Squeaky’s face went through a range of incredulity, fury, outraged pride, and ended with hope.

  ‘You got something particular in mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Monk admitted. ‘But I am going back to see Magnus Rand again, and this time I am not going to be asking for help. I intend to make it very clear to him that his brother will be charged with kidnap and murder if any of his prisoners die before we rescue them. It would ruin Magnus’s professional reputation. I think that might matter to him very much indeed.’

  ‘About bleedin’ time!’ Squeaky said fiercely. ‘What d’you want from me? I can do it all, and you bleedin’ know that! How about a really nice, short and savage newspaper draft showing what would happen to him, eh? “Today disgraced doctor, Hamilton Rand, was hanged at Newgate for his hideous murder of innocent children, who he bled to death in his terrible experiments”.’ He looked at Monk with his eyebrows raised. ‘Should make him think again.’

  Monk noticed that Squeaky would not say the words that Rand killed Hester, even to emphasise his point. Monk did not say anything. He would have done the same.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ he agreed. ‘Make it as good as you can, but quickly. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just to look good enough to make him understand what would happen. It will be far more powerful than simply telling him and leaving him to imagine it. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll have it in half an hour,’ Squeaky promised. ‘Now let’s think exactly what to say.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Squeaky said loudly. ‘But you’d better have a good reason.’

  The handle turned slowly and the door swung open to reveal Worm. There was a small tray with a teapot, milk jug and a plate and cup sitting on the ground. He could not hold it and knock at the same time. He bent to pick it up, and carried it a little unsteadily across the room to put it on the desk in front of Monk.

  ‘I s’pose that’s a good reason,’ Squeaky said grudgingly.

  Worm was used to him and took no notice at all. Instead he looked hopefully at Monk.

  ‘Thank you,’ Monk said to him, also ignoring Squeaky. ‘We are planning how to get Hester back. I hope you are staying here all the time so you can look after Claudine?’ He fixed Worm with a steady gaze.

  Worm nodded gravely. ‘Yeah, I am. All the time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Monk accepted. ‘And thank you for the tea.’

  ‘She says ter drink it while it’s ’ot,’ Worm added. ‘Cold tea don’t do no good.’ He looked at the plate. ‘Cake’s good any time.’

  Monk looked at the piece of fruitcake. He broke it into halves and offered one piece to Worm.

  Worm gulped. ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘You may have half of it,’ Monk told him.

  Worm was a little boy – he had resisted once; that was enough. He took the cake and ate it in two mouthfuls.

  Monk watched him go out of the door, and ate the rest himself. Then he sipped the tea. It was certainly still very hot.

  ‘Let’s begin,’ he said to Squeaky.

  Once he had the article in his hand, Monk left the clinic and caught a hansom directly to the river, then he took a ferry to the Greenwich wharf. By then he had the article he and Squeaky had compiled so clearly in his mind he could have recited it. It was short, vivid, even garish, but the relish in the fall of Hamilton Rand and his execution by the rope was realistic, and brutal. Such newspapers as The Times would not have printed such a thing – they would have been far more restrained, even philosophical – but even so, it would be read by the people whose opinions both Magnus and Hamilton Rand cared about. It would be published by the papers that caught the eye in the street, quoted on billboards, and seen by one’s neighbours, whether they wished to or not.

  Monk paid the ferryman, then climbed the steps and walked the short distance to the hospital. The warm sun shone at his back, the light was brilliant on the water, and the sound of distant voices came to him on the breeze. This bank was his home. If he looked up the hill he could see some of the trees, billowing like green clouds, that he could see from the windows of his own house. He had been happier here than any other place in his life.

  Actually, considering that more than half his life was lost in amnesia that was a rash statement. Yet he had no doubt whatever that it was true. If he had lived anywhere else as he lived here, then surely some echo of it would remain? Small things would remind him: the perfume of grass, the sound of a woman’s laughter, a familiar footstep, the curve of a cheek, or throat, the colour of her hair . . .

