A sudden, fearful death (34 page)

"Restricting to your
temper," Edith finished for him.

"It is," Hester agreed,
still smiling. "I am only there temporarily. It was very civil of you not
to remind me that I am also fortunate to find a hospital which will take me
after my last experience. Lady Callandra Daviot is on the Board of Governors.
She obtained the position for me because their best nurse, another from the
Crimea, was murdered."

"Oh how terrible!"
Edith's face fell. "How did it happen?"

"We don't know," Hester
replied with a return to gravity. "Lady Callandra has called Monk into the
case, as well as the police, of course. And that is why I am there."

"Ah!" The major's eyes
lit with enthusiasm. "So you are engaged upon detection again." Then
he also became very grave. "Do be careful, my dear. Such an undertaking
may become dangerous if your intent is realized."

"You have no need for
concern," Hester assured him. "I am simply a nurse working like any
other." She smiled broadly. "Such dislike as I have collected is
because I served in the Crimea and am bossy and opinionated."

"And what was the dead nurse
like?" Edith inquired.

"Bossy and opinionated."
Hester gave a wry smile. "But truly, if that were a motive for murder
there would be few of us left."

"Have you any idea why she was
killed?" the major asked, leaning over the back of the chair in which
Edith was sitting.

"No—no we haven't. There are
several possibilities. Monk is looking into some of them. I should like to find
out more about a German doctor who is working there. I admit I like him and am
more eager to prove his innocence than his guilt. I wonder if ..." Then
she stopped. What she had been going to say sounded impertinent now.

"We could help you," the
major finished for her. "We should be delighted. Tell us his name, and
what you know about him, and we shall search for the rest. You may depend upon
us. Mayn't she, Edith?"

"Most certainly," Edith
said keenly. "I have become really quite good at discovering things—in a
literary sort of way, of course." She smiled ruefully, her individual face
with its curved nose and humorous mouth showing her perception of the
difference between research and detection as she thought Hester practiced it.
"But I imagine much will be known of him by hospitals where he has worked
before. I shallpursue it straightaway. There are medical authorities who have
lists of all sorts." She rearranged herself a little more comfortably.
"But tell us what else you have been doing. How are you? You do look rather
tired."

"I shall order tea," the
major said with decision. "You must be thirsty. It's terribly hot today,
and no doubt you walked at least some of the way. Would you like some cucumber
sandwiches? And perhaps tomato? I remember you were always fond of
tomato."

"I should love some."
Hester accepted with pleasure, for the refreshment itself, but even more for
the friendship and the simple warmth of the occasion. She looked up at the
major and smiled. "How thoughtful of you to remember."

He blushed very faintly and went
off about his errand, beaming with satisfaction.

"Tell me," Edith said
again, "everything that is fun and interesting and that you care about
since we last met."

Hester wriggled a little farther
down in her chair and began.

At about the same time that Hester
was enjoying her tea and cucumber sandwiches with Edith and the major,
Callandra was picking up a very elegant wafer-thin finger of bread and butter
at the garden party of Lady Stanhope. She was not fond of garden parties, still
less of the sort of people who usually attended them, but she had come because
she wanted to meet the daughter that Hester had told her Sir Herbert had spoken
of, the one maimed for life by the bungled abortion. Even thinking of it
chilled her so deeply she felt a little sick.

All around her were the sounds of
tinkling cups and glasses, murmured conversation, laughter, the swish and
rustle of skirts. Footmen moved discreetly among the guests with fresh bottles
of chilled champagne or tall glasses of iced lemonade. Maids in crisp lace
aprons and starched caps offered trays of sandwiches and tiny pastries or
cakes. A titled lady made a joke, and everyone around her laughed. Heads
turned.

It had not been easy to obtain an
invitation. She was not acquainted with Lady Stanhope, who was a quiet woman
better pleased to remain at home with her seven children than involve herself
in public affairs, and entered society only as much as was required of her to
maintain her husband's standing, and not to find herself remarked upon. This
garden party was a way of discharging a great many of her obligations in one
event, and she was not totally conversant with her guest list. Consequently
she had not seemed surprised to meet Callandra. Perhaps she supposed her to be
someone whose hospitality she had accepted without remembering, and whom she
had invited in order to cancel a debt.

Callandra had actually come in the
company of a mutual friend, upon whom she felt quite free to call for a favor
without any detail of explanation.

She'd had to dress far more
formally than she enjoyed. Her maid, a most comfortable and agreeable creature
who had worked for her for years, had always found hair difficult and
possessed little natural art with it. On the other hand, she was extremely
good-tempered, had excellent health, a pleasing sense of humor, and was
supremely loyal. Since Callandra seldom cared in the slightest what her hair
looked like, these virtues far outweighed her failings.

However, today it would have been
appreciated had she had skill with the comb and pin. Instead, Callandra looked
as if she had ridden to the event at a gallop, and every time she put her hand
up to tidy away a stray strand, she made it worse and (if such a thing were
possible) drew more attention to it.

She was dressed in a medium shade
of blue, trimmed with white. It was not especially fashionable, but it was most
becoming, and that, at her age, mattered far more.

She was not really sure what she
hoped to achieve. Even in the most fluent and companionable conversation with
Victoria Stanhope, should she contrive such a thing, she could hardly ask her
who had operated on her so tragically, nor what money he had taken from her for
the act—one could hardly call it a service.

