The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [163]
Monk finally forced his way through and knelt beside her.
“Is he alive?” he asked.
“Yes. But we’ve got to get him out of here,” she responded, hearing her voice sharp with fear.
He looked down at Rhys, who was still completely insensible. “Thank God he can’t feel this,” he said quietly. “I’ve sent the warder for one of those long benches. We could carry him on that.”
“We’ve got to get him to a hospital,” she said desperately. “He can’t stay in the cell. I don’t know how badly he’s hurt.”
Monk opened his mouth as if to reply, then changed his mind. One of the warders had come downstairs from the dock and was pushing people aside to reach Rhys.
“Poor devil,” he said laconically. “Best for ’im if ’e’d killed ’isself, but if ’en in’t, we’ll best do for ’im what we can. ’Ere, miss, let me get ’im up onter the bench wot Tom’s bringin’.”
“We’ll take him to the nearest hospital,” she said, rising shakily and only just avoiding falling over her own skirts.
“Sorry, miss, but we gotta take ’im back to ’is cell. ’E’s a prisoner …”
“He’s hardly going to escape!” she said furiously, all her helplessness and pain welling up in useless anger for a moment. “He’s totally insensible, you fool! Look at him!”
“Yes, miss,” the warder said stolidly. “But the law is the law. We’ll put ’im back in ’is cell, an’ yer can stay wif ’im, if yer don’ mind bein’ locked in wif ’im? No doubt they’ll send a doctor w’en they get one.”
“Of course I’ll stay with him!” she choked out. “And fetch Dr. Wade, immediately!”
“We’ll try, miss. Is there anyfink as yer want for ’im? Water, like, or a little brandy? I’m sure as I could get a little brandy for yer.”
She controlled herself with an effort. The man was doing his best. “Thank you. Yes, get me both water and brandy, please.”
The other warder appeared along with two more men carrying a wooden bench. With surprising gentleness they picked Rhys up and laid him on the bench, then carried it out of the courtroom, pushing past onlookers and out through the doors and down the hallway toward the cells.
Hester followed, hardly aware of the people around her, of the curious stares and the mutters and calls. All she could think of was how badly Rhys was hurt and why he had fallen over. Had it been an accident as he tried to escape the warders and they attempted to restrain him, or had he intended to kill himself? Had he lost every last vestige of hope?
Or had he been lying all the time, and he had both killed his father and raped and beaten those women?
She refused to believe that … not unless and until she had to. As long as there was a flicker of any other possibility, she would cling to it. But what possibility? What other conceivable explanation was there? She raked her imagination and her memory.
Then one occurred to her, one so extreme and so horrible she stumbled as she followed the warders and all but fell. She was shaking. She felt cold and sick, and her mind raced for any way at all in which she could learn if it were true, and prove it. And she knew why Rhys could not speak, why even if he could … he would not.
She ran a step or two to catch up with them, and as soon as they were at the cells she swung around to face the warders.
“Thank you. Bring me the brandy and water, then leave us alone. I will do what I can for him.” It was a race against time. Dr. Wade, or some other physician, would be bound to come soon. If she was right, it must not be Corriden Wade. But she must know. Anyone interrupting what she now meant to do would be horrified. She might even be prosecuted. Certainly she would jeopardize her career. If it was Corriden Wade, she might even lose her life.
The warder disappeared, leaving the door open, and his companion waited just outside. What could she begin doing to save time?
“Yer all right, miss?”
“Yes, of course I am, thank you. I am a nurse.