Corridors of the Night (17 page)

She wanted to hold him close, soothe away the hurt inside him, but he was not her child. She had no right to that intimacy and she was nervous of intruding, creating a bond she would have to break when they were returned home. She wondered how she could give them some respite from the uncertainty of what would happen to them, even if they would get home. Did they know that Rand was drawing away their lives in order to save Radnor, and solve by experiment the healing mystery of their blood?

She racked her mind for stories she could tell to children their ages, but she could not remember what tales she had heard so far back in her own childhood. And of course by Maggie’s age she could read on her own.

Nothing came to mind but bits and pieces of stories. She could remember
Cinderella
, but what would these children make of princes and glass slippers? What about history? That was full of stories. Or legend?

The first to her mind was King Alfred and the Viking invasion. At least she could describe the great Norse ships, and how Alfred was beaten, and then began to fight back.

‘Shall I tell you a story?’ Hester asked, sitting down in the other chair. ‘A true story, of how a brave king gathered all his men together and fought a great battle?’

Charlie looked at her gravely. ‘Did he win?’

‘Oh, yes, in the end,’ she assured him. ‘He was very brave, and he never gave up, no matter how bad it was. In fact we still call him Alfred the Great!’

‘Yes . . . please,’ Charlie agreed.

Mike looked at her steadily for a long moment, then he took a handful of her skirt in his grasp and slowly climbed up on to her lap. He settled himself and waited.

‘A very long time ago,’ she began, ‘not so very far from here, there was a man called Alfred. He wasn’t specially big, or strong, but he was very specially brave . . .’

An hour later Mike was asleep, still on her lap, and she was surprised how heavy he was. He seemed to be all elbows and knees and she had to move him gently in order to be at all comfortable herself. Maggie was curled up in the chair. Charlie was still listening, and every time she stopped he prompted her to go on.

In the late afternoon Rand came in. He stood near the doorway, watching for several moments before he demanded her attention.

She stood up, carrying Mike over to place him near Maggie, and then followed Rand out of the room. She was acutely aware of Charlie’s eyes in her back as she closed the door.

Rand’s bland, scholarly face was marred with irritation.

‘You are losing your professionalism, Mrs Monk,’ he said coldly. ‘You are not here to entertain those children. You are a part of this experiment. You would be very foolish to forget that.’

This time caution controlled the response that rose to her lips. ‘Only a part,’ she agreed. ‘I am replaceable, but not easily or conveniently at the moment. The same is true of them. Their blood works. You have no one else’s that does. It is practical that we keep them as well and as calm as possible. Is that not true, Mr Rand?’

He met her gaze for a long, silent moment. He was disconcerted by her remarks, and yet oddly pleased that she understood not just calmly, but with passion. He turned and led the way down the stairs, across the hallway and into the room where he did most of his work of measuring and refining. It was here that he examined things under the beautifully wrought microscope on its stand near the window.

He turned to face her as he closed the door, so there was no chance Adrienne would overhear them.

‘What person of honour would refuse to give a little of his own blood to save another’s life?’ he demanded.

‘None,’ she answered. ‘I have never doubted the purpose, Mr Rand, only the means you use to attain it.’

‘And what means would you have me use, Mrs Monk?’ he asked. ‘How long do I wait? Until I find another family of children whose blood heals everyone? As you have pointed out, I don’t even know where to look, or how to recognise it if I do – except by trial and error.’

Was that emotion in his voice, or did she imagine it?

‘How many more people lose limbs and die of shock and blood loss?’ His voice grew rough-edged, as if something in his memory all but choked him. ‘How many men waste away with the white blood disease?’ He moved so that she could not see his face except in profile. ‘Sometimes the many are saved by the sacrifice of the few. It is not my way, it is nature’s.’ He stopped abruptly and stood in silence. Then he straightened up and reached for a small square of glass that he used to smear blood upon to look at it under the microscope.

‘I need your assistance,’ he said sharply. ‘We cannot waste time in emotional indulgence.’

