A Christmas Deliverance

  A Christmas Deliverance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Anne Perry

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Ballantine is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Perry, Anne, author.

  Title: A Christmas deliverance : a novel / Anne Perry.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Ballantine Books, [2022]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022023110 (print) | LCCN 2022023111 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593359105 (hardcover ; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593359112 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Christmas fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PR6066.E693 C4653 2022 (print) | LCC PR6066.E693 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23/eng/20220516

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022023110

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022023111

  Ebook ISBN 9780593359112

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Sara Bereta, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Victoria Allen

  Cover illustration: Alan Ayers, including images © erstudio (girl) and © New Africa Studio (kitten)

  ep_prh_6.0_141688264_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Christmas Deliverance

  Dedication

  The Christmas Novels of Anne Perry

  About the Author

  “Are you going to stitch it?” she asked nervously, holding out a small, bloody finger.

  Crowe guessed she was about four or five years old, and her eyes brimmed with tears that she was trying very hard to hide.

  The finger was bleeding quite heavily. It would need stitches to hold it, and bandages to keep it clean as long as possible. This would be difficult with the cold and wet weather on the banks of the Thames, and even more so for a child with probably only a makeshift shelter to live in, and very little to eat. She had come to the clinic alone. She might have a parent, but probably not.

  Most of the poorer people living on the riverbanks knew of Crowe’s clinic, which catered specifically to their needs. He had opened it several years ago, after he had become skilled in healing, before he had officially qualified to call himself a doctor, or indeed to practice medicine at all.

  Crowe never charged these people for his services. But they had no money anyway.

  Not much had changed in the years since he had opened the clinic, except that he was now officially qualified. And he had gained the confidence to face authority and stand his ground. Occasionally now, on rare occurrences, someone could pay and Crowe would have enough for supplies…other than food.

  “Are you going to stitch it?” she asked again.

  He examined the finger. “Yes, I am,” he replied.

  She sniffed. “Can you darn it where the hole is?” she asked hopefully.

  Crowe thought perhaps she had seen her mother, or her grandmother, darning the holes in a sock. “Not exactly,” he replied. It was always better to tell the truth. When he saw how her eyes grew wide, he added, “I’ll stitch it closed, and then you have to keep it covered and dry. It will fill in itself. You can do that.” It was more hope than belief.

  She nodded slowly.

  “Now, hold still, and be very brave,” he instructed. “Perhaps you don’t want to watch. You don’t have to.”

  She blinked and a tear ran down her cheek. She nodded, then watched as he cleansed the wound, and then chose a needle from the small case and threaded it with very fine gut, almost like a hair. He had to keep his attention on what he was doing, so he was sure to catch the blood vessel, as well as the broken skin. He must leave her with only a slight scar, not puckered in a way that would always be uncomfortable.

  She flinched as the needle pricked her, but she did not pull away.

  Crowe worked as quickly as he could, only now and then looking up at her for a second or two. He knew he was hurting her. Fingertips were intensely sensitive, but there was nothing else he could do. The wound had to be given the chance to heal. If it became infected, she was too small, and perhaps too malnourished, to fight the infection off.

  After the last suture was in place, Crowe trimmed away the excess thread and cleaned around the wound. Then he went straight on to bandage it, heavily. He reminded her not to take off the outer layers, even if they became soiled. “To protect it,” he explained. “And now,” he added, “I’m going to have lunch. Would you like some, too?” He knew she was probably hungry most of the time.

  “I haven’t any money,” she said in little more than a whisper, as if frightened that he would be angry.

  He smiled and gave a shrug. “Neither have I, as it happens. So…will you have lunch with me? It’s vegetable soup, with potatoes in it.”

  She gave the smallest nod, barely a movement at all.

  “Come on, then. Can you eat with your left hand?” It was the right one that had been injured.

  “Yes.”

  He led the way out of the room in which he and his assistant, twenty-two-year-old Will Monk, more often known as Scuff, saw their patients.

  * * *

  Scuff, too, had begun as an orphan, when he was a little older than this child. Actually, he didn’t know his birth date, or how old he was. He had spent his early childhood, after his mother had married his stepfather, scraping out a living as a mudlark, one of the small boys who salvaged items from the riverbanks when the tide was out: coins, metal screws, pieces of coal, anything that could be sold. Scuff had been befriended by William Monk, of the Thames River Police, and later officially adopted by Monk and his wife, Hester. In addition to not knowing his birth date or age, Scuff also had no idea what his given name was. But he did now: he was Will Monk.

  Crowe still thought of him, and spoke to him, as Scuff.

