The Silent Cry (43 page)

"Have you not established all you need, Sir Oliver? Surely no more can be necessary. This is a horrifying matter of escalating violence and brutality. What more do you require to show us? Make your point!”

"I have one more victim of rape, my lord. This one was in St.

Giles.”

"Very well. I realise you need to establish that your assailants have moved into the relevant area. But make it brief.”

"My lord." Rathbone called the woman who had been raped and beaten on the night before Christmas Eve. Her face was bruised purple and swollen. She had difficulty speaking through her broken teeth. Slowly, her eyes closed as she refused to look at the people who were watching her as she rehearsed her terror and pain and humiliation. She began to describe being accosted by three men, how one of them had taken hold of her, how all three had laughed, then one had thrown her to the ground.

In the dock Rhys was grey-skinned, his eyes so hollow one could almost visualise the skull beneath the flesh. He leaned forward over the rail, his splinted hands stiff, shivering.

The woman described how she had been taunted by the men, called names.

One of them had kicked her, told her she was filth, should be got rid of, the human race cleansed of her sort.

In the dock Rhys started to bang his hands up and down on the railing.

One of the warders made a move to stop him, but the muscles of his body were knotted so hard he did not succeed. His face was a mask of pain.

No one else moved.

The woman in the witness stand went on speaking, slowly, each word forced between her lips. She told how they had knocked her over till she was crouching on the cobbles.

"They were 'and, an' wet," she said huskily. "Then one of'em leaned on top o' me. "E were 'cavy, and 'e smelled o' sum mink funny, sort o' sharp. One o' the others forced me knees up and tore me dress.

Then I felt 'im come in terme It was like I were tore inside. It 'urt sum mink terrible. I…”

She stopped, her eyes wide with horror as Rhys wrenched himself from the warders, his mouth gaping, his throat tortured with the sound it could not make, as if inside himself he screamed again and again.

A warder made a lunge after him and caught one arm. Rhys lashed at him, his face a paroxysm of terror and loathing. The other warder made a grab and missed. Rhys overbalanced, hysterical with fear, teetered for a moment on the high railing, then swivelled and fell over the edge.

A woman shrieked.

The jurors rose to their feet.

Sylvestra cried out his name and Fidelis clasped her arms around her.

Rhys landed with a sickening crash and lay still.

Hester was the first to move. She rose from her seat in the back of the gallery, on the edge of the row where she could be reached were she needed, and ran forward, falling on her knees beside him.

Then suddenly there was commotion everywhere. People were crying out, jostling one another. Others had been hurt, two of them badly. Press reporters were scrambling to force their way out to pass on the news.

Ushers were trying helplessly to restore some form of order. The judge was banging his gavel. Someone was shouting for a doctor for a woman whose leg had been broken by an overturned bench.

Rathbone swung around to make his way towards where Rhys was lying.

Where was Corriden Wade? Had he been seized to tend to the woman?

Rathbone did not even know if Rhys was still alive or not. With the height of the fall he could easily be dead. It is not difficult to break a neck. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps it would be a merciful escape from a more prolonged and dreadful end.

Was it even suicide, in hearing the full horror of his crime told from the victim's view, her feelings of shame, humiliation, helplessness and pain? Was this the nearest he could come to some kind of redemption?

Was this Rathbone's final failure, or perhaps the only thing he had truly done for him?

Except that Rhys had not raped the woman! He had been playing cards with Lady Sandon. It was Leighton Duff who had first raped and then beaten her. Leighton Duff… and who else?

The uproar in the courtroom was overwhelming. People were shouting, trying to clear the way for a stretcher. Someone was screaming again and again, uselessly, hysterically. All around him people were pushing and shoving, trying to move one way or another.

Bent over Rhys's body, Hester, for one desperate moment, had the same thought that passed through Rathbone's mind… was this Rhys's escape at last from the pain of body which afflicted him, and from the greater agony of mind which haunted even his sleep? Was this the only peace he could find in a world which had become one long nightmare?