‘Seeing that the children survive is not an emotional indulgence, Mr Rand,’ Hester said bitterly. ‘When you save someone completely, you need to know why their blood – and no one else’s so far – is good. There are surely many things that could be the cause, aren’t there? Is it something in their parents? Their lives, their heritage, their environment? Is it something they eat, or even that they do not eat and others do?’

She stared at his stiff body, his square, rigid shoulders.

‘Finding that it works, and Bryson Radnor will live, is only the beginning,’ she continued. ‘Do you want to announce to the world, “Yes I did it, but I don’t know how, so I can’t do it again”?’

He turned to face her very slowly. He seemed pale, but his eyes were suddenly bright.

‘How perceptive of you, Mrs Monk. I was wrong to be disappointed in you. Of course I must know what it is that heals so remarkably in this particular blood, and that is different from other people’s. But if I succeed with Radnor, then there will be more money available to fund research. People will be clamouring to have a part in it.’ His very slight smile was bleak. ‘I will have many new “friends” among those who now have no interest at all.’

Hester caught the grief under the bitterness. She had not thought him capable of personal hurt, but perhaps she was wrong. It was more than a tactic towards her own survival and the children’s that pushed her to ask him. She knew not to be devious; he would sense it immediately, and resent it.

‘It is personal for you, isn’t it? You really are not after glory.’

‘Glory!’ he said the word as if it were an obscenity. ‘Is that what you think medical science is? A pursuit of self-aggrandisement?’ Her face was pinched with disappointment, and a sort of disgust with himself for having hoped far more.

She knew she had made a mistake and tried to correct it.

‘Perhaps I should have said a pure search for knowledge, for its own sake, rather than for its practical application. That is not something to be despised.’

He was momentarily confused by her grasp of the issue he had thought beyond her. He was forced to think again.

‘Why do you care, Mrs Monk? Do you think I am unaware that you keep reminding me of the value of these children because you have developed a sentimental attachment to them?’

‘Now you are wrong again!’ she said, her anger surging back. ‘You imply something maudlin and basically selfish. That is unworthy of either of us. I care for them because they are sweet and brave people, and should grow up to have as much of a chance at life as fate will give them. That is not sentimental, it is basically decent, that’s all! If you don’t care about individuals then you are lying when you say you aren’t after glory. Without a purpose beyond yourself, then you
are
after glory, praise, reward. Don’t deceive yourself.’

He winced as sharply as if she had struck him.

‘How quick you are to judge,’ he accused her. ‘I want the cure for white blood disease so no one ever dies of it again: man or child.’ His voice was intense, shaking as if it were beyond him to control it. ‘I watched my own brother die of it, and he was barely older than Charlie. He was the most beautiful child I ever knew: brighter, gentler, more visionary than I am.’ His mouth twisted into a grimace of anger. ‘Magnus is all he can be, but he will never make up for Edward.’ He drew in a deep, shaky breath. ‘Neither will I. But perhaps I will save someone in the future who will achieve greatness, beauty of the mind and the soul.’

‘Maybe Charlie,’ Hester said softly, this time without criticism. ‘One cannot know. Or the children he will have one day.’

He looked at her. For a moment there was no pretence at indifference in him at all, only memory and grief.

‘Damn you!’ he said quietly. ‘I want you to nurse these children and keep them alive so I can use their blood until I can save Radnor, and find out how I am doing it! What is it about them? Why does their blood always work, and other people’s does sometimes, and it kills other times?’

‘Would you have used Edward, if some other person had caused you to work at this?’ She knew she was taking a risk, but she would never have a better chance than this.

‘I can’t use Edward,’ he said savagely.

‘Magnus?’ She would not let it go.

‘I need him alive! He’s a doctor, a good one. I need his skills. That should be within your grasp to understand.’ A shadow passed over his face. ‘Anyway, we tried transfusing Magnus’s blood. It didn’t work. Nor does mine. Tried it twice with mine. All the patients died.’ He turned away from her. ‘Now will you please stop badgering me with your questions and attend to your work? We may need more blood tomorrow.’

‘You can’t!’ she said, all her fear returning. ‘You’ll kill them! Then Radnor will certainly die. You will have failed. You can’t keep on taking blood so often. Apart from anything else, their blood will be depleted of all goodness. For heaven’s sake, can’t you see that?’

