped him drink it without any further conversation. His color was
definitely better when he lay back.

"Yer looked
arter soldiers?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes."

"Wy d'yer
do that? Din't Mr. Monk mind?"

"I didn't
know him then."

"In't yer
got no ma and pa ter look arter yer?" He frowned, as she evidently did not
fit his picture of an orphan.

"Yes, I had
then. They didn't like it a lot," she said frankly. "But quite a few
young ladies, even very respectable ones, went out to help Florence
Nightingale."

"Oh! Yer
one of 'em?"

"Yes."

"Were yer
scared?"

"Sometimes.
But when things are at their worst you don't think of yourself so much-more of
the men who are wounded, and if you can help them."

"Oh."
He thought for a moment. "I don't need no 'elp. Least, not most o' the
time. I 'elp Mr. Monk. 'E don't know much 'bout the river. Not that 'e in't
clever, an' brave, like," he added quickly. " 'E s just..."

"Ignorant,"
she supplied for him with a smile.

"Yeah,"
he agreed. "If yer knowed that, why'd yer let 'im go?"