Then she touched him and knew he was still alive. She slid her hand under his head, feeling the thick hair. She felt the bone gently, exploring. There was no depression in the skull. She pulled her hand clear. There was no blood. His legs were twisted, but his spine was straight. As far as she could tell he was concussed, but not fatally injured.

Where was Corriden Wade? She looked up, peering around, and saw no one she recognised, but there was a huddle of people where the bench was overturned and someone was lying on the floor. Even Rathbone was beyond the crowd jostling beside and in front of her.

Then she saw Monk and felt a surge of relief. He was elbowing his way forward, angry, white-faced. He was shouting at someone. A large man clenched his fist and seemed intent on making a fight of it. Someone else began pulling at him. Two more women were crying for no apparent reason.

Monk finally forced his way through and knelt beside her.

"Is he alive?" he asked.

"Yes. But we've got to get him out of here," she responded, hearing her voice sharp with fear.

He looked down at Rhys who was still completely insensible. "Thank God he can't feel this," he said quietly. "I've sent the warder for one of those long benches. We could carry him on that.”

"We've got to get him to a hospital," she said desperately. "He can't stay in the cell! I don't know how badly he's hurt!”

Monk opened his mouth as if to reply, then changed his mind. One of the warders had come downstairs from the dock and was pushing people aside to reach Rhys.

"Poor devil," he said laconically. "Best for 'im if 'e'd killed is self but since 'e in't dead, we'll do for 'im what we can. "Ere, Miss, let me get 'im up onter the bench wot Tom's bringin'.”

"We'll take him to the nearest hospital," she said, rising shakily and only just avoiding falling over her own skirts.

"Sorry, Miss, but we gotta take 'im back to 'is cell. "E's a prisoner…”

"He's hardly going to escape!" she said furiously, all her helplessness and pain welling up in useless anger for a moment. "He's totally insensible, you fool! Look at him!”

"Yes, Miss," the warder said stolidly. "But the law is the law. We'll put 'im back in 'is cell, an' yer can stay wif 'im, if yer don' mind bein' locked in wif 'im? No doubt they'll send a doctor well they get one.”

"Of course I'll stay with him!" she choked. "And fetch Dr. Wade, immediately!”

"We'll try, Miss. Is there any fink as yer want for 'im? Water, like, or a little brandy? I'm sure as I could get a little brandy for yer.”

She controlled herself with an effort. The man was doing his best.

"Thank you. Yes, get me both water and brandy, please.”

The other warder appeared along with two more men carrying a wooden bench. With surprising gentleness they picked Rhys up and laid him on it, then carried it out of the courtroom, pushing past onlookers, and out through the doors and down the hallway toward the cells.

Hester followed, hardly aware of the people around her, of the curious stares and the mutters and calls. All she could think of was how badly was Rhys hurt, and why had he thrown himself over? Was it an accident as he tried to escape the warders, and they attempted to restrain him, or had he intended to kill himself? Had he lost every last vestige of hope?

Or had he been lying all the time, and he had both Mlled his father, and raped and beaten those women?

She refused to believe that… not unless and until she had to. As long as there was a nicker of any other possibility, she would cling to it. But what possibility? What other conceivable explanation was there? She racked her imagination and her memory.

Then one occurred to her, one so extreme and so horrible she stumbled as she followed the warders, and all but fell. She was shaking. She felt cold and sick, and her mind raced for any way at all in which she could learn if it were true, and prove it. And she knew why Rhys could not speak, why even if he could… he would not.

She ran a step or two to catch up with them, and as soon as they were at the cells she swung round to face the warders.

"Thank you. Bring me the brandy and water, then leave us alone. I will do what I can for him." It was a race against time. Dr. Wade, or some other physician, would be bound to come soon. If she was right, it must not be Corriden Wade. But she must know. Anyone interrupting what she now meant to do would be horrified. She might even be prosecuted. Certainly she would jeopardise her career. If it was Corriden Wade, she might even lose her life.

The warder disappeared, leaving the door open, and his companion waited just outside. How should she begin, to save time?

"Yer all right, Miss?”

