Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [153]
Hester steeled herself to touch Imogen, to search for the wound and see if there was anything she could do. There was no blood pumping, no movement at all.
Blinded by her own tears, she felt for Imogen’s neck and pulled away her collar. Her fingers touched warm skin, and a definite beat of pulse. “She’s alive!” she said. “She’s alive!” Then immediately she realized how stupid that was. There was blood everywhere, scarlet arterial blood. The whole of Imogen’s jacket front was soaked in it. But where was the wound? Was there even any point in trying to find it when so much blood had been lost?
With fumbling fingers in the juddering light from the carriage lamp, she half pulled, half tore at the fastenings until Monk reached over and took them from her, ripping the jacket open. Underneath on Imogen’s white blouse there was only a single bright stain.
Hester heard Charles sobbing.
Less blood . . . not more. The blood was from outside. It was not Imogen’s! Just for a last assurance she pulled the blouse out of its anchorage in the skirt waist and pushed her hand underneath. There was no blood at all, no wound to the smooth skin.
So why was Imogen unconscious? Quickly she replaced the clothes, wrapping them around her. “Coats!” she ordered. “Give me your coats to put around her!” And instantly Monk and Charles threw their coats off and handed them to her. The moment after, the cabbie offered his, struggling to keep the light high at the same time.
Hester felt very gently under Imogen’s head, exploring, terrified to find broken bone, more blood, a soft indentation of the skull, but there was only a swelling. Her heart beating faster and faster, her mouth dry, she covered the last few inches. Still no splintered bone.
“She’s struck her head,” she said hoarsely. “But her skull seems whole.” She looked up at the cabbie. “You’ll take her home, won’t you? Now . . .”
“Yeah! Yeah, o’ course!” he said quickly. “But wot abaht all that blood, Miss? If she ain’t stabbed . . . ’oo is?”
Charles let out a long, shuddering sigh.
Monk stepped forward and took the lamp from the cabbie and held it high. It was Hester who saw the green umbrella lying on the pavement beside the bridge rails. It was still rolled up, and the long, sharp spike of it was thick with blood, and more had fallen in spots along the path.
“Oh, God!” Charles burst out in horror.
“Pendreigh . . .” Monk gasped. “Why?”
“He must be very badly hurt.” Hester tried to gather her wits. Whatever had happened, someone was severely injured.
“I can’t do anything more for Imogen,” she said, climbing to her feet. She turned to Charles. “Take her home, keep her as warm as you can, and when she comes to, try to get her to take a little beef tea. Call the doctor, of course. Don’t put her into sheets, put her straight into blankets, and sit with her.” She watched to make sure he had understood, then she faced Monk. “We must find Pendreigh, if he is still alive. I may be able to help.”
“We’ve no idea where he is!”
“We’ll begin at his home. That’s where most people go when they’re badly hurt.” She started towards the roadway again.
“No!” Monk said instinctively.
She ignored him. “And we must take a constable or someone with us! Apart from anything else, you haven’t any authority. And . . .” She gulped, the ice-cold vapor hurting her chest. “We have to know what happened, for Imogen’s sake. We have to protect her!” It was hideous, and still totally inexplicable. Why had she attacked Pendreigh? There had to be a reason, something that would excuse her in law.
“I’ll get Runcorn,” he answered. “But you’re going home.”
“No, I’m not! It’s my duty to help the injured, just as it’s yours to answer the law. Don’t stand here wasting time. We need a cab, and we need Runcorn!”
Charles had already bent and picked up Imogen very carefully. Now he straightened his back and his legs to carry her across to the waiting cab. The cabbie suddenly galvanized into life and scrambled after them, waving the light, leaving Hester