Corridors of the Night (35 page)

‘I thought you didn’t like her,’ Magnus said drily. ‘You certainly gave that impression.’

Now Hamilton’s voice sounded incredulous. ‘For God’s sake, Magnus! I neither like nor dislike her. She irritates me at times because she makes judgements that get in the way of my work. But that is the other side of the coin. You have to accept that if she has sufficient intelligence and strength of will to make her own decisions, and act on them, then she will at times make mine also. I must watch her carefully enough to prevent it. I require her. Please send her to the laboratory.’

Hester heard his footsteps on the floor and she turned and walked away as quickly as she could, without looking behind her.

Nevertheless, half an hour later Hester stood in front of Hamilton Rand’s desk by the window of the laboratory and he sat looking up at her.

‘I have no time for emotional games, Mrs Monk, and I hope we are beyond that now.’ He regarded her quite candidly. For once his hazel-coloured eyes appeared to conceal nothing. ‘This work’s importance I do not need to explain to you. I think you are almost as well aware of it as I am. In some cases, such as death from the shock of blood loss in difficult births, you feel even more deeply than I do. I am quite aware that you disapprove of my use of the blood of children, even though it works. I, in turn, do not bear you any grudge for testifying so powerfully against me in court. You acted according to your conscience. It is childish to bear any ill will because of that.’ If he saw her surprise, he gave no sign of it.

‘I wish you to assist me in this continued work, from time to time, as I need you. If you need to haggle about pay, then do it with Magnus. He understands that kind of thing.’

She searched his face, but she could find no intention of insult in his face. He was speaking of practicalities, no more. Should she reply tartly that she had come back to work with patients who needed her skills, and only that? She was angry with herself for being complimented that he knew she understood what he was doing.

‘It has nothing to do with money!’ she said firmly. ‘I came here to take the place of a friend, who is unfortunately still unwell. Who will you get to do that, if I don’t?’

‘For heaven’s sake, woman, there was other nurses,’ he said impatiently. ‘Not of your experience, perhaps, but adequate. We’ll make more funds available. People are falling over themselves to devote to the cause since Radnor’s dramatic appearance.’ He said it with a slightly twisted smile. It was the first time she had seen any sense of humour in him. She wondered if he had always been like that, or whether Edward’s death, his parents’ deaths and his own sacrifice of his medical career had erased all laughter inside him. Was his all-consuming obsession with his work his shield against painful memories, and the emptiness that would otherwise consume him?

That would not be difficult to understand.

‘Mrs Monk!’

‘Good,’ she said decisively. ‘Pay somebody else. In fact pay several people. It is often good nursing that saves lives. That takes time, care and practice. If you can make this blood transfusion work, then you will need many nurses skilled in the treatment of shock, negative reactions, fear, all the distress both physical and emotional that go with it.’

‘And you’ll help?’ he said, moving forward a little, his face eager.

Before she could answer there was a sharp rap on the door behind her and then it was flung open. Two uniformed policemen came in, leaving the door swinging behind them. They walked purposefully, unsmiling, towards Rand. Neither of them spoke to Hester.

‘Hamilton Rand?’ the larger of the two said peremptorily.

‘Who the devil are you to walk in here without a by-your-leave?’ Rand demanded. ‘Whatever you want, you can ask for it civilly.’

‘Are you Hamilton Rand?’ the man repeated. His colleague glanced at Hester, and then walked round her to stand on the other side of Rand.

‘Yes, of course I am. What of it?’ Rand snapped at him.

The larger policeman replied coldly, and with a bold stare. ‘I am here to arrest you for the murder of Adrienne Radnor. I advise you to come with us without making trouble. It would be best for you not to oblige us to use force, which we will do if you make that necessary.’

Rand stared at him as if he had spoken in a foreign language.

Hester, too, was stunned, but not sufficiently to govern her anger.

‘You haven’t identified yourself,’ she said with a fury that startled them. ‘Who are you?’ From what station? Where is your warrant for this? You can’t just barge in here without even knocking, and arrest anybody.’

‘Ma’am, this is none of your concern,’ the larger man said to her sharply. ‘This man has committed murder. He will be properly charged with it and tried before the courts. Now if you will move out of our way, we can do our duty. You wouldn’t want to stand in the way of the police, would you?’

