William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

again, he lurched towards Ludgate Hill.
    With awful certainty Hester knew where he was going . . . Blackfriars’ Bridge, and the river.
    Monk must have known it, too. He clasped her hand and pulled her along, forcing her to run blindly through the white wall around them, along to New Bridge Street, then left with muffled hoofbeats of cab horses behind them and the dismal sound of foghorns from the water ahead. The mist smelled of salt, and it was moving in patches now on the wind off the water.
    It cleared, and they saw Charles ahead of them, still trying to run, swiveling from right to left as he searched desperately for a sign of someone, anyone he could ask. The gas lamps were barely visible, just one before and one behind, giving the illusion of a pathway.
    They overtook a hansom, which was almost soundless in the gloom, just a faint creak of leather and wood and the hiss of the wheels on the wet road. It was invisible until they were almost on top of it, and then only a darkness in the paler mist.
    “Imogen!” Charles shouted, and the night swallowed his voice like a wet sheet. “Imogen!” he called, louder and more desperately.
    There was a faint murmur and a slurp of water ahead, and then suddenly the boom of a foghorn almost on top of them. The road was rising. The bridge!
    It was stupid, pointless, but Hester found herself calling out as well.
    There was a gust of wind; the fog cleared a few yards. Half a dozen lamps were visible. They were on the bridge, the water below a black, glistening surface, looking as solid as glass, and then gone again, rolled over and vanished in the choking vapor.
    Another hansom passed them, moving more certainly. A moment later the driver called out, a thick, sharp cry of alarm.
    Monk sprinted in the brief patch of light from the lamps.
    Hester picked up her skirts and ran after him, Charles catching up and passing her. Even so she saw the dark heap on the curbside between the lamps, almost as soon as they did, and only the volume of fabric around her ankles prevented her from reaching it at the same time.
    Monk fell on his knees beside the body, but in the fitful light through the vapor he could see little, except the ashen pallor of her face.
    “Imogen!” Charles cried, all but collapsing on his knees and reaching out for her. “Oh, God!” He snatched his hands back, covered with dark, sticky liquid. He tried to speak again, but he could scarcely breathe.
    Hester felt her heart choking in her throat, but it was too dark to see anything to help. She swiveled towards the roadway and scrambled to her feet. “Cabbie!” she shouted, her voice high and thin like a scream, except she had not drawn in enough breath. “Bring the carriage lamp! Hurry!”
    It seemed like an eternity in the mist and darkness before she saw it wavering towards them, but actually it was only a moment in time. He made his way at a run, carrying the lamp high, and held it over the body on the ground.
    Charles gasped and let out a sob of horror. Even Monk gave a low moan. Imogen was gray-faced, and the whole top of her body from the waist up was scarlet with blood.
    The cabbie drew in his breath with a hiss between his teeth, and the light in his hand swayed.
    Hester steeled herself to touch Imogen, to search for the wound and see if there was anything she could do. There was no blood pumping, no movement at all.
    Blinded by her own tears, she felt for Imogen’s neck and pulled away her collar. Her fingers touched warm skin, and a definite beat of pulse. “She’s alive!” she said. “She’s alive!” Then immediately she realized how stupid that was. There was blood everywhere, scarlet arterial blood. The whole of Imogen’s jacket front was soaked in it. But where was the wound? Was there even any point in trying to find it when so much blood had been lost?
    With fumbling fingers in the juddering light from the carriage lamp, she half pulled, half tore at the fastenings until Monk reached over and took them from her, ripping the jacket open. Underneath on Imogen’s white blouse there was only a single bright stain.
    Hester heard Charles sobbing.
    Less blood . . . not more. The blood was from outside. It was not Imogen’s! Just for a last assurance she pulled the blouse out of its anchorage in the skirt waist and pushed her hand underneath. There was no blood at all, no wound to the smooth skin.
    So why was Imogen unconscious? Quickly she replaced the clothes, wrapping them around her.