A sudden, fearful death (39 page)

"Did it surprise you?" he
asked.

She was still standing in front of
him. There were no chairs in the room. Apparently it was used simply to store
materials of one sort and another, and had been offered him because it afforded
privacy.

"Yes," she said
unequivocally. "I accept that is what she wrote, because I have to. But it
sounds most unlike the woman I knew."

He did not wish to offend her, but
he must not fall short of the truth either.

"And did you know her other
than in the Crimea?"

It was a perceptive question, and
she saw the meaning behind it immediately.

"No, I didn't know her here in
England," she replied. "And I left the Crimea before she did because
of my parents' death, nor have I seen her since then. But all the same, this
is nothing like me woman I worked with." She frowned, trying to order her
thoughts and find words for them. "She was—more sufficient in herself.
..." It was half a question, to see if he understood. "She never
allowed her happiness to rest in other people," she tried again. "She
was a leader, not a follower. Am I explaining myself?" She regarded him
anxiously, conscious of inadequacy.

"No," he said simply,
with a faint smile. "Are you saying she was incapable of falling in
love?"

She hesitated for so long he
thought she was not going to answer. He wished he had not broached the subject,
but it was too late to retreat.

"Hester?"

"I don't know," she said
at last. "Of loving, certainly, but falling in love ... I am not sure.
Falling
implies some loss of balance. It is a good word to use. I am not at all
sure Prudence was capable of falling. And Sir Herbert doesn't seem ..."
She stopped.

"Doesn't seem?" he
prompted.

She pulled a very slight face.
"The sort of man to inspire an overwhelming passion." She made it
almost a question, watching his face.

"Then what can she have meant
in her letters?" he asked.

She shook her head fractionally.
"I cannot see any other explanation. I just find it so hard to believe. I
suppose she must have changed more than I would have thought possible."
Her expression hardened. "There must have been something between them that
we have not even guessed at, some tenderness, something shared which was
uniquely precious to her, so dear she could not give it up, even at the cost of
demeaning herself to use threats."

She shook her head again with a
brisk impatient little movement, as if to brush away some troublesome insect.
"She was always so direct, so candid. What on earth would she want with
the affection of a man she had forced into giving it? It makes no sense!"

"Infatuation seldom does make
sense, my dear," he said quietly. "When you care so fiercely and
all-consumingly for someone you simply cannot believe that in time they will
not learn to feel the same for you. If only you have the chance to be with
them, you can make things change." He stopped abruptly. It was all true,
and relevant to the case, but it was far more than he had intended to say. And
yet he heard his own voice carrying on. "Have you never cared for anyone
in that way?" He was asking not only for Prudence Barrymore, but because
he wanted to know if Hester had ever felt that wild surge of emotion that
eclipses everything else and distracts all other needs and wishes. As soon as
the words were out, he wished he had not asked. If she said no, he would feel
her cold, something less than a woman, and fear she was not capable of such
feelings. But if she said yes, he would be ridiculously jealous of the man who
had inspired it in her. He waited for her answer, feeling utterly foolish.

If she were aware of the turmoil in
him she betrayed none of it in her face.

"If I had, I should not wish
to discuss it," she said primly, then gave a sudden smile. "I am not
being of any assistance, am I? I'm sorry. You have to defend Sir Herbert, and
this is no use at all. I suppose what you had better do is see if you can find
out what pressure she intended to use. And if you can find none, it may tend to
vindicate him." She screwed up her face. "That is not very good, is
it?"

"Almost no good at all,"
he agreed, making himself smile back.

"What can I do that would be useful?"
she asked frankly.

"Find me evidence to suggest
that it was someone else."

He saw a flicker of doubt in her
face, or perhaps it was anxiety, or unhappiness. But she did not explain it.

"What is it?" he pressed.
"Do you know something?"

"No," she said too
quickly. Then she met his eyes. "No, I know of no evidence whatever to
implicate anyone else. I believe the police have looked fairly thoroughly at
all the other people it might be. I know Monk thought quite seriously about
Geoffrey Taunton and about Nanette Cuthbert-son. I suppose you might pursue
them?"

"I shall certainly do so,
naturally. What of the other nurses here? Have you formed any impression as to
their feelings for Nurse Barrymore?"

"I'm not sure if my
impressions are of much value, but it seems to me they both admired and
resented her, but they would not have harmed her." She looked at him with
a curious expression, half wry, half sad. "They are very angry with Sir
Herbert. They think he did it, and there is no pity for him." She leaned a
little against one of the benches. "You will be very ill-advised to call
any of them as witnesses if you can help it."

"Why? Do they believe she was
in love with him and he misled her?"

"I don't know what they
think." She shook her head. "They simply accept that he is guilty. It
is not a carefully reasoned matter, just the difference between the status of a
doctor and that of a nurse. He had power, she had not. It is all the old
resentments of the weak against the strong, the poor against the wealthy, the
ignorant against the educated and the clever. But you will have to be very
subtle indeed to gain anything good from them on the witness stand."

"I take your warning," he
said grimly. The outlook was not good. She had told him nothing, but given him
hope. "What is your own opinion of Sir Herbert? You have been working with
him, haven't you?"

"Yes." She frowned.
"It surprises me, but I find it hard to believe he used her as her letters
suggest. I hope I am not being vain, but I have never caught in his eye even
the slightest personal interest in me." She looked at Rathbone carefully
to judge his response. "And I have worked closely with him," she
continued. "Often late into the night, and on difficult cases when there
was much room for emotion over shared success or failure. I have found him
dedicated to his work, and totally correct in all particulars of his
behavior."