  Crowe led the little girl into the kitchen. Only Crowe and Scuff actually lived in the clinic, but very often patients who had been operated on remained here until they were sufficiently recovered to leave. There were quite a lot of food and medicines locked away. Some of the food was simple, like oatmeal, and there was always good red wine, particularly claret, something that restored strength and spirit in people not able to eat. And, to some degree, it dulled the patients’ fear and pain. That, of course, was locked away. Things that did not keep, like bone broth, were consumed quickly.

  There was also a very large stove, to provide lots of hot water necessary to launder stained sheets, or even blankets.

  Crowe pulled the pan forward from the back of the stove. It was filled with a thick soup. It had been bone broth originally, but all kinds of things had been added, mainly cabbage stalks and potatoes, until it had become a meal in itself. He ladled out a serving for the child, and another for himself, then he placed the bowls on the table and indicated Scuff’s chair for the little girl.

  He looked closely at her. He watched carefully and saw that she looked mystified.

  Crowe dipped his spoon into his bowl and then tasted carefully. It was a little hot, so he blew on it gently, then put it in his mouth, all the time watching her.

  She copied exactly what he did, even down to blowing on the spoon, then carefully putting it into her mouth. Although it was a little too hot, she refused to show it.

  Spoonful by spoonful, they finished everything in the pot. Crowe was more than full, but the child had eaten as if her legs were hollow.

  They were just finishing when the next patient came in. He was a middle-aged man with a large, angry boil on his neck.

  “Can you do anything about this, Doc?” he asked. “I got nobody else I trust to do it, an’ I can’t reach it myself.”

  “Certainly,” Crowe responded, looking at the protruding, swollen mass. He could almost feel the throb of it and imagine the pain.

  The child was transfixed.

  “Can you help me?” Crowe asked her.

  She nodded, as if too horror-struck at the idea to find words.

  With quick, practiced hands, Crowe laid out two sharp knives, and several old, but freshly boiled cloths.

  He directed the man to sit on one of the chairs, and then he spread a large piece of toweling around his shoulders, tightening his grip on the man’s upper arm for a moment, to offer reassurance.

  “Right,” he said with confidence.

  He had never asked the girl’s name, so he had to get her attention by looking at her. “Will you pass me the blue cloth? Do you know blue?”

  She looked puzzled, and then seemed to be ashamed.

  “It’s the color of the sky when it’s sunny,” he explained.

  She passed him the right one.

  “Thank you.” He took it, rinsing it out in the bowl of warm water, and washing the angry boil. Then he gave it back to her. She put it down where it had been.

  “Knife,” he requested.

&n
bsp; She had no trouble with that.

  In a single movement, he cut the angry flesh and released the pus inside. Then he took the largest cloth and mopped it up. After this, he removed the remnant of the angry, bloody, and purulent mess and dumped it into the bin. He would burn the contents afterward.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the little girl.

  She stared at him.

  “I’ve got to call you something,” he explained.

  She looked puzzled, and then, again, embarrassed.

  “Then I’ll give you a name. There was a Queen Matilda once, a long time ago. How about Mattie?”

  She nodded quickly.

  “Right, Mattie, will you please pass me the cleanest piece of cloth on the table?”

  She looked at all three pieces, and passed him the best one, looking at him shyly.

  He took it and pressed it against the wound, where the boil had been, then applied two pieces of sticking plaster to hold the cloth in place.

  “Don’t get it wet, and don’t get it dirty,” he instructed the man.

  “Is that all?” the man demanded dubiously.

  “The dressing might need changing tomorrow. Don’t use a cloth that hasn’t been boiled clean,” Crowe instructed.

  He saw how Mattie looked at him. “What?” he asked.

  She glanced away, thinking, and looked up at him only when she had found the words. “Mine, too?” she said tentatively. “Can I come back and have you do it?”

  He realized with overwhelming pity that she probably had no access to a cloth of any sort, much less a clean one. He should have thought of that. He smiled at her. “Yes, of course, if you don’t mind coming all this way?”

  “I don’t mind.” She gave him a tiny, shy smile, then turned and went out of the door and into the street. And then she ran.

  * * *

  It was half an hour later when Scuff returned with a heavy bag on his back. He was very different from the rather hesitant young man who had begun working with Crowe nearly three years earlier. He studied from books as well, which he found far easier to understand and remember after he had seen the reality. Everything he read was made that much clearer while watching Crowe perform the techniques and explain what he was doing. Buoyed by his newfound knowledge, and the confidence Crowe instilled in him, he was working toward the serious pursuit of medicine.

  Scuff had told Crowe that his mother and her new husband had other children, and five-year-old Scuff had been put on the riverbank for longer and longer times, where they expected him to fend for himself. He had adapted to the change quickly, in order to survive, and this was when he became a mudlark. A few years later, there was no room for him at all at home and, effectively, he became an orphan whose life depended on his ability to scavenge.

