A sudden, fearful death (18 page)

"Oh I see. Yes, that is
different, and a quite common sentiment." His voice carried all his
contempt for those who visit others to perform the unpleasant deeds so they do
not suffer the distress of their reality and can sleep without nightmare and
the horror of guilt, doubt, and pity. Then with an effort he recollected his
purpose for having come. He forced himself to meet Taunton's eyes with
something like courtesy. "And I assure you that anything that falls within
my power to see that that is accomplished I shall do with all purpose and
diligence at my command, you may be assured."

Taunton was mollified. He too
forgot his sense of offense and returned his mind to Prudence and her death.

"Why have you come to see me,
Mr. Monk? What can I do to assist you? I am aware of nothing whatever to account
for what happened, except the very nature of hospitals and the people who inhabit
them, the type of women employed there, of which you must be aware
yourself."

Monk evaded the question slightly.
"Can you think of any reason why another nurse should wish Miss Barrymore
harm?" he asked.

Taunton looked thoughtful.
"Many possibilities come to mind. Would you care to come through to my
study, where we may discuss it in more comfortable surroundings?"

"Thank you," Monk
accepted, following him back through the hallway and into a charming room much
larger than he had expected, facing a rose garden with open fields beyond. A
fine stand of elms rose two hundred yards away. "What a splendid
view," he said involuntarily.

"Thank you," Taunton
acknowledged with a tight smile. He waved at one of the large chairs, inviting
Monk to sit, and then occupied another opposite it. "You asked about the
nurses," he said, addressing the subject again. "Since you are
consulted by the Board of Governors, I assume you are familiar with the kind of
women who become nurses?

They have little or no education
and the morals one would expect from such people." He regarded Monk
gravely. "It would hardly be surprising if they resented a woman such as
Miss Barrymore, who had what must have seemed to them to be wealth, and who
worked not from necessity but because she wished to. Quite obviously she had
education, gentle birth, and all the blessings of life they would have asked
for themselves." He looked at Monk to make sure he understood the nuances
of what he was saying.

"A quarrel?" Monk asked
with surprise. "It would have taken a very vicious woman, and one of
considerable physical strength, to have attacked Miss Barrymore and strangled
her without drawing the attention of other people. The corridors are often
empty for periods of time, but the wards are not far. A scream would have
brought people running."

Taunton frowned. "I do not see
the burden of your remark, Mr. Monk. Are you trying to say that Miss Barrymore
was not killed in the hospital?" His expression hardened into contempt.
"Is that what the Board of Governors wants, to disclaim responsibility
and say the hospital is not involved?"

"Certainly not." Monk
might have been amused had he not been so angry. He despised pomposity; coupled
with foolishness, as it usually was, it was intolerable. "I am trying to
point out that a quarrel between two women is unlikely to have ended by one of
them being strangled," he said impatiently. "A quarrel would have
been heard; indeed, it was two women quarreling which brought Dr. Beck and Lady
Callandra to the scene and resulted in their finding Miss Barrymore."

"Oh." Taunton looked
suddenly pale as the argument receded and they both remembered it was
Prudence's death they were discussing, not some academic exercise. "Yes, I
see. Then you are saying it must have been premeditated, done in a manner of
cold blood, without warning." He looked away, his face filled with
emotion. "Good God, how appalling! Poor Prudence." He swallowed with
some difficulty. "Is it—is it possible she knew little of it, Mr.
Monk?"

Monk had no idea. "Yes, I
should think so," he lied. "It may have been very quick, especially
if the attacker were strong."

Taunton blinked hastily.

"A man. Yes, that does seem
far more likely." He seemed satisfied with the answer.

"Did Miss Barrymore mention
any man to you who had been causing her anxiety and with whom she might have
had an unsatisfactory acquaintance?" Monk asked.

Taunton frowned, looking at Monk
uncertainly. "I am not quite sure what you mean by that."

"I do not know what other
phrase to use. I mean either personal or professional, a doctor, chaplain,
treasurer, governor, relation of a patient, or anyone with whom she had
dealings in the course of her duties," Monk tried to explain.

Taunton's face cleared. "Oh
yes, I see."

"Well, did she? Of whom did
she speak?"

Taunton considered for a moment,
his eyes on the elms in the distance, their great green bowers bright in the
sun. “I am afraid we did not often discuss her work." His lips tightened,
but it was not possible to say if it was in anger or pain. "I did not
approve of it. But she did mention her high regard for the chief surgeon, Sir
Herbert Stanhope, a man more of her own social class, of course. She had the
greatest regard for his professional ability. But I gained no impression that
her feelings were personal." He scowled at Monk. "I hope that is not
what you are suggesting?"

"I am not suggesting
anything," Monk said impatiently, his voice rising. "I am trying to
learn something about her, and who may have wished her harm for whatever reason:
jealousy, fear, ambition, revenge, greed, anything at all. Did she have any
admirers that you know of? I believe she was a most attractive person."

"Yes she was, for all her
stubbornness. She was quite lovely." For a moment he turned away from Monk
and endeavored to mask his distress.

Monk thought of apologizing, then
felt it would only embarrass Taunton further. He had never learned the right
thing to say. Probably there was no right thing.

"No," Taunton said after
several minutes. "She never spoke of anyone. Although it is possible she
would not have told me, knowing how I felt. But she was transparently honest.
I think if there had been anyone, her own candor would have compelled her to
tell me." His face creased with total incomprehension. "She always
spoke as if medicine were her sole love and she had no time for ordinary
womanly pursuits and instincts. If anything, I should say she was increasingly
devoted lately." He looked at Monk earnestly. "You did not know her
before she went to the Crimea, Mr. Monk. She was different then, quite
different. She had not the ..." He stopped, struggling for a word to
describe what he meant. "She was ... softer, yes that is it, softer, far
more truly womanly."