  He would do whatever was necessary to make Magnus Rand tell him where his brother was. He would dredge up any memory, ignite any fear . . .

  He marched up to the hospital entrance and went in, looking neither to left or right. Someone called out to him and he ignored them. He knew where Rand’s office was and he would either find him there, or wait for him. This was not to be done in public, for many reasons. If he did it in front of Rand’s colleagues who respected him, possibly even liked him, certainly owed him some duty of loyalty, then they would all side with him, maybe even to forcibly removing Monk.

  Also, if they were in front of those about whose opinion he cared, Rand would have an almost insuperable reason not to yield any information at all.

  Magnus was standing staring at the bookcase, obviously searching for a particular title. He swung around as Monk came in. He did not bother to hide his annoyance.

  ‘I have already told you, Mr Monk, I have no idea where my brother is. Not that I would necessarily tell you if I did. Your wife is an excellent nurse. She has rare experience in certain areas that are useful to us, and if she chose to go with him, and has not informed you, then that is her own concern. Such things happen. And finally, Mr Monk, I do not know you very well, but if you are as overbearing with her as you are with me, then I could understand her choice.’ He looked across at Monk with defiance in his face, as if he had won some kind of victory within himself.

  For an instant Monk was furious, then a wave of incredulity swept over him. That was so unlike Hester. But did every man think that he knew his wife so well he could understand everything about her, when actually he knew only the thinnest of outer layers, and all the hurt of her was hidden? Perhaps because he did not wish to see it? Might it reveal more of him than he wished to know?

  Did Magnus Rand really believe what he was saying to Monk? Or was it a prepared defence?

  Monk smiled thinly. ‘Of course, if that were so, Dr Rand, I might be the last one to realise it. But your brother also took with him three children who are not old enough to make any decisions as to where they wish to go. The youngest is barely four years old. That is kidnap, Dr Rand.’

  Rand smiled without warmth, but there was still that sense that he was comfortable in himself, a belief of having the perfect defence.

  ‘Unwanted children, Mr Monk. Tragically, the river-banks are littered with them. Homeless, hungry, desperately vulnerable to unspeakable forms of abuse . . .’

  ‘Exactly,’ Monk agreed. ‘Even to being taken and kept so they can be drained of their blood to perform medical experiments on sick old men who want to live, no matter what cost to others.’

  Rand was a little paler. ‘That is the way you see it, Mr Monk, because it would give you the right to come in here and demand information that would justify going after your wife. The law would see it as rescuing abandoned children from starvation and sleeping in the streets, and giving them good food, clean beds and safety from attack by predators who might molest them sexually, or force them into manual labour. The medical side they would see as treating their malnutrition, and taking blood occasionally in the performance of an experiment that might save countless lives in the future. My brother will go down in history as one of the great innovators in the science of medicine.’ There was a faint flush of pride in his face as he said it, and deep satisfaction.

  Monk put his hands in his pockets and felt the paper that Squeaky had prepared. He was reluctant to use it, but if he did, he had one chance before it lost its power. He must lay the foundation carefully. If he wasted it he had nothing else left.

  ‘The children were not homeless,’ he said levelly. ‘Their parents were desperate, and sold them to you in order to have money to feed the youngest ones. They had no idea what you were going to do with them.’ He saw the sudden doubt in Rand’s face. ‘Do you care so much about your brother’s fame in history?’ He could hear his own heart beating as he waited for the answer.

  This time Rand hesitated. He seemed to have retreated within himself and to be remembering, or weighing some decision.

  Monk longed to interrupt him and press home his advantage, but this was too important to make the slightest error. Hester’s life could hang on the balance of his judgement now. Almost certainly it did! His throat was so tight that when he swallowed he all but choked.

  ‘Yes,’ Rand said at last. ‘Of course I care that he succeeds, and that he is recognised for the brilliance and dedication he has given his life to. How could I not? You have no idea what it has cost him, or you wouldn’t ask.’

  ‘What did it cost him more than most people?’ Monk asked.

  Rand put his elbows on the desk and leaned his head forward into his hands, scraping his hair back with his fingers.