He stood motionless with his back to her.

‘Why on earth are you here doing this anyway?’ she demanded. ‘You may be brilliant, but you’re a chemist! Magnus is the doctor – why isn’t he here?’

‘I know enough medicine to manage,’ Rand replied, still facing away from her. ‘And you have the experience. You’ll hold your nerve.’

‘That is not an answer,’ she said. She kept as calm as she could, but felt a different kind of panic welling up inside her. ‘Does Magnus even know what you’re doing?’

Now he wheeled round, his eyes glittering. ‘Of course he knows what I’m doing! He has the doctor’s qualification, but I know almost as much medicine as he does. But if we fail, he has the more to lose.’

She was stunned. Was Hamilton Rand really taking the responsibility to save his brother, if it all went disastrously wrong?

He saw her face and understood her thoughts as if she had spoken them aloud. He raised his eyebrows high. ‘You don’t think I would do that? You know nothing! You look at us, see little, a very little, and jump to conclusions. Who do you think brought Magnus up, helped him study, encouraged him, paid for his medical schooling?’

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. ‘Your father . . .’ As soon as she said it she knew she was wrong. ‘You?’

‘I gave up medical school when my father died. I went to work to earn money to keep the family. Then Mother died as well. It was after Edward . . .’ he breathed in and out to steady himself, ‘. . . after Edward died. There were only Magnus and me left. I was determined one of us would make it. Magnus had the chance. He’s going to be a success now.’

Hester could think of nothing to say. Her feelings were torn in so many different directions it was like a physical pain inside her. She could barely imagine the loss, Hamilton’s willing sacrifice, the burden of gratitude weighing on Magnus. And every time Hamilton said ‘Edward’, she could see Charlie’s face, pale, losing his grip on life as his blood was drained away.

‘Nothing to say, Mrs Monk?’ Rand asked her bitterly. ‘No judgements?’

She shook her head. ‘I think it’s time to finish this, and for me to go and make dinner. Adrienne is probably looking after her father. And frankly, I’d rather scrape a used saucepan than feed him.’

Rand smiled with a downward twist of his lips. ‘You don’t have to like him, Mrs Monk. Just keep him alive.’

‘I know, Mr Rand,’ she answered him, this time meeting his eyes. ‘It is entirely in my own interest to do so. I won’t forget that, I assure you.’

In the early evening, Hester went back up the stairs to see Radnor again. With the new transfusion of blood he had seemed to rally considerably and Adrienne had felt well able to care for him without assistance for a couple of hours.

She met Hester at the bedroom door.

‘We do not need you, Mrs Monk,’ she said coolly. ‘My father is gaining strength every day. Dr Rand is a genius. I think he will make medical history.’ She said it with pride. Perhaps it was a safer emotion than hope so fragile. She had been very afraid, and she must now be uncomfortably aware that Hester had witnessed her fear almost intimately, much too close to forget.

‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ Hester smiled back at her. It was easy to be honest, for many reasons. ‘I will still go in and check his pulse and temperature.’

Adrienne stood in front of the door, blocking it. They faced each other for a few seconds in silence. Finally Hester spoke.

‘Is there something you do not wish me to see, Miss Radnor?’ she said levelly.

A shadow crossed Adrienne’s brow. ‘Of course not. I just don’t want you to disturb him. Your manner is discourteous, sometimes even quarrelsome; as I am sure you are aware. He needs to rest. Go and look after the children. I think you care more about them than you do about him anyway, even though it is he who is ill.’

‘The children are ill also, Miss Radnor, and they have no one else to care for them,’ Hester replied with surprise. She had been aware that Adrienne did not have any affection for them. In fact, she showed no outward compunction about the fact that Rand was regularly taking their blood for her father. Perhaps she was so desperate for him that she had not even given it consideration. Her fear that Radnor could die obscured everything else.

Hester thought for the first time that since Adrienne was in her early thirties, perhaps she had devoted so much care to companionship with her father that she had missed some opportunities for marriage, and might not have many more. Then she would have no children of her own. Did that cause her pain?