"Yes, of course I am, thank you. I am a nurse. I have treated many injured men before. I shall just examine him to see where he is most seriously hurt. It will help the doctor when he comes. Where is the brandy? And the water? A little will do, just hurry!" Her hands were shaking. Her mouth was dry. She could feel her heart lurching and knocking in her chest.

Rhys was still completely unconscious. Once he stirred there would be nothing she could do. She must not ask the warder to hurry again, or he would become suspicious.

She unfastened Rhys's collar and took off his tie. She undid the buttons of his shirt and eased it open. Very gently she began to examine the upper part of his body. There were no bandages. There was little one could do for bruising, except ointment, such as arnica. The worst of it was beginning to heal now. The broken ribs were knitted well, even though she knew they still caused him pain, especially if he coughed, sneezed or turned badly in the bed.

Where was the warder with the brandy and the water? It seemed like ages since he had gone!

Carefully she unfastened the waist of his trousers. This was where his worst injuries were, the ones which Dr. Wade had treated, and not permitted her to see, for the sake of Rhys's modesty. She slipped the waist down a few inches, and saw the blue and purple bruising, now fading. The abrasions were still marked where he had been kicked, but the edges were yellowish and far paler. She could feel no bandaging.

"Miss!”

She froze. "Yes?”

"Water, Miss," the warder said quietly. "And a drop o' brandy. Is 'e 'urt bad?”

"I'm not sure yet. Thank you for these." She straightened up and took the dish of water from him, then the brandy. She set them on the small table. "Thank you very much. You can lock me in. I shall be perfectly all right. Come back and let me know when the doctor comes.

Knock on the door, if you will. I shall get him ready.”

"Yes, Miss. Yer sure yer all right? Yer look terrible pale. Mebbe yer should take a sip o' that brandy yerself?”

She tried to smile, and felt it sickly on her face. "Maybe. Thank you.”

"Right, Miss. You knock if yer need ter come out.”

"I will. Yes. Now I had better see what I can do for him. Thank you!”

At last he went and she was left alone. She swung around to Rhys and started immediately. There was no time to be lost. They could return with a doctor any moment. There was no way on earth she could explain what she was doing, if she were mistaken. It would probably ruin her, even if she were right, but could not prove it!

She pulled open his trousers and his underclothes, revealing his body as far as his thighs. There were no bandages at all, no plasters, no lint, no adhesives. There was only the most fearful bruising, as if he had been repeatedly kicked and punched. Sick in her stomach, she rolled him over to lie on his face, and began the examination which would tell her what she needed to know, although the slow trickle of blood even now, and the purplish and torn flesh was enough.

It took her only moments. Then with shaking hands, fumbling, fingers stiff, she pulled the clothes back up and rolled him over, almost knocking him off the narrow bench. She tried to fasten his trousers, but she had them crooked and they would not reach. She snatched his jacket and threw it over him, just as his eyes fluttered open.

"Rhys!" She choked on the word, the anguish inside her spilling out, her throat aching, her hands trembling and clumsy.

He gasped, drawing in his breath. He was fighting her, trying to lash out, force her away.

"Rhys!" She clung on to his arms, above the splints, her fingers digging into his flesh. "Rhys, I know what happened to you! It's not your fault! You are not the only one! I've known soldiers it happened to, brave men, fighting men!”

He started to shake, trembling so violently she could not keep him still, even holding him in her arms, the fierceness of his anger shook her too. He sobbed, great racking, desperate cries, and she rocked back and forth, her arms around him, her hand stroking his head.

It was not until she had been doing so for several minutes, time she could not count, that she realised she could hear him. He was weeping with a voice. Something in his despair, in the fall, or the knowledge that she knew, had returned his speech.

"Who was it?" she said urgently. "You must tell me!" Although she was certain with an aching coldness that she knew. There was only one explanation as to why no one had known before, why Corriden Wade had not told anyone, not told her, or Rathbone. It explained so much, Rhys's fear, his cruelty and rejection of his mother, his silence. She remembered with a sick pain the bell removed to the dresser, out of his reach.

"I'll protect you," she promised fiercely. "I'll see that the warders are with you all the time, or I will be, every moment, I swear. Now tell me!”