Hester did not move. ‘I am Hester Monk. My husband is Commander of the Thames River Police. Who are you?’

‘Art, I think she really is,’ the other policeman said a bit nervously. ‘I’ve seen her before.’

But Art was not to be deterred. ‘That may be, ma’am, but I have—’

‘What do you mean, “may be”?’ she demanded. ‘What charge have you against me that you openly suggest I am a liar, even as to my own name?’

This time Art did back away a step. ‘It’s just a manner of speaking, ma’am,’ he said more gently. ‘I didn’t mean to say as you are lying. But this man is charged with the brutal murder of a young woman—’

‘Most murders are brutal,’ she cut across him. ‘I knew Adrienne Radnor. I hope very much that you catch whoever strangled her.’

Art looked at her narrowly. ‘How do you know as she was strangled, ma’am? Didn’t say so in the newspapers. Did he tell you that?’ he gestured towards Rand.

‘No, he didn’t,’ she responded, although she knew it was a losing battle. ‘If you were listening to me at all, you would have heard me tell you that Commander Monk is my husband. He was informed of the crime by officers of the law. Where is your warrant for arresting Mr Rand?’

Art took it out of his pocket and showed her, keeping it far enough away that she could not reach for it.

As soon as she saw it she knew it was genuine. The man may have acted unprofessionally, but perhaps he had children himself, and was thinking of the three that Rand had used, and come close to destroying. Perhaps also he had never lost anyone to disease of the blood, or death from haemorrhage in giving birth, or from a violent injury. It all depended so much on what you felt bone-deep in personal terror or loss, and on what you understood.

Whatever Art had known, or not, he was right to arrest Rand, at least in the law, and that was all he was answerable to.

Rand knew it, too. Like a man moving in his sleep, he held out his wrists for the manacles. He walked away between the policemen with only one glance backwards at Hester. He looked confused, even frightened, as if he did not understand.

Was he guilty of having killed Adrienne Radnor, and had seen it as a necessary act, in order to protect his work? Therefore it was not a crime, in his own opinion.

Or was it not he who had killed her at all, but someone else?

Rathbone heard of Rand’s arrest and charge with a sense of dismay. And yet he had every reason to be pleased. The man was guilty of having kidnapped Hester and imprisoning the three Roberts children, even if the law could not prove it. Rathbone had not for an instant doubted Hester’s word, even if he was aware that she had a respect for Rand’s work, if not for his methods. And in spite of all that had happened, she was back working at the hospital where she would probably see him every day.

That much he realised that he understood perfectly. A lawyer defended people accused of appalling crimes, whatever their own opinion of innocence or guilt. He had been wrong more than once, although had he been right every time that would not alter the principle.

Nevertheless, when Ardal Juster asked him to call at his chambers, Rathbone went only because he owed Juster that courtesy. After their disappointment over the previous prosecution, and the complete shambles in which it had ended, for Juster to call on Rathbone again was more than courteous, it was generous.

‘Looks as if we have a second chance at it,’ Juster said as Rathbone sat down in the comfortable chair opposite the desk in Juster’s chambers. He smiled ruefully. ‘Although I have a feeling you are going to tell me again that you don’t think the case against Rand is a very good one.’

‘I haven’t heard it,’ Rathbone replied. He clearly hoped that he was mistaken in his scepticism.

‘We have motive, means and opportunity.’ Juster leaned forward across the desk in his enthusiasm. ‘He can’t account for his whereabouts for most of the probable time of the murder.’

Rathbone began as devil’s advocate immediately. ‘Seems it was apparently the middle of the night; neither could I. Could you?’

‘What?’ Juster looked startled, as if Rathbone had accused him of something.

Rathbone smiled. ‘Most men who do not sleep in the same bed as a wife cannot prove their whereabouts at two or three o’clock in the morning. Did anyone see Rand, or a man who could have been Rand, in the neighbourhood?’

‘Not so far,’ Juster conceded. ‘No one at all has been seen, but quite clearly someone had been there. The woman didn’t strangle herself.’

