A sudden, fearful death (31 page)

"Interesting, isn't it?"
Jeavis said dryly, and Monk knew his thoughts were precisely the same.
"Looks unpleasantly like the good Dr. Beck, don't you think?"

"Or the treasurer," Monk
agreed. "Or someone who acted on the spur of the moment, right here, and
so swiftly and with such surprise she had no time to cry out."

Jeavis pulled a face and smiled.

"Seems to me like a woman who
would have fought," he said with a little shake of his head. "Tall,
too. Not weakly, by all accounts. Mind, some of the other nurses are built like
cart horses." He looked at Monk with bland, challenging amusement.
"Seems she had a tongue as sharp as one o' the surgeon's knives and didn't
spare them if she thought they slacked in their duty. A very different sort of
woman, Nurse Barrymore." Then he added under his breath, "Thank
God."

"But good enough at her job to
be justified in her comments," Monk said thoughtfully. "Or they'd
have got rid of her, don't you think?" He avoided looking at Evan.

"Oh yes," Jeavis agreed
without hesitation. "She seems to have been that, all right. Don't think
anyone would have put up with her otherwise. At least, not those that disliked
her And to be fair, that wasn't everyone. Seems she was something of a heroine
to some. And Sir Herbert speaks well enough of her."

A nurse with a pile of clean sheets
approached and they moved aside for her.

"What about Beck?" Monk
asked when she had gone.

"Oh, him too. But then, if he
killed her, he's hardly going to tell us that he couldn't abide her, is
he?"

"What do other people
say?"

"Well now, Mr. Monk, I
wouldn't want to rob you of your livelihood by doing your work for you, now
would I?" Jeavis said, looking Monk straight in the eyes. "If I did
that, how could you go to Lady Callandra and expect to be paid?" And with
a smile he glanced meaningfully at Evan and walked away down the corridor.

Evan looked at Monk and shrugged,
then followed dutifully. Jeavis had already stopped a dozen yards away and was
waiting for him.

Monk had little else to do here. He
had no authority to question anyone, and he resisted the temptation to find
Hester. Any unnecessary association with him might lessen her ability to
question people without arousing suspicion and destroy her usefulness.

He had the geography of the place
firmly in his mind. There was nothing more to learn standing here.

He was on his way out again,
irritated and short-tempered, when he saw Callandra crossing the foyer. She
looked tired and her hair was even more unruly than usual. The characteristic
humor had left her face and there was an air of anxiety about her quite out of
her customary spirit.

She was almost up to Monk before
she looked at him dearly enough to recognize him, then her expression changed,
but he could see the deliberate effort it cost her.

Was it simply the death of a nurse,
one as outstanding as Prudence Barrymore, which grieved her so deeply? Was it
the haste with which it had followed on the heels of the tragedy of Julia
Penrose and her sister? Again he had that appallingly helpless feeling of
caring for someone, admiring her and being truly grateful, and totally unable
to help her pain. It was like the past all over again, his mentor who had
helped him on his first arrival in London, and the tragedy that had struck him
down and begun Monk's career in the police. And now, as then, he could do
nothing. It was another emotion from the past crowding the present and tearing
at him with all its old power.

"Hello William."
Callandra greeted him politely enough, but there was no pleasure in her voice,
no lift at all. "Are you looking for me?" There was a flicker of
anxiety as she said it, as if she feared his answer.

He longed to be able to comfort
her, but he knew without words that whatever distressed her so deeply was private
and she would speak of it without prompting if ever she wished him to know. The
kindest thing he could do now would be to pretend he had not noticed.

"Actually I was hoping to see
Evan alone," he said ruefully. "But I ran into Jeavis straightaway.
I'm on my way out now. I wish I knew more about Prudence Barrymore. Many people
have told me their views of her, and yet I feel I am still missing something
essential. Hester remembers her, you know...."

Callandra's face tightened, but she
said nothing.

A student doctor strode past,
looking harassed.

"And I went to see Miss
Nightingale. She spoke of Prudence very highly. And of Hester too."

Callandra smiled a trifle wanly.

"Did you learn anything
new?"

"Nothing that throws any light
on why she might have been killed. It seems she was an excellent nurse, even
brilliant Her father did not exaggerate her abilities, or her dedication to
medicine. But I wonder—" He stopped abruptly. Perhaps his thought was
unfair and would hurt Callandra unnecessarily.

"You wonder what?" She
could not leave it. Her face darkened, and the tiredness and the concern were
there.

He had no idea what she feared, so
he could not choose to avoid it.

"I wonder if her knowledge was
as great as she thought it was. She might have misunderstood something,
misjudged—"

Callandra's eyes cleared. "It
is a possibility," she said slowly. "Although I cannot yet see how it
could lead to murder. But pursue it, William. It seems to be all we have at
present Please keep me informed if you learn anything."

They nodded briefly to the chaplain
as he passed, muttering to himself.

"Of course," Monk agreed.
And after bidding her goodbye he went out through the foyer into the wet
streets. It had stopped raining, and the footpath and the roadway were
glistening in the brightness of the sun. The air was filled with myriad smells,
most of them warm, heavy, and not very pleasant: horse droppings, overflowing
drains unable to take the downpour. Rubbish swirled along the gutters in the
torrent. Horses clattered by, flanks steaming, vehicle wheels sending up
showers of water.

Where could he find out Prudence's
real ability? No one in the hospital would give him an unbiased opinion, nor
would her family, and certainly not Geoffrey Taunton. He had already learned
all he could expect to from Florence Nightingale. There was no recognized body
that passed judgment on the abilities of nurses, no school or college of
training.