"Would you be prepared to
swear to that?"

"Of course. But I cannot see
that is useful. I daresay any other nurse who has worked with him will do the
same."

"I cannot call them without
being sure they will say as you do," he pointed out. "I wonder, could
you—"

"I have already," she
interrupted. "I have spoken with a few others who worked with him now and
then, most particularly the youngest and best-looking. None of them has ever
found him anything but most correct."

He felt a slight lift of spirits.
If nothing else, it established a pattern.

"Now that is helpful," he
acknowledged. "Did Nurse Barrymore confide in anyone, do you know? Surely
she had some particular friend."

"None of whom I am
aware." She shook her head and made a little face. "But I shall look
further. She didn't in the Crimea. She was totally absorbed in her work; there
was no time and no emotion left for much more than the sort of silent
understanding that requires no effort. England and all its ties were left
behind. I suppose there must have been a great deal of her I didn't know—didn't
even think about."

"I need to know," he said
simply. "It would make all the difference if we knew what was going on in
her mind."

"Of course." She looked
at him gravely for a moment, then straightened her shoulders. "I shall
inform you of anything that I think could possibly be of use. Do you require
it written down, or will a verbal report be sufficient?"

With difficulty he kept himself
from smiling. "Oh, a verbal report will be far better," he said
soberly. "Then if I wish to pursue any issue further I can do it at the
time. Thank you very much for your assistance. I am sure justice will be the
better served."

"I thought it was Sir Herbert
you were trying to serve," she said dryly, but not without amusement. Then
she politely took her farewell and excused herself back to her duties.

He stood in the small room for a
moment or two after she had gone. He felt a sense of elation slowly filling
him. He had forgotten how exhilarating she was, how immediate and intelligent,
how without pretense. To be with her was at once pleasingly familiar, oddly
comfortable, and yet also disturbing. It was something he could not easily
dismiss from his thoughts or choose when he would think about it and when he
would not.

* * * * *

Monk had very mixed feelings about undertaking
to work for Oliver Rathbone in Sir Herbert Stanhope's defense. When he had
read the letters he had believed they were proof of a relationship quite
different from anything Sir Herbert had admitted. It was both shameful, on a
personal and professional level, and—if she were indiscreet, as she had so
obviously threatened to be—a'motive for murder ... a very simple one which
would easily be believed by any jury.

But on the other hand Rathbone's
account of it having been all in Prudence's feverish overemotional imagination
was something which with any other woman would have been only too easily
believable. And was Monk guilty of having credited Prudence with a moral
strength, a single-minded dedication to duty, that was superhuman, overlooking
her very ordinary, mortal weaknesses? Had he once again created in his
imagination a woman totally different from, and inferior to, the real one?

It was a painful thought. And yet
wounding as it was, he could not escape it. He had read into Hermione qualities
she did not have, and perhaps into Imogen Latterly too. How many other women
had he so idealized—and hopelessly misread?

It seemed where they were involved
he had neither judgment nor even the ability to learn from his mistakes.

At least professionally he was
skilled—more than skilled, he was brilliant. His cases were record of that;
they were a list of victory after victory. Even though he could remember few
details, he knew the flavor, knew from other men's regard for him that he
seldom lost. And no one spoke lightly of him or willingly crossed his will. Men
who served with him gave of their best. They might dread it, obey with trepidation,
but when success came they were elated and proud to be part of it. It was an
accolade to have served with Monk, a mark of success in one's career, a
stepping-stone to greater things.

But with another, all too familiar,
jar of discomfort, he was reminded of Runcorn's words by the memory of having
humiliated the young constable who was working with him on that case so long
ago which hovered on the edge of his memory with such vividness. He could
picture the man's face as he lashed him with words of scorn for his timidity,
his softheartedness with witnesses who were concealing truth, evading what was
painful for them, regardless of the cost to others. He felt a sharp stab of
guilt for the way he had treated the man, who was not dilatory, nor was he a
coward, simply more sensitive to others' feelings and approaching the problem
with a different way of solving it. Perhaps his way was less efficient than
Monk's, but not necessarily of less moral worth. Monk could see that now with
the wisdom of hindsight, the clearer knowledge of himself. But at the time he
had felt nothing but contempt and he had made no effort to conceal it.

He could not remember what had
happened to the man, if he had remained on the force, discouraged and unhappy,
or if he had left. Please God, Monk had not ruined him.

But rack his brain as he might, he
found no clue to memory at all, no shred of the man's life that stayed with
him. And that probably meant that he had not cared one way or the other what
happened to him—which was an added ugly thought.

Work. He must pursue Rathbone's
problem and strive just as hard to prove Stanhope innocent as he had done to
prove him guilty. Perhaps a great deal more was needed, even for his own
satisfaction. The letters were proof of probability, certainly not proof
conclusive. But the only proof conclusive would be that it was impossible for
him to have done it, and since he had both means and opportunity, and certainly
motive, they could not look for that. The alternative was to prove that
someone else was guilty. That was the only way to acquit him without question.
Mere doubt might help him elude the hangman's rope, but not redeem his honor
or his reputation.

Was he innocent?

Far worse than letting a guilty man
go free was the sickening thought of the slow, deliberate condemnation and
death of an innocent one. That was a taste with which he was already familiar,
and he would give everything he knew, all he possessed, every moment of his
nights and days, rather than ever again contribute to that happening. That once
still haunted his worst dreams, the white hopeless face staring at him in the
middle of the night The fact that he had struggled to prevent it was
comfortless in its chill attempt at self-justification.