Copyright © 2015 Anne Perry

  The right of Anne Perry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2015

  All characters in this publication – apart from the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 1949 7

  Jacket photographs: Old Royal Naval College © John Gay/English Heritage/Arcaid/Corbis; figures © Heritage Images/Getty Images

  Jacket design by Craig Fraser

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

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  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Anne Perry

  Also By Anne Perry

  About the Book

  Praise

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  About Anne Perry

  Author photograph © Diane Hinds

  Anne Perry is a New York Times bestselling author noted for her memorable characters, historical accuracy and exploration of social and ethical issues. Her two series, one featuring Thomas Pitt and one featuring William Monk, have been published in multiple languages. Anne Perry has also published a successful series based around World War One and the Reavley family, and the standalone novel The Sheen on the Silk. Anne Perry was selected by The Times as one of the twentieth century’s ‘100 Masters of Crime’.

  By Anne Perry and available from Headline

  The Inspector Pitt series

  The Cater Street Hangman

  Callander Square

  Paragon Walk

  Resurrection Row

  Rutland Place

  Bluegate Fields

  Death in the Devil’s Acre

  Cardington Crescent

  Silence in Hanover Close

  Bethlehem Road

  Bedford Square

  Half Moon Street

  The Whitechapel Conspiracy

  Southampton Row

  Seven Dials

  Long Spoon Lane

  Buckingham Palace Gardens

  Betrayal at Lisson Grove

  Dorchester Terrace

  Midnight at Marble Arch

  Death on Blackheath

  The Angel Court Affair

  Christmas Novellas

  A Christmas Journey

  A Christmas Visitor

  A Christmas Guest

  A Christmas Secret

  A Christmas Beginning

  A Christmas Grace

  A Christmas Promise

  A Christmas Odyssey

  A Christmas Homecoming

  A Christmas Garland

  A Christmas Hope

  A New York Christmas

  The William Monk series

  The Face of a Stranger

  A Dangerous Mourning

  Defend and Betray

  A Sudden, Fearful Death

  The Sins of the Wolf

  Cain His Brother

  Weighed in the Balance

  The Silent Cry

  Whited Sepulchres

  The Twisted Root

  Slaves and Obsession

  A Funeral in Blue

  Death of a Stranger

  The Shifting Tide

  Dark Assassin

  Execution Dock

  Acceptable Loss

  A Sunless Sea

  Blind Justice

  Death on Blackheath

  Blood on the Water

  Corridors of the Night

  World War I series

  No Graves as Yet

  Shoulder the Sky

  Angels in the Gloom

  At Some Disputed Barricade

  We Shall Not Sleep

  Tathea

  Come Armageddon

  The One Thing More

  The Sheen on the Silk

  About the Book

  One night, in a corridor of the Royal Naval Hospital, Greenwich, nurse Hester Monk is approached by a terrified girl. She’s from a hidden ward of children, all subject to frequent blood-letting, and her brother is dying.

  While William Monk’s River Police fight to keep London safe from gun-runners, Hester takes on a new role at the hospital, helping to administer a secretive new treatment. But she slowly realises that this experimental cure is putting the lives of the children at risk. Attempting to protect the young victims, she comes under threat from one rich, powerful, and very ill man who is desperate to survive . . .

  Praise for Anne Perry

  ‘Give her a good murder and a shameful social evil, and Anne Perry can write a Victorian mystery that would make Dickens’ eyes pop out’ New York Times Book Review

  ‘Redolent with Victorian atmosphere, from the hypocritical snobbishness to the rigid social conventions of the time’ Tangled Web

  ‘There is a freshness about [Perry’s] writing which makes it truly exceptional and I was gripped until the final page’ Eurocrime

  ‘Rich in plot development, believable characters and period detail, this entry will only add to the already sizable ranks of Perry’s admirers’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘That rare breed of novel that’s a page-turning thriller yet literary’ Jeffery Deaver

  ‘[An] engrossing page-turner . . . There’s no one better at using words to paint a scene and then fill it with sounds and smells than Anne Perry’ Boston Globe

  ‘Elegantly constructed and nail-bitingly tense’ Good Book Guide

  ‘Stirs your conscience as well as your soul’ Northern Echo

  To my editor at 10/18, Valentin Baillehache, and to Marie-Laure Pascaud in Publicity.

  Chapter One

  THE SMALL gas lamps along the walls of the corridor flickered as if there were a draught, but Hester knew that, it being well after midnight, all the doors were closed. Even the windows on the wards would be shut at this hour.

  The girl stood motionless. Her eyes were wide, her skin as pale as the nightgown that hung just past her knees. Her legs were matchstick-thin and her feet bare and dusty. She looked terrified.

