Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [23]
Runcorn went ahead and yanked the bellpull, then stepped away.
After several moments the door was opened by a middle-aged maid in plain stuff dress and a white apron that was wet around the bottom. Her hands were red, and a faint line of soap showed white on her wrists. It was plain from her face that she had been weeping and was controlling herself now only with the greatest effort.
“Yes sir?” she enquired.
It was not far off nine o’clock. “May we see Dr. Beck, please?” Runcorn asked. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.” He produced his card and offered it to her. “I’m from the police,” he added as she ignored it, and he realized she probably could not read.
“ ’E can’t see yer,” she said with a sniff.
“I’m aware of his bereavement,” Runcorn said quietly. “It’s about that that I must speak.”
“Yer can’t,” she repeated expressionlessly. “ ’E in’t ’ere.”
Monk felt his heart beat faster. Runcorn stiffened.
“ ’E’s gorn ter the ’orspital,” the maid explained. “Up ’Ampstead. Poor soul, ’e don’t know wot ter do wif ’isself, but ’e don’t never forget the sick.” She blinked rapidly but the tears still ran down her rough cheeks. “You gotta find ’oo done this to ’im. If yer worth sixpence of a decent person’s money, yer can do that!”
Runcorn drew in his breath to be reasonable, then changed his mind. Perhaps he was conscious of Monk a step behind him, watching, listening. He would be patient. “Of course we will, but we need his help . . .”
“Up the ’orspital.” She waved her arm, indicating the direction. “I can’t do nothin’ for yer ’ere. An’ yer’d best ’urry, afore ’e starts operatin’, ’cos ’e won’t stop fer nothin’ then, not you ner me, ner Gawd ’isself.”
Runcorn thanked her and went back to the street to look for a hansom, Monk a couple of steps behind him, finding it difficult to follow graciously, but if he wanted to be included he had no choice but to comply. He was certain Runcorn was conscious of it, and enjoying it.
“Better get a cab, Monk,” Runcorn said after a moment or two.
Monk knew why he did that. Hansom drivers could spot the self-assurance of a gentleman fifty yards away. A man with breeding would have more money, more appearance of position to keep up and therefore more generosity. Whatever Runcorn wore, whatever rank he attained, he would never have that air, the unconscious arrogance that Monk was born with. That was the core of his loathing all the years they had known each other: the fact that they were both aware of the differences between them, and Monk had never yielded a word of honest praise, or stayed his tongue. He was not proud of that now, but the pattern of years was too deep to erase.
Again they rode in silence, this time as a matter of necessity. They alighted at the hospital some half an hour later, and Monk led the way, being familiar with the place from the times he had been there to see Hester.
As soon as he was inside he smelled the familiar odors of carbolic and lye and another odor, sweeter and different, which might have been blood. His imagination raced to the morning he had woken up after his own accident, and to the battlefield in America where he had seen for the first time what it was that Hester had really done in the Crimea, not the English imagination of the horror and the helplessness but the reality of flesh and pain.
Runcorn was a step behind him. The difference in experience was a gulf between them that could never be crossed. All the telling in the world, even supposing Runcorn were to listen, could not convey things for which there were no words.
They passed a middle-aged woman carrying two heavy slop buckets, her shoulders dragged down by the weight. Her eyes did not meet theirs. She was a nurse, a hospital skivvy to fetch and clean, stoke fires, launder, roll bandages and generally do as she