William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

catchin’ ’im won’t be that easy. Don’t see nothin’ ter go on so far. An’ we can’t count on much ’elp from them ’round ’ere.”
    Evan knelt beside the second body and felt in the pockets to see if there was anything left which might at least identify the victim. His fingers brushed against the man’s neck. He stopped, a shiver of incredulity, almost horror, going through him. It was warm! Was it conceivable he was still alive?
    If he was dead, then he had not been so for as long as the older man. He might have lain in this freezing alley bleeding for hours.
    “What is it?” Shotts demanded, staring at Evan, his eyes wide.
    Evan held his hand in front of the man’s nose and lips. He felt nothing, not the faintest warmth of breath.
    Shotts bent and held the lamp closer.
    Evan took out his pocket watch, polished the surface clean on the inside of his sleeve, then held it to the man’s lips.
    “What is it?” Shotts repeated, his voice high and sharp.
    “I think he’s alive,” Evan whispered. He drew the watch away and looked at it under the light. There was the faintest clouding of breath on it. “He is alive!” he said jubilantly. “Look!”
    Shotts was a realist. He liked Evan, but he knew he was the son of a parson and he made allowances.
    “Maybe ’e jus’ died after the other one,” he said gently. “ ’E’s ’urt pretty dreadful.”
    “He’s warm! And he’s still breathing!” Evan insisted, bending closer. “Have you called a doctor? Get an ambulance!”
    Shotts shook his head. “You can’t save ’im, Mr. Evan. ’E’s too far gorn. Kinder ter let ’im slip away now, without knowin’ anything about it. I don’t suppose ’e knows ’oo dun ’im anyway.”
    Evan did not look up. “I wasn’t thinking of what he could tell us,” he replied, and it was the truth. “If he’s alive we’ve got to do what we can. There’s no choice to make. Find someone to fetch a doctor and an ambulance. Go now.”
    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’sgentler 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,