William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

doctor, and not to stop until she had found him. Then she went over to the stove for water, vinegar, brandy, and clean cloths. She worked blindly, reaching for things because she was too shaken and too horrified to see clearly what she was doing.
    Hester must staunch the bleeding and overcome her horror at such a wound, telling herself to remember the battlefields, the shattered men she had helped lift off the wagons after the charge of the Light Brigade at Sebastopol, or after the Battle of the Alma, blood-soaked, dead and dying, limbs torn, hacked by swords or splintered by shot.
    She had been able to help them. Why was this woman any different? Hester was there to do a job, not indulge her own emotions, however deep or compassionate. The woman needed help, not pity.
    “Let go of it,” she said very gently. “I’ll stop the bleeding.” Please God she could. She took the woman’s hands in hers, feeling the clenched muscles, the fear transmitting itself as if for a moment she were part of the same flesh. She was aware of the sweat breaking out on her skin and running cold over her body.
    “Can you ’elp ’er?” one of the women asked from behind. She had come over silently, unable to keep away in spite of her fear.
    “I think so,” Hester replied. “What is her name?”
    “Fanny,” the woman said hoarsely.
    Hester bent over the woman. “Fanny, let me look at it,” she said firmly. “Let me see.” With more strength she pulled the woman’s hands away and saw the scarlet-soaked cloth of her dress. She prayed they would find Lockhart and he would come quickly. She needed help with this.
    Margaret handed her scissors and she took them, cutting the fabric to expose the flesh. “Bandages,” she said without looking up. “Rolled,” she added. She lifted the dress away from the wound and saw raw flesh still running blood but not pumping. Relief washed over her, breaking out in prickling sweat again. It might be only a surface wound after all. It was not the gushing, arterial blood she had dreaded. But still she could not afford to wait and see if Lockhart turned up. Choking for a moment on her words, she asked for cloths, brandy and a needle threaded with gut.
    Behind her, one of the women started to cry.
    Hester talked all the time she worked. Most of it was probably nonsense; her mind was on the bloody flesh, trying to stitch it together evenly, without cobbling, without missing a vessel where the blood was still oozing, without causing more pain than was absolutely unavoidable.
    Silently, Margaret handed her more and more cloths, and took away those that were soaked and useless.
    Where was Lockhart? Why did he not come? Was he drunk again, lying in someone else’s bed, under a table, or worse, in a gutter where no one would ever recognize him, much less find him and sober him up? She cursed him under her breath.
    She lost track of how long it was since Margaret had sent the woman out. All that mattered was the wound and the pain. She did not even notice the street door opening and closing.
    Then suddenly there was another pair of hands, delicate and strong, and above all clean. Her back was so locked in position that when she straightened up it hurt, and it took her a moment to refocus her eyes on the young man beside her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, his fair hair was damp around his brow as if he had splashed his face with water. He looked down at the wound.
    “Good job,” he said approvingly. “Looks as if you’ve got it.”
    “Where have you been?” she replied between her teeth, overwhelmed with relief that he was there, and furious that he had not come sooner.
    He grinned ruefully and shrugged, then turned his attention back to the wound. He explored it with sensitive, expert touch, all the while looking every few moments at the patient’s face to make sure she was no worse.
    Hester considered apologizing to him for her implied criticism and decided it did not matter now. It would not help, and she did not pay him, so perhaps he owed her nothing. She caught Margaret looking at her, and saw the relief in her eyes also.
    It seemed as if the bleeding was stopped. She handed Lockhart the final bandages soaked in balm and he bound them in place, then stood back.
    “Not bad,” he said gravely. “We’ll need to watch her for infection.” He did not bother to ask what had happened. He knew no one would tell him. “A little beef tea, or sherry if you have it. Not