She was standing at the edge of the
lawn, next to the herbaceous border, which was now filled with soaring delphiniums,
blazing peonies, rather overblown poppies, and some blue veronica and catmint
which smelled delicious. She felt miserable, out of place, and extremely
foolish. It was quite pointless to have come, and she was on the edge of
looking for some socially acceptable excuse to leave when she was engaged in
conversation by an elderly gentleman who was determined to explain to her his
theories on the propagation of pinks, and assure that she understood precisely
how to instruct her gardener in the matter of cuttings.

Three times she tried to persuade
him that her gardener was quite skilled in the art, but his enthusiasm overrode
all she could do, and it was a quarter of an hour later when she finally extricated
herself and found herself face to face with young Arthur Stanhope, Sir
Herbert's eldest son. He was a slender young man with a pale complexion and
smooth brown hair. He was about nineteen and very obviously doing his duty at
his mother's party. It would have been heartless to dismiss him. The only
decent thing was to answer all his polite questions and try to keep her mind
on the totally meaningless conversation.

She was saying yes and no at what
she hoped were appropriate junctures when she became aware of a girl of about
seventeen hovering a few yards away. She was very thin and seemed to stand
almost lopsidedly, as if she might walk with a limp. Her dress was a pretty
blush pink, and very well cut, but all the dressmaker's skill could not hide
the drawn look on her face nor the smudges of tiredness under her eyes.
Callandra had seen too many invalids not to recognize the signs of pain when
she saw them so clearly, or the attitude of one who finds standing tiring.

"Excuse me," she said,
interrupting Arthur without a thought.

"Eh?" He looked startled.
"Yes?"

"I think the young lady is
waiting for you." She indicated the girl in pink.

He turned around to follow her
gaze. A mixture of emotions filled his face—discomfort, defensiveness,
irritation, and tenderness.

"Oh—yes, Victoria, do come and
meet Lady Callandra Daviot."

Victoria hesitated; now that
attention was drawn to her, she was self-conscious.

Callandra knew what life lay ahead
for a girl who could not ever hope to marry. She would be permanently dependent
upon her father for financial support, and upon her mother for companionship
and affection. She would never have a home of her own, unless she were an only
child of wealthy parents, which Victoria was not. Arthur would naturally
inherit the estate, apart from a suitable dowry for his marriageable sisters.
His brothers would make their own way, having been given appropriate education
and a handsome start.

For Victoria, by far the most
consistently painful thing would be the pity, the well-meaning and desperately
cruel remarks, the unthinking questions, the young men who paid her court—until
they knew.

With an ache inside her that was
almost intolerable, Callandra smiled at the girl.

"How do you do, Miss
Stanhope," she said with all the charm she could muster, which was far
more than she realized.

"How do you do, Lady
Callandra," Victoria said with a hesitant smile in answer.

"What a delightful garden you
have," Callandra went on. Not only was she considerably the elder, and
therefore it was incumbent upon her to lead the conversation, it was quite
apparent that Victoria found it hard to accomplish what duty required, and did
not enjoy it. Social awkwardness was a pinprick compared with the mortal wound
that had already been dealt her, but at that moment Callandra would have spared
her even the thought of pain, much less its reality. "I see you have
several fine pinks as well. I love the perfume of them, don't you?" She
saw Victoria's answering smile. "A gentleman with an eyeglass was just explaining
to me how they are propagated to cross one strain with another."

"Oh yes—Colonel
Strother," Victoria said quickly, taking a step closer. "I'm afraid
he does tend to elaborate on the subject rather."

"Just a little,"
Callandra conceded. "Still, it is a pleasant enough thing to discuss, and
I daresay he meant it kindly."

"I had rather listen to
Colonel Strother on pinks than Mrs. Warburton on immorality in garrison
towns." Victoria smiled a little. "Or Mrs. Peabody on her health, or
Mrs. Kilbride on the state of the cotton industry in the plantations of
America, or Major Drissell on the Indian mutiny." Her enthusiasm grew with
a sense of ease with Callandra. "We get the massacre at Amritsar every
time he calls. I have even had it served up with fish at dinner, and again with
the sorbet."

"Some people have very little
sense of proportion," Callandra agreed with answering candor. "On
their favorite subject, they tend to bolt like a horse with a bit between its
teeth."

Victoria laughed; it seemed the
analogy amused her.

"Excuse me." A
nice-looking young man of perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two came up
apologetically, a small lace handkerchief in his hand. He looked at Victoria,
almost ignoring Callandra and apparently not having seen Arthur at all. He held
up the scrap of lawn and lace. "I think you may have dropped this, ma'am.
Excuse my familiarity in returning it." He smiled. "But it gives me
the opportunity of presenting myself. My name is Robert Oliver."

Victoria's cheeks paled, then
flushed deep red. A dozen emotions chased themselves across her face: pleasure,
a wild hope, and then the bitterness of memory and realization.

"Thank you," she said in
a small tight voice. "But I regret, it is not mine. It must belong to
some other—some other lady."

He stared at her, searching her
eyes to see whether it was really the dismissal it sounded.

Callandra longed to intervene, but
she knew she would only be prolonging the pain. Robert Oliver had been drawn to
something in Victoria's face, an intelligence, an imagination, a
vulnerability. Perhaps he even glimpsed what she would have been. He could not
know the wound to the body which meant she could never give him what he would
so naturally seek.

Without willing it, Callandra found
herself speaking.

"How considerate of you, Mr.
Oliver. I am sure Miss Stanhope is obliged, but so will be the handkerchief's
true owner, I have no doubt" She was also quite convinced that Robert
Oliver had no intention of seeking anyone further. He had found the scrap of
fabric and used it as an excuse, a gracious and simple one. It had no further
purpose.

He looked at her fully for the
first time, trying to judge who she was and how much her view mattered. He
caught something of the grief in her, and knew it was