William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

sure if that was an allusion to Monk or simply a statement that for once they had no cause for their meeting but each other’s company. It was an extraordinary departure forhim. He had always been so guarded in the past, so very private where anything personal was concerned.
    “And mine has no trial that would interest you,” she replied with an answering smile. “In fact, I fear probably no trial at all.” She withdrew her hands and he let her go. He walked back slowly towards the chairs near the fire and indicated for her to sit on one, before he sat on the other. It was a delightful room, comfortable and private without being too intimate for decorum. Anyone might come or go at any moment, and they could hear the chatter and laughter, and the clink of china, in another room very close. The fire burned hotly in the grate and there was a pleasant glow from the pink and plum shades of the furniture. Light gleamed on the polished wood of a side table. A main table was set with linen, crystal and silver for two.
    “Do you want a trial?” he asked with amusement. His eyes were extraordinarily dark, and he watched her intently.
    She had thought she would find his attention disconcerting, but although perhaps it was, it was also unquestionably pleasant, even if it made her skin a little warm and very slightly disturbed her concentration. In a subtle way it was like being touched.
    “I would very much like the offenders caught and punished,” she said vehemently. “It is one of the worst cases I have seen. Often I think I can see some sort of reason for things, but this seems to be simply the most bestial violence.”
    “What happened?”
    “A young man and his father were attacked in St. Giles and appallingly beaten. The father died; the young man, whom I am nursing, is very badly injured and cannot speak.” Her voice dropped unintentionally. “I have watched him have nightmares when it is quite obvious he is reliving the attack. He is agonized with terror, hysterical, trying over and over to scream, but his voice won’t come. He is in great physical pain, but the anguish in his mind is even worse.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said, regarding her gravely. “It must be very difficult for you to watch. Can you help him at all?”
    “A little … I hope.”
    He smiled across at her, the warmth in his eyes praiseenough. Then his brow puckered. “What were they doing in St. Giles? If they can afford a private nurse for him, they don’t sound like residents, or even visitors, of such a place.”
    “Oh, they aren’t,” she said quickly. “They live in Ebury Street. Mr. Duff was a senior solicitor in property conveyancing. I have no idea what they were doing in St. Giles. That is one of the problems the police are trying to solve. It is John Evan, by the way. I feel odd behaving as if I do not know him.”
    “But it is best, I’m sure,” he agreed. “I’m sorry you have such a distressing case.” The servant had left a decanter of wine, and Rathbone offered it to her, and when she accepted, poured a glass full and passed it to her. He raised his own glass to his lips in an unspoken toast. “I suppose many of your cases are trying, one way or another?”
    She had not thought of it in that light. “Yes … I suppose they are. Either the person is very ill, and to watch suffering is hard, or he is not, and then I feel I am not challenged enough, not really necessary.” She smiled suddenly—with real laughter this time. “I’m impossible to please!”
    He stared at the light reflecting through the wine in the glass. “Are you sure you want to continue nursing? In an ideal situation, if you did not have to provide for yourself, would you not rather work for hospital reform, as you originally intended?”
    She found herself sitting very still, suddenly aware of the crackling of the fire and the sharp edges of the crystal on the glass in her hands. He was not looking at her. Perhaps there was no deeper meaning behind what he had said? No … of course there wasn’t. She was being ridiculous. The warmth of the room and the glow of the wine were addling her wits.
    “I haven’t thought about it,” she replied, trying to sound light and casual. “I fear reform will be a very slow process, and I have not the influence necessary to make anyone listen to me.”
    He looked up, his eyes gentle and almost black in the candlelight.
    Instantly she could have bitten her tongue out. It sounded exactly as if