Page 82 of Dark Assassin (William Monk 15)

She returned half an hour later having made an egg custard, something at which she was not skilled. She had had to work hard to get it right. She had it now in two bowls on a tray. She set them down on the dresser and closed the door, then offered him one dish.

He stared at it, no idea what it was, and raised his eyes to hers, uncertain.

She put some on a spoon and held it to his lips.

He ate it, tasting it slowly, carefully. He might never admit it, but it was clear in his expression that he liked it very much.

Slowly she fed him the rest, then ate her own. She had a ridiculous feeling of success, as if she had won a great prize. She looked forward to making something else for him.

“Is that wot yer feed soldiers when they’re ’urt?” he asked.

“If we have the supplies, yes,” she replied. “Depends where we’re fighting. It can be hard to get things over great distances.”

“Wot kind o’ things? Yer gotter ’ave food. D’yer ’ave guns an’ things too?”

“Yes, and ammunition, and medical supplies, and more boots and clothes. All kinds of things.” Then she elaborated on army life, and he sat with his eyes never leaving hers. They were still talking when Monk came back in the late afternoon.

He came up to the room quietly. He looked exhausted, but the moment he saw Scuff sitting up against the pillow he smiled.

Hester rose, anxious for him now. It was already darkening outside, and he was spattered with rain even after having taken his coat off downstairs.

“Are you hungry?” she asked gently, trying to read from his face what he needed most.

“Yes,” he answered, as if surprised by it. “Rathbone thinks they may all be convicted, including Sixsmith.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely.

“Navvies’ evidence,” he explained. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have started this, but it’s too late to undo it now.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“More navvies, clerks, people who probably had no idea of any of it,” he answered. “Let’s eat. I’ve done all I can. Are you hungry, Scuff?”

Scuff nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

ELEVEN

By the time Monk returned home to Paradise Street after the following day’s court, it was dark and raining again. The gutters were awash, slopping over onto the cobbles. The reflections from the lamps danced on wet stone, and the clatter of hooves was broken by splashing. The cold wind coming up from the river carried wreaths of mist that stretched out, wrapped around trees and even houses, then elongated and disappeared again.

Inside, the house was warm. The kitchen smelled of new bread, clean linen, and something savory. Hester greeted him at the door.

“He’s fine,” she said before he asked.

He smiled as the sweetness of it soaked into him.

“He’s been asleep on and off,” she went on. “He looks a lot better.”

He held her close, kissing her mouth, then her cheek and eyes and hair, allowing the rest of the world to be closed out for a few precious minutes. Then he went upstairs to change into dry clothes and to see Scuff.

“How are you?” he asked.

Scuff stirred and sat up very slowly, blinking a little. He seemed uncertain how to answer.

“Are you worse?” Monk said anxiously.

Scuff grinned lopsidedly. “It ’urts like bleedin’ ’eck,” he said frankly. “But that egg stuff as she makes is real good. D’yer know some o’ ’em places she’s bin?” His eyes were huge with amazement and more admiration than he was probably aware of. “I in’t never ’eard o’ some o’ ’em!”

“Neither have I,” Monk conceded, coming in and sitting on the edge of the bed.