  So much of the maturity and growth of Scuff was thanks to William Monk. When Monk had first joined the Thames River Police, Scuff was around eight or nine, and they had met during one of Monk’s investigations. It was young Scuff who had taught Monk the river wisdom regarding water, tides, and the people along the banks who made their living on what was called the longest street in London.

  After a time, Scuff became part of William and Hester Monk’s family. It was where he felt safe for the first time in his life. When it was time for him to choose the path his future would take, to everyone’s surprise he chose not to go into the police like Monk, but into medicine, like Hester, who had been a nurse with Florence Nightingale in the Crimean War.

  With Christmas less than two weeks away, Crowe knew many people would be thinking about the holiday, but he had no reason to. He had no one, whereas Scuff could think about the Monks, and what he could offer them as a gift.

  For now, Crowe must focus on the clinic, and the poor people who walked through the door in need of his services.

  * * *

  Scuff nodded when he came in, placing on the kitchen table the supplies he had brought and must now separate and put away, reaching up to high shelves. While Crowe was tall and lean—well over six feet—Scuff was a couple of inches shorter, but quickly catching up with him. In appearance they were very unalike: Scuff was fair-haired and blue-eyed, the opposite of Crowe, whose eyes and hair were almost black.

  The two men were also different in another way. Scuff felt safe with his memories, and he had a belief in himself that had only a few holes in it. William and Hester Monk had been good to him, supportive and loving. They were family. He had much to be grateful for. Crowe, on the other hand, kept the recollection of his many battles, his victories and losses, shrouded in silence. If he’d had family, nobody knew of them, and it was clear that he intended it to remain that way. For Crowe, life was about a future that one could change, not a past one could not.

  Crowe set to helping Scuff unpack the supplies, which included a little food and a lot of bandages and medicines. There was also some claret, which they called “surgical spirits,” for their patients.

  Among the items was something that Scuff produced out of a brown paper bag, holding it up for admiration like a prize. “For Christmas,” he said with a wide smile.

  “Christmas pudding?” Crowe said in disbelief. “What did you pay for that? Who will have to go without?” He said that wryly. Funds were short and they were both painfully aware of it.

  “I paid nothing,” Scuff answered, putting the pudding at the back of the shelf and closing the door. “It was a gift from Old Mother Watson. It’s not payment for anything in particular. Sometimes she just needs someone to listen.” He stopped, looking at Crowe as if expecting a reprimand.

  Crowe understood Scuff’s expression. They had discussed the subject of time wasted on patients who had nothing medically wrong with them, nothing that could be treated. Scuff had insisted that all some people needed was a listening ear, kindness, and to be believed. Many people could deal with pain and the inconvenience it caused, as long as someone else understood.

  Crowe understood and yet he preferred to concentrate on providing medical help, sometimes surgery. He had profound medical skills. Listening was for those who could not give answers, let alone get people to admit they needed help.

  But it was Scuff who had survived alone on the river. He knew the culture of beliefs, regardless of the facts, and he found himself explaining these to the older and more clinically experienced Crowe.

  Now he had brought a Christmas pudding for them to celebrate. But it was less than a fortnight until Christmas, and there was much to do before then.

  They had few patients that afternoon, which gave them time to tidy cupboards and do a little laundry. There was an elderly patient Crowe knew he should visit to make sure he was taking his medicine, and to check that his infection was gone, or at least improved. He explained this to Scuff and then left the clinic.

  Crowe walked the short distance. After seeing the man, talking with him for a few minutes, he walked back by a slightly longer route. Christmas was in the air, with bright decorations in windows, everything from handmade drawings of Father Christmas to flurries of tinsel tied to the base of some of the streetlamps. He told himself that he should be happy at this time of year, but this holiday brought home to him his loneliness. What was Christmas without a family? Or someone to love?

  He found himself high above the river, where he could see the lowering sun shine on the mist covering the water. There were often lines of ships lying at anchor, waiting their turns to be unloaded. Through the haze, he could barely see the jagged black angles of the cranes and derricks along the dockside.

  He had come this way because it reminded him of Eliza Hollister—Ellie—a young woman he had treated after a particularly harrowing accident. And for whom he still held fond memories.

  From where he stood, Crowe had a view of large houses, trees carefully tended to in freshly dug winter gardens. These were not the homes of dockworkers, nor of the rather well-off importers and shippers. These grand houses belonged to the people who owned the ships, the warehouses, and sometimes the expensive cargoes as well.

  Albert Hollister, Ellie’s father, was one of the richest and most comfortable of them all. His house was huge, its massive stone façade just visible behind a garden of evergreen laurel bushes and professionally trimmed holly hedges. The house was filled with servants. And inside lived Ellie, whom Crowe had checked up on twice after her treatment.