Free William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry by Anne Perry Page B

was uncertain what internal injuries might be strained, or what wounds Dr. Wade had seen and she had not, which might be broken open.
    It took her some time. He was obviously in considerable pain and she had to be patient, working around him, smoothing and straightening, rolling up and unfolding again. At last the bed was remade and he lay exhausted. But his nightshirt had to be changed as well. The one he was wearing was soiled not only with sweat but with spots of blood. She longed to redress the larger wounds, to make sure they were properly covered, but Dr. Wade had forbidden her to touch them in case removal of the gauze should tear the healing tissue.
    She held out the clean nightshirt.
    He stared at it in her hands. Suddenly his eyes were defensive again, the trust was gone. Unconsciously he pressed backwards into the pillows behind him.
    She picked up the light top quilt and spread it over him from waist to feet. She smiled at him very slightly, and guardedly, cautiously, he allowed her to pull his nightshirt up and off over his head. It hurt his shoulders to raise his arms, but he gritted his teeth and did not hesitate. She replaced the soiled shirt with the clean one and, fumbling guardedly under the sheets, pushed it down to cover him. Very carefully she smoothed the sheet and blankets again, and at last he relaxed.
    She restoked the fire, then sat down in the chair and waited until he should fall asleep.
    In the morning she was tired and extremely stiff herself. She never got used to sleeping in a chair, for all the times she had done it.
    She told Sylvestra about the incident, but briefly, without the true horror of pain she had witnessed. It was only in order to make sure that Dr. Wade did indeed come, and not perhaps feel that Rhys was recovering and another patient might need him more.
    “I must go to him,” Sylvestra said immediately, her facepinched with anguish. “I feel so … useless! I don’t know what to say or do to help him! I don’t know what happened!” She stared at Hester as if believing the nurse could supply an answer.
    There had never been an answer, not to Rhys, or to all the other young men who had seen atrocities more than they could bear, except that time and love can heal at least a part of the pain.
    “Don’t try to talk about what happened,” Hester advised. “All the help you can give is simply to be there.”
    But when Sylvestra came into the bedroom Rhys turned away. He refused to look at her. She sat on the edge of the bed, putting out her hand to touch his arm where it lay on the coverlet, and he snatched it away, then when she reached after him again he lashed out at her, catching her hand with his splints, hurting both her and himself.
    Sylvestra gave a little cry of distress, not for the physical pain, but the rebuff. She sat motionless, not knowing what to do.
    Rhys turned his head and kept his face away from her.
    She looked at Hester.
    Hester had no idea why he had acted with such sudden cruelty. It was impossible even to guess wherever it lay—his recent injury, a feeling of guilt that perhaps he should have been able to save his father or, if not, that he should also have died. She knew of men whose shame at their own survival when their comrades had perished was beyond any reason or comfort to console. It was unreachable, and attempts in words by those who could never truly understand only highlighted the gulf between them, the utter loneliness.
    But none of that would touch the hurt in Sylvestra.
    “Come downstairs,” Hester said quietly. “We’ll let him rest, at least until the doctor comes.”
    “But …”
    Hester shook her head. Rhys was still lying motionless and stiff. Persuasion would not help.
    Reluctantly, Sylvestra rose and followed Hester out andacross the corridor and landing and downstairs again. She did not say anything. She was closed in a world of her own confusion.
    Shortly after luncheon the maid announced that the man from the police