Monk did not argue, although the
words were on the edge of his tongue. Were women really soft? The best women he
knew, the ones that leaped to his mind, were anything but. Convention demanded
their outer manners were yielding, but inside was a core of steel that would
put many a man to shame, and a strength of will and endurance that knew no
master. Hester Latterly had had courage to fight on for his vindication when he
himself had given up. She had bullied, cajoled, and abused him into hope, and
then into struggle, regardless of her own welfare.

And he would have sworn Callandra
would do as much, if occasion demanded. And there were others. Perhaps Prudence
Barrymore had been one like these, passionate, brave, and single-minded to her
convictions. Difficult for a man like Geoffrey Taunton to accept, still less to
understand. Perhaps difficult for anyone to associate with. Lord knew, Hester
could be abrasive, willful, obstructive, and thoroughly sharp-tongued—and
always opinionated.

In fact, Monk's irritation with
Taunton lessened considerably as he thought about it. If he had been in love
with Prudence Barrymore, he probably had had a great deal to endure.

"Yes, yes I see," he said
aloud with a ghost of a smile. "It must have been most trying for you.
When was the last time you saw Miss Barrymore?"

"I saw her the morning she
died—was killed," Taunton replied, his face pale. "Probably very
shortly before."

Monk was puzzled. "But she was
killed very early in the morning, between six o'clock and half past
seven."

Taunton blushed. "Yes, it was
early; in fact, it was no more than seven o'clock at the most. I had spent the
night in town and went in to the hospital to see her before catching the train
home."

"It must have been something
of great importance to you to take you there at that hour."

"It was." Taunton offered
nothing further. His face was set, his expression closed.

"If you prefer not to tell me,
you leave it to my imagination," Monk challenged with a hard smile.
"I shall assume you quarreled over your disapproval of her occupation."

"You may assume what you wish,"
Taunton said equally tersely. "It was a private conversation which I
should not have reported had nothing untoward happened. And now that poor
Prudence is dead, I certainly shall not." He looked at Monk with defiance.
"It was not to her credit, that is all you need to know. The poor creature
was in a high temper when I left, most unbecoming, but she was in excellent
health."

Monk let that go by without
comment. Apparently Taunton had not yet even thought of himself as suspect.
"And she at no time indicated to you that she was afraid of anyone?"
Monk asked. "Or that anyone had been unpleasant or threatening toward
her?"

"Of course not, or I should
have informed you. You would not have needed to ask."

"I see. Thank you, you have
been most cooperative. I am sure Lady Callandra will be grateful to you."
Monk knew he should add his condolences, but the words stuck in his mouth. He
had contained his temper, that was sufficient. He stood up. "Now I will
not take any more of your time."

"It does not seem you have
progressed very far." Taun-ton rose also, unconsciously smoothing his
clothes and regarding Monk critically. "I cannot see how you can hope to
catch whoever it was by such methods."

"I daresay I could not do your
job either, sir," Monk said with a tight smile. "Perhaps that is just
as well. Thank you again. Good day, Mr. Taunton."

* * * * *

It was a hot walk back along the
Ride, over Boston Lane and through the fields to Wyke Farm, but Monk enjoyed it
enormously. It was exquisite to feel the earth beneath his feet instead of
pavement, to smell the wind across open land, heavy with honeysuckle, and hear
nothing but the ripening ears of wheat rustling and the occasional distant
bark of a dog. London and its troubles seemed another country," not just a
few miles away on the railway line. For a moment he forgot Prudence Barrymore
and allowed peace to settle in his mind and old memory to creep in: the wide
hills of Northumberland and the clean wind off the sea, the gulls wheeling in
the sky. It was all he had of childhood: impressions, a sound, a smell that
brought back emotions, a glimpse of a face, gone before he could see it
clearly.

His pleasure was snapped and he was
returned to the present by a woman on horseback looming suddenly a few yards
away. Of course she must have come over the fields, but he had been too
preoccupied to notice her until she was almost on top of him. She rode with the
total ease of someone to whom it is as natural as walking. She was all grace
and femininity, her back straight, her head high, her hands light on the reins.

"Good afternoon, ma'am,"
he said with surprise. "I apologize for not having seen you
earlier."

She smiled. Her mouth was wide, her
face soft with dark eyes, perhaps a little deep set. Her brown hair was drawn
back under her riding hat but the heavy curl softened it. She was pretty,
almost beautiful.

"Are you lost?" she said
with amusement, looking down at his smart clothes and dark boots. "There
is nothing here along this track except Wyke Farm." She held her horse in
tight control, standing only a yard in front of him, her hands strong, skilled,
and tight.

"Then I am not lost," he
answered, meeting her gaze. "I am looking for Miss Nanette
Cuthbertson."

"You need go no farther. I am
she." Her surprise was good-natured and welcoming. "What may I do for
you, sir?"

"How do you do, Miss
Cuthbertson. My name is William Monk. I am assisting Lady Callandra Daviot,
who is a member of the Board of Governors of the Royal Free Hospital. She is
eager to clear up the matter of Miss Barrymore's death. You were acquainted
with her, I believe?"

The smile disappeared from her
face, but there was no curiosity in her, simply a decent acknowledgment of tragedy.
To have remained looking so cheerful would have been indelicate.

"Yes, of course I was. But I
have no idea how I can help you." Gracefully she dismounted, without
asking his help and before he could give it. She held the reins loosely, all
but leaving the horse to follow her of itself. "I know nothing about it,
except what Mr. Taunton has told me, which was simply that poor Prudence had
met with a sudden and fearful death." She looked at him with soft innocent
eyes.