The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [2]
Shotts hesitated, looking around the deserted alley.
“I’ll be all right,” Evan said abruptly. He was not sure. He did not wish to be alone in that place. He did not belong there. He was not one of those people, as Shotts was. He was aware of his fear and wondered if it was audible in his voice.
Shotts obeyed reluctantly, leaving the bull’s-eye behind. Evan saw the constable’s solid form disappear around the corner and felt a moment’s panic. He had nothing with which to defend himself if whoever had committed these murders returned.
But why should he? Evan knew better. He had been in the police long enough—in fact, over five years, since 1855, halfway through the Crimean War. He remembered his first murder. That had been when he had met William Monk, the best policeman he knew, if also the most ruthless, the bravest, the most instinctively clever. Evan was the only one who had realized also how vulnerable Monk was. Monk had lost his entire memory in a carriage accident, but of course he dared tell no one. He had no knowledge of who he was, what his skills were, his conflicts, his enemies or even his friends. He lived from one threat to another, clue after clue unfolding and then meaning little or nothing, just fragments.
But Monk would not have been afraid to be alone in that alley. Even the poor and the hungry and the violent of that miserable area would have thought twice before attacking him. There was something dangerous in his face with its smooth cheekbones, broad, aquiline nose and brilliant eyes. Evan’s gentler features, full of humor and imagination, threatened no one.
He started as there was a sound at the farther end of the alley, at the main street, but it was only a rat running along the gutter. Someone shifted weight in a doorway, but he saw nothing. A rumble of carriage wheels fifty yards away sounded like another world, where there was life and wider spaces, and the broadening daylight would give a little color.
He was so cold he was shaking. He ought to take his coat off and put it over the boy who was still alive. In fact, he should have done it straightaway. He did it now, gently, tucking it around the boy and feeling the cold bite into his own flesh till his bones ached.
It seemed an endless wait until Shotts returned, but he brought with him the doctor, a gaunt man with bony hands and a thin, patient face. His high hat was too large for him and slid close to the tops of his ears.
“Riley,” he introduced himself briefly, then bent to look at the young man. His fingers felt expertly and Evan and Shotts stood waiting, staring down. It was now full daylight, although in the alley between the high, grimy walls it was still shadowed.
“You’re right,” Riley said after a moment, his voice strained, his eyes dark. “He’s still alive … just.” He climbed to his feet and turned towards the hearselike outline of the ambulance as the driver backed the horses to bring it to the end of the alley. “Help me lift him,” he requested as another figure leaped down from the box and opened the doors at the back.
Evan and Shotts hastened to obey, lifting the cold figure as gently as they could. Riley superintended their efforts until the youth was lying on the floor inside, wrapped in blankets, and Evan had his coat back, bloodstained, filthy and damp from the wet cobbles.
Riley looked at Evan and pursed his lips. “You’d better get some dry clothes on and a stiff tot of whiskey, and then a dish of hot gruel,” he said, shaking his head. “Or you’ll have pneumonia yourself, and probably for nothing. I doubt we can save the poor devil.” Pity altered his face in the lantern light, making him look vulnerable. “Nothing I can do for the other one. He’s the undertaker’s job, and yours, of course. Good luck to you. You’ll need it, around here. God knows what happened—or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say the devil does.” And with that he climbed in behind his patient. “Mortuary van’ll come for the other one,” he added as if an afterthought. “I’m taking this one to St. Thomas’s. You can enquire after him there. I don’t