  ‘Are you lost?’ Hester asked her gently. She could not think what the child was doing here. This was an annexe to the Royal Naval Hospital in Greenwich. It backed on to the Thames, well down river from the huge Port of London and the teeming city beyond. Did she belong to one of the other nurses who had sneaked her in rather than leave her alone at home? It was against the rules. Hester would have to make sure no one else found her.

  ‘Please, miss,’ the child said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Charlie’s dying! You gotter come an’ ’elp ’im. Please . . .’

  There was no other sound in the night, no footsteps on the stone floors. Dr Rand would not be on duty until the morning.

  The child’s fear vibrated in the air. ‘Please . . .’

  ‘Where is he?’ Hester asked quietly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  The child gulped and took a deep breath. ‘’E’s this way. I left the door stuck. We can get back, if yer ’urry. Please . . .’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Hester agreed. ‘You lead the way. What’s your name?’

  ‘Maggie.’ She turned and started to go quickly, her bare feet soundless on the chill floor.

  Hester followed her down the corridor, round a corner, and along another passage even less well lit. She could only just see the small, pale figure ahead of her, glancing backwards every few moments to make sure Hester was still there. They were going away from the wards where sick and badly injured sailors were treated, and further into administrative areas and storerooms. Hester did not know the hospital well. She had volunteered to do temporary night duty as a favour to Jenny Solway, a friend who had sudden illness in her own family. They had served together with Florence Nightingale in the Crimea. That was almost fourteen years ago, but the experiences they had shared on those fearful battlefields like Balaclava, and in the hospital in Sebastopol, forged friendships that lasted for a lifetime, even if they did not meet for years.

  Hester caught up with the child and took her small, cold hand.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘To ’elp Charlie,’ Maggie replied without turning her head. She was tugging at Hester now. ‘We gotter ’urry. Please . . .’

  One more turn in the corridor and they reached a door that was flush with the wall, and appeared to have no handle. A piece of string knotted to make a short rope was wedged to stop the door from closing completely. Maggie let go of Hester’s h
and, slid her thin fingers under the string and eased the door open.

  ‘Ssh!’ she warned. Then she stepped sideways through the crack and beckoned for Hester to follow her. When Hester was through also, she replaced the string and then pushed the door closed again.

  Hester went in a step behind Maggie. They were in another ward, smaller than the ones for the sailors, but holding six cots. The night lamps on the walls showed that there were small forms in all of them, lying still, as if asleep.

  ‘Where are we?’ Hester whispered.

  ‘This is our place,’ Maggie replied. ‘Charlie’s over there.’ She took Hester’s hand again and pulled her towards the furthest bed near the doorway of the ward. It was closed, and Hester had lost her sense of direction to know even which way it faced.

  Maggie stopped beside the bed where an ashen-skinned boy about her own size lay propped up against the pillows. He turned towards her very slightly and tried to smile.

  ‘Charlie,’ Maggie’s voice wobbled a little and there were tears on her cheeks, ‘it’s going to be all right. I got one o’ the nurses ter come. She’s gonna make yer better.’

  ‘Yer shouldn’t ’a done that,’ he whispered. ‘Yer’ll get into trouble.’

  She lifted her chin up a little. ‘I don’t care!’ She looked at Hester. ‘Yer gotta do summink.’

  Hester’s heart sank and she felt a moment of panic. The boy looked desperately ill. Maggie was probably right and he was dying. Was this a quarantine ward? How could she hope to get enough information from a six-year-old to have any idea what was wrong with him, or how to help?

  The first thing she needed to do was to reassure him, gain his confidence. She moved forward and stood by the side of the bed.

  ‘Hello, Charlie,’ she said very quietly. ‘Tell me how you feel. Are you hot? Sick? Shivery? Do you hurt anywhere especially?’

  He stared at her for a moment. His face was so pale his skin looked almost translucent, shadows around his eyes like bruises. ‘I don’t really ’urt,’ he whispered. ‘Just a bit achy.’

  ‘Have you been sick?’ she asked.

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Very sick, or just a little?’

  ‘Quite a lot.’

  ‘Have you eaten anything since then?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Drink anything? Water?’

  She reached forward and touched her hand to his forehead. He felt hot and dry. She turned to Maggie, who was staring at her, eyes filled with fear.

  ‘Can you go and fetch Charlie a drink of water, please?’ Hester asked.

  Maggie started to speak, then changed her mind and went off to obey.

  ‘Please, miss, don’t tell ’er I’m dyin’,’ Charlie said almost under his breath. ‘She’d be awful upset.’

  Hester felt a sudden ache in her throat. She was a nurse – she was used to people dying – but these children alone, with no parent to comfort them, were different. They were so small, and lost. She did not normally lie to patients. She knew that if you did then sooner or later they stopped believing you, and you had lost much of your power to help, and they had lost trust in the one person they needed to believe.

  This was different.

  ‘I won’t do.’ She made too big a promise, without hesitation. ‘I don’t intend to let you die if I can help it.’

  ‘But will you look after ’er?’ he asked. ‘An’ Mike? Please?’

  It was not a time for equivocation. ‘Yes I will. Are you the eldest?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m seven. Maggie’s only six, although she acts like she’s everybody’s ma.’ He gave a weak smile, a little lop-sided.

  ‘Do you know why you’re here in hospital?’ It was time to be practical.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head a fraction. ‘Summink ter do wi’ me blood.’

  ‘Are they giving you medicine for it?’

  ‘They keep putting a big needle in me arm. It ’urts a lot.’

  ‘Really? Yes, it would hurt. Does this needle have a glass tube on the other end of it?’ She was picturing the major new invention called a syringe, which could transfer liquids into the flesh – or, for that matter, take them out.

  He nodded.

  ‘Do you know what was in the glass part?’

  He was looking paler and she could hardly hear his voice when he answered, ‘Looked red, like blood.’

  Maggie came back with a mug full of water. Hester thanked her for it, then took a sip. It smelled and tasted fresh. She put an arm around Charlie. She could feel his bones through his nightshirt. She eased him upright and helped him very slowly to drink a little of the water. When he had taken all he could she laid him back down again, then as carefully as possible, straightened the sheets around him so they were smooth. He was gasping for breath, exhausted. She looked at him and was very afraid Maggie was right.

  If he died, how was she going to help Maggie, who looked not much stronger herself? It was probably only fear and the need to believe she was doing something that kept her upright on her feet, albeit swaying a little. Hester would have suggested the child slept for a while, but she knew that if Charlie died when she was not there, the guilt would be with her for ever. It made no sense, but she would believe that she could have done something. In her place Hester would have felt the same.

  ‘How old is Mike?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Four,’ Maggie replied. ‘’E’s not so bad. Maybe ’e’ll get worse when ’e’s older.’

  ‘Maybe not. Do they put the needles into him, too?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she nodded.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she nodded again. ‘But mostly Charlie. Can’t you do summink, miss?’

  Hester still had little idea what was wrong with any of them. A misjudged treatment could be lethal. There was a stage in an illness when there was nothing more anyone could do. A small boy could take only so much ‘treatment’.

  ‘What is the doctor doing to help him? Tell me all you know, Maggie. I need to do the right thing for him.’

  The tears spilled over and ran down Maggie’s cheeks. ‘’E don’t do nothing, miss. ’E comes and puts a needle into Charlie, an’ ’e gets sleepy an’ sick. ’E just lies there. Can’t even speak ter me an’ Mike. Please, miss . . .’

  Hester knew that Dr Rand went home at night. Everyone had to sleep, but there was a senior nurse on duty all night. Where was she? Sometimes there were emergencies that only a doctor could deal with, and a messenger would have to be sent to waken him. Then the doctor would walk, or even run, the half-mile or so from his home. But this was a hospital for those who were extremely ill, or so badly wounded that often there was nothing that could be done for them, except ease their distress, or at the very least, not leave them to die alone.

  That was all too often what military nursing had been during the Crimean War, not so very long ago. Haemorrhage, gangrene, raging fever – these were things Hester had been used to coping with because scores of men, even hundreds, were wounded in battle. There were too few doctors, and usually too little time. That was one of the reasons the two Rand brothers, Dr Magnus Rand and his elder brother, a chemist, Hamilton Rand, had been so pleased to have Hester, another Crimea nurse, fill in for Jenny Solway. Her experience was of great value.

  Where on earth was the nurse in charge here? Hester did not dare leave Charlie to go to look for her. Maybe she was ill herself. Or passed out drunk somewhere. It had been known to happen.

  ‘Do you know what his illness is called?’ Hester asked Maggie.

  Maggie shook her head.

  ‘Do you have the same illness?’ Hester persisted.

  Maggie nodded.

  ‘What does the doctor do for you?’

  There was little time. In the bed beside them Charlie was lying motionless, his face white, and his breathing shallow. But Hester had to find out all that Maggie could tell her before she attempted to help. A mistake would almost certainly be irrevocable.

  ‘Maggie?’ she prompted.

  ‘’E pricked me wi’ the needle, too.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It hurt something awful.’

  ‘Do you know what was in the little bottle at the end of the needle?’ Hester asked. ‘What colour was it?’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘I didn’t want ter look, an’ ’e told me not ter, but I did, just quick. I think it were blood.’

  Hester felt a chill run through her. So Magnus was taking blood. What for? Was Hamilton Rand testing it for something? He was a brilliant chemist, almost visionary in some ways. What was he learning from these children’s blood?