‘You make a nice argument for a jury,’ Rathbone agreed. ‘Is there anything at all to indicate that it was Rand? Something he left there? Something found in his home, his office, his laboratory? Mud-stained clothes? A footprint in the ground? Mud on his boots?’

‘Miss Radnor was found in the ditch beside the road,’ Juster said impatiently. ‘There would be no occasion for her killer to go off into the ditch himself. And he had the means. She was strangled. Any man of average strength with two hands could have done it. And before you ask for more than that, she put up no struggle. There is plenty of evidence of that in the state of her clothes, and her body. She did not run, and she did not fight until the last few moments, when she realised what he had already begun to do. It was no stranger who followed her or crept up on her. There is plenty of evidence, which, if properly presented, can lead to no other conclusion.’

‘Could she have had a lover who quarrelled with her?’ Rathbone was still testing the case, looking for the arguments the defence would use.

‘I’ve looked for one, but found nothing at all to suggest she has had a suitor of any kind in the last three or four years. In fact, since her father’s health began to fail, and he didn’t travel so much but stayed at home, she has been constantly at his side.’

‘A secret lover?’ Rathbone persisted.

Juster gave a sharp little laugh. ‘Secret from Bryson Radnor? What do you think are the chances of that? He controlled her life. That I can call abundant evidence to prove, if I have to.’

‘It begins to look like a better case,’ Rathbone agreed, and saw Juster’s immediate satisfaction. ‘Don’t want it too much,’ he warned, his voice gentler.

Juster faced him squarely, his dark eyes bright. ‘And you are precisely the man to warn me about taking short cuts with the law, or allowing my own sense of what is right or wrong to guide my actions, ignoring the niceties of the legal system.’

Rathbone knew exactly what he meant, and the barb had been a long time in coming. Indeed, he was surprised, considering how harsh he had been with Juster, that it had been so long.

‘Of course I am,’ he agreed with painful honesty. ‘I have done what I am warning you not to do, and paid the price for it. You, of all men, know that. Is it a pattern of behaviour you wish to emulate?’

Juster blushed. ‘Actually, I would very much like to emulate both your skill and your passion,’ he said with sudden humility. ‘But if I don’t learn from the price you paid for that, then I am a fool. I mean to prepare this case against Hamilton Rand with the utmost care, diligence not only in every detail, but in all the moral and emotional aspects as well. And I would be profoundly grateful if you would help me, for the sake of justice, if not for the excitement of the battle.’

He leaned across the desk again, keen face earnest. ‘You and I know that Rand kidnapped Hester Monk because she was useful to him, and because if he left her behind, she would tell people what he was doing. But whether she wishes to press charges or not, there is no question what he did to those children.’

Rathbone started to speak.

Juster held up his hand. ‘I know! I know . . . we could not prove that the money he gave the parents was payment to get himself off any subsequent charge of kidnapping the children. And the parents, poor devils, needed it far too badly to admit to knowing much. It stood between them and the starvation of their children. They would rather have food and be thought to sell their children than keep their reputation and watch the smallest ones cry from hunger until they haven’t the strength to cry any more. God help me, so would I! My point, Sir Oliver, is that we know the man is evil. He escaped us before because of Radnor’s dramatic entrance. After that even an eye witness couldn’t have got us a conviction. People are terrified of disease or injury where a victim bleeds to death. He holds out the hope of a cure. You can’t win over hope. But this is different. This is the wilful and deliberate murder of a young woman—’

‘Why?’ Rathbone interrupted again. ‘Why did he kill her? You have to provide that motive! If you haven’t got an eye witness and you haven’t got physical evidence, then you must have an overpowering reason.’

‘Because now that her father is well again, she doesn’t need Rand any more,’ Juster pointed out. ‘We don’t know what else she learned when she was in that cottage. She wasn’t locked up like Hester. She was there of her own will, and when Rand and Hester were caring for Radnor, she had the run of the house. She had to. What did she learn when she was there, that now she could tell anyone?’

‘Such as what?’ Rathbone asked, but the idea was too powerful to dismiss.

‘Where the bones came from that Monk and his man dug up in the orchard, for example,’ Juster suggested quietly. ‘They were human bones. Some were very small . . . the bones of children.’