He might find an army surgeon who
had known her, for whatever his opinion would be worth on the subject. They
must have been hurried, always tired, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the
sick and injured. How much would they remember of any individual nurse and her
medical knowledge? Had there even been time for anything beyond the most hasty
treatment, little more than amputation, cauterization of the stump, stitching,
splinting, and prayer?

He was walking along the
fast-drying pavement, ignoring the passersby and going generally southward
without any destination in mind.

Had she thought to improve her
knowledge since leaving the Crimea? How would she have gone about it? No medical
school accepted women. The idea was unthinkable. What private study was there?
What might she learn without a teacher?

Some hazy memory of his own youth
intruded into his mind. When he had first come down to London from
Northumberland, desperate to better himself, absorb every piece of knowledge he
could, and arm himself against a busy, impatient, and suspicious world, he had
gone to the reading room of the British Museum.

Hastily he turned on his heel and
walked back the twenty yards to Guildford Street and increased his pace past
the Foundling Hospital toward Russell Square, then Montague Street and the
British Museum. Once inside he went straight to the reading room. Here she
would find all manner of books and papers if she were really as thirsty for
learning as her father had said.

He approached the attendant with a
sense of excitement that was wildly out of proportion to the importance of his
quest.

"Excuse me, sir, may I
interrupt you for a little of your time?"

"Good afternoon, sir. Of
course you may," the man replied with a civil smile. He was small and
very dark. "How may I be of service to you? If there is something you wish
to find ..." His eye roamed in unconcealed awe around the vast expanse of
books both visible and invisible. All the world's knowledge was here, and the
miracle of it still amazed him. Monk could see it in his eyes.

"I am inquiring on behalf of
the friends and family of a young lady whom I believe used to study here,"
Monk began, more or less truthfully.

"Oh dear." The man's face
darkened. "Oh dear. You speak, sir, as if she were deceased."

"I am afraid she is. But as so
often happens, those who mourn her wish to know anything they can of her. It is
all there is left."

"Of course. Yes, of
course." The man nodded several times. "Yes, I do understand. But
people do not always leave their names, you know, particularly if it is
newspapers and periodicals that they come to read. Or the sort of thing young
ladies usually seek—I'm afraid."

"This young lady was tall, of
a determined and intelligent manner, and would in all likelihood be plainly
dressed, perhaps in blue or gray, and with few, if any, hoops in her
skirts."

"Ah." The man's face
lightened. "I think I may know the young lady you mean. Would she by any
chance have been interested in medical books and papers? A most remarkable
person, most serious-minded. Always very pleasant, she was, except to those who
interrupted her unnecessarily and made light of her intention." He nodded
quickly. "I do recall her being very brisk indeed with a young gentleman
who was rather persistent in his attentions, shall we say?"

"That would be she." Monk
felt a sudden elation. "She studied medical texts, you say?"

"Oh indeed yes; most diligent,
she was. A very serious person." He looked up at Monk. "A trifle
daunting, if you know what I mean, that a young lady should be so intent. I
assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that someone in her family suffered a disease and
she thought to learn as much of it as possible." His face fell. "Now
it seems I was wrong and it was she herself. I am most deeply sorry. For all
her solemnity, I rather took to her." He said it with a slight air of
apology, as if it needed some explaining. "There was something in her
that ... oh well. I am very sorry to know it. How may I help you, sir? I have
no recollection of what she read now, I am afraid. But perhaps I can look. It
was very general ..."

"No—no, that is not necessary,
thank you," Monk declined. He had what he wished. "You have been most
generous. Thank you, sir, for your time and your courtesy. Good day to
you."

"Good day, Mr. er—good day,
sir."

And Monk left with more knowledge
than when he went in but no wiser, and with a feeling of success which had no
basis at all in fact.

* * * * *

Hester also observed Callandra, but
with a woman's eye and a far greater and more subtle sensitivity as to the
cause of her distress. Only something deeply personal could trouble her so
much. She could not be afraid for herself, surely? Jeavis would not suspect her
of having murdered Prudence; she had no possible reason. And Monk had made no
secret that it was Callandra who had hired him to investigate further.

Could it be that she knew, or
thought she knew, who the murderer was, and feared for her own safety? It
seemed unlikely. If she knew something, surely she would have told Monk
immediately and taken steps to guard herself.

Hester was still turning over
unsatisfactory possibilities in her mind when she was sent for to assist
Kristian Beck. Mr. Prendergast was recovering well and no longer required her
presence through the night. She was tired from too little sleep, the
uncertainty of not being able to rest until she woke naturally.

Kristian Beck said nothing, but she
knew from the occasional expression in his eyes that he was aware how weary
she was, and he merely smiled at her occasional hesitations. He did not even
criticize her when she dropped an instrument and had to reach down and pick it
up, wipe it clean and then pass it to him.

When they were finished she was
embarrassed at her ineptitude and eager to leave, but she could not forsake
the opportunity to observe him further. He also was tired, and he was far too
intelligent to be unaware of Jeavis's suspicions of him. It is at such times
that people betray themselves: feelings are too raw to hide and there is no
strength for the extra guard upon thought.

"I do not hold a great deal of
hope for him," Kristian said to her quietly, regarding the patient
"But we have done all we can."

"Do you wish me to sit up with
himT' she asked out of duty. She was dreading his reply.

But she need not have been worried.
He smiled—a brief, illuminating, and gentle gesture. "No. No, Mrs.
Flaherty will assign someone. You should sleep."

"But—"

"You must learn to let go,
Miss Latterly." He shook his head very slightly. "If you do not, you
will exhaust yourself—and then whom can you help? Surely the Crimea taught you
that the first rule of caring for others is that you must maintain your own
strength, and that if you come to the limit of your own resources your judgment
will be affected." His eyes did not leave her face. "And the sick deserve
the best you can give. Neither skill nor compassion are enough; you must also
have wisdom."