Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [119]
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, Scuff’s white hand in hers. Crow turned.