  ‘Hamilton was the best of us,’ he said quietly. ‘At least intellectually, perhaps in all ways. I never really knew Edward. He died while I was still an infant. All I can remember was the dim room, the curtains always half drawn to keep in the warmth in the winter, and the bright sun out in the summer. He was five years older than I was, but he always looked small, very thin, and very pale. He smiled at me, but he didn’t speak very much.’

  Monk drew in his breath to ask who Edward was, then changed his mind. He decided to let Rand tell the story, rather than break the thread of memory and the sensation of pain by interruption.

  ‘Of course I had no idea how ill he was,’ Rand went on. ‘But Hamilton knew. He was older, ten years older than I. Edward was about eight when he died. I can remember the grief. It was summer, but it was as if the whole house was permanently in a cold, grey cloud. No one laughed for a long time. It can’t have been years, but it seemed like it.

  ‘My mother died shortly after that,’ Rand went on. ‘My father walked around like a ghost. Time went by. Hamilton did superbly well at school. He was going to go on to university and become a doctor. It was what he dreamed of.’

  Monk could imagine it easily: a boy steeping himself in the study of medicine to lose his sense of grief, and perhaps to learn the one skill whose practitioners had failed his family.

  ‘I wanted the same,’ Rand went on. ‘But I was a long way behind Hamilton – in years, of course, but neither had I the brilliance of intellect he had. Then our father died, and there was no money. Hamilton gave up his studies and found a job. It wasn’t one that he liked, but he earned sufficient to keep us both, and eventually to pay for my place at university. I became the doctor he had always wanted to be.’

  In spite of himself, Monk felt a deep pity for them both. It was easy to imagine the brothers, the loyalty and sacrifice between them, the duty to live a life for both of them, and perhaps even for Edward as well.

  He looked at Rand, waiting for him to continue.

  Rand sighed. ‘At last I was earning enough to support us both. Hamilton could give up the job he had come to hate, and take up his studies again. He felt it was too late, and too expensive for him to qualify in medicine. But he was brilliant in many directions. It was not hard for him to qualify in chemistry, at which he excelled.’

  ‘What did Edward die of?’ Monk asked, almost certain what the answer would be.

  ‘White blood disease,’ Rand said softly. ‘Did you not realise that?’

  ‘I supposed,’ Monk answered. ‘And yes, Hamilton paid a very high and selfless price for his medical skill. But he chose to. These children did not choose to die for it, and they might well do. Which I think you know.’

  Rand looked tired, his thick hair tousled.

  ‘I have already told you, Mr Monk, I do not know where they have gone. I imagine Hamilton did not tell me precisely because he knew you would come asking.’

  Monk raised his eyebrows. ‘And he didn’t trust you not to tell me?’

  ‘Of course he did!’ Rand was hurt. ‘He knows my loyalty. He is protecting me so I cannot be to blame.’ He looked angry, belligerent.

  ‘To blame for what?’ Monk asked, keeping his voice soft. ‘For the deaths of the children? Or my wife?’

  Rand’s skin blanched. ‘What are you talking about? He’s not taking your wife’s blood. Don’t you understand anything? It’s only the children’s blood that is any good. It works on anyone, everyone! We just don’t know why yet. Without knowing why, we can’t tell who else’s blood will work. It’s only a fortunate experiment, not a system. For God’s sake, man, think what it would mean!’ He leaned forward across the desk. ‘Think of the lives it would save! We have to know—’

  ‘I know you’re not taking her blood,’ Monk cut across him. ‘But if this doesn’t work, if Radnor dies, then you won’t need her any more. Do you imagine he will let her walk away?’

  Rand looked haggard. ‘She helped! She can’t say anything. In exchange for the children’s lives . . . he’ll . . .’

  Monk looked at him witheringly. ‘Reality, Dr Rand. That is a chance he won’t take. Once she is gone, with the children safe, why would he trust her to remain silent? Or the children either, for that matter?’

  ‘You’re speaking as if he’s a monster!’ Rand almost choked on his own words. ‘He’s not! He’s a brilliant man, brave enough to take the risks one has to, to discover new cures, new procedures to save uncountable lives in the future. Can’t you see that? It’s like . . . it’s like setting sail alone across the ocean and finding a new continent.’ The wonder in his eyes was momentarily like that of the child he must have been when Edward died, and Hamilton gave up his dreams to care for his family.

  Monk put his hand in his pocket again and pulled out Squeaky’s mock newspaper article.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll see him as the discoverer of a new continent,’ he said gravely, looking at Rand. ‘I think it will be more like this.’ He put the paper down on the desk and smoothed it out.

  Rand saw it and frowned. ‘What the devil is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘How I think the future will see your brother,’ Monk replied. ‘Read it.’

  Rand read it slowly, and every vestige of blood drained from his face. For seconds he was too stunned to speak, too appalled.

  ‘It’s time to face reality,’ Monk said more gently. ‘Hamilton cannot afford to let them go. Whether Radnor lives or dies, he will be exposed if they live. As soon as he doesn’t need Hester, he’ll kill her. The children he may save for longer, or if not them, at least their blood. He’ll keep them imprisoned as long as they survive. It’s likely none of them will attempt to escape because they’d have to leave the smallest one behind. He’s only four. He wouldn’t make it.’

  Rand started to shake his head, to deny it all, but his whole body was trembling.

  ‘And that alone will hang your brother,’ Monk continued. He loathed what he was doing but Hester’s life depended on it, as well as those of the three children, and the happiness, perhaps even the sanity of their mother.

  ‘Is that his legacy to the future, Dr Rand? A man who bleeds children to death for his experiments, and murders the nurse who tries to save them? Tried and hanged, by common consent of the public . . .’

  Rand jerked to his feet. ‘Stop it!’ he shouted furiously, his voice blurred with pain. ‘That’s not who he is. You’re wrong – terribly wrong. He’s a great man.’

  ‘Then you have no need to conceal him,’ Monk replied, standing up as well. ‘Where is he? Please God it is not already too late.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know! He didn’t tell me!’ Rand was close to losing all control of his emotions. He was ash-pale and swaying on his feet.

  ‘Sit down and think,’ Monk commanded him. ‘You’ve known him all your life. Where would he go? Where have you gone in the past? Does he know anyone with property he could use?’

  Rand put his hands over his face.

  ‘Stop it! I can’t think . . .’

  ‘Yes you can,’ Monk insisted. ‘You have the intelligence and the self-command. You don’t faint at the sight of blood. You don’t panic when people are injured and need you. Now use your mind, your memory. Have you friends with a house in the country? We’ve looked and can find nothing under your name. But that means little. Where do you have relatives? Take holidays? Where does your family come from?’

  Rand stared at Monk as if he had risen out of the ground in a stench of sulphur.

  ‘My aunt Betty had a cottage on the Estuary. She left it to us—’

  ‘Where exactly? Kent side, or Essex?’

  ‘Kent. Little village called Redditch. It’s outside the centre. It used to be a farm.’

  ‘Name of the farm?’

  ‘Long Meadow,’ Rand replied so softly it was almost inaudible. ‘Don’t hurt him . . .’

  Monk took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. ‘Not willingly,’ he answered, hoping it was a promise he could keep. If Hamilton Rand had hurt Hester, he would kill him.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘WE NEED to get a cart of some kind that doesn’t look like we come from the city,’ Scuff said thoughtfully. ‘One o’ them they take stuff in to the market.’

  They were in the sitting room in Paradise Row: Monk, Scuff, and Hooper, who was still aching from his recent injury. As the summer faded it was getting dark earlier every day. Monk looked at Scuff with surprise that he should imagine he was coming on this mission.

  ‘It could be rough,’ he told him quietly. ‘I don’t know how many people Rand will have there, and they may be armed.’

  Scuff stared straight back at him without flinching. ‘Yer tellin’ me yer could get shot? Killed, even?’