The Twisted Root by Anne Perry Page B

of his awe.
    "I’m a nurse," she answered rashly, and with a touch of pride. "I was out in the Crimea."
    He looked at her with amazement. The word was still magic.
    "Was yer?" His eyes filled with hope, and she felt guilty for how simply she’d done it, and with so little consideration of what she could fulfill. If only they could persuade Thorpe to see how much it mattered that all nurses should inspire this trust, not in miracles but in competence, gentleness and sobriety.
    But how could they, when they were given no training and it was so blatantly apparent that the doctors had little but contempt for them? The anger inside her was rock hard; unconsciously her body clenched.
    Harry Jackson was still staring at her. She must talk to him, reassure him. No one could heal his illness. Like half of the people in this room, he was long past that kind of help, but she could comfort his fear, and for a time at least alleviate his pain.
    The physician came to the door and called the first patient. He looked frustrated and tired in a clean frock coat and trousers that were a little wrinkled at the knees. He also knew he could do little that was of real help.
    Hester moved to another patient and talked with him, listening to his tales of family, home, the difficulties of trying to make ends meet, let alone to pay for medicine, when you were too sick to work.
    A nurse walked through the room carrying an empty pail, its metal handle clinking against the rings that held it. The woman was stout, dark, about forty. She did not look to either side of her as she passed the waiting people. She hiccuped as she went out of the far door. She was in a world of her own, exhausted by hard physical labor, lifting, bending, carrying, scrubbing. Mealtimes and, more important, drink times would be the highlights of her day. Then she could share the odd joke with the other women, and the brief euphoria of alcohol which shut out reality.
    It was all a long way from the dream of a sweet-faced woman with a lamp in her hand who would murmur words of hope and miraculously save the dying.
    And that too was a long way from the passionate, tireless, short-tempered, vulnerable woman who sat in her house passing out orders, pleas and advice—almost all of it good—and being stoically ignored by men like Fermin Thorpe.
    It was six o’clock before the last patient had been seen. Hester had managed to persuade the physician to admit Harry Jackson for a few days, and she savored that small victory. She was consequently smiling as she tidied the waiting room.
    The door opened, and she was pleased to see Callandra, who now looked even more disheveled than usual. Her skirt was crumpled, her blouse open at the neck in the heat, and she had obviously been working, because her sleeves were rolled up and stained with splashes of water and blood. Her hair was coming out of its pins in all directions. It needed taking down, brushing, and doing again.
    Absentmindedly, Callandra pulled out a pin, caught up a bunch of hair and replaced it all, making the whole effect worse.
    She closed the door and glanced around to make sure the room was empty and all other doors were closed also.
    "He’s gone," Hester assured her.
    Callandra rubbed the back of her hand across her brow.
    "There’s more medicine gone today," she said wearily. "I checked it this morning, and again now. It’s not a lot, but I’m quite sure."
    Hester should not have been surprised, but she felt a cold grip inside her close tighter. It was systematic. Someone was taking medicines every day or two and had been doing so for a long time, perhaps months, possibly even years. A certain amount of error or theft was expected, but not of this order.
    "Does Mr. Thorpe know yet?" she asked quietly.
    "Not about this," Callandra replied. "It’s getting worse."
    For a wild moment Hester actually entertained the idea that the thefts could be used to pressure Fermin Thorpe into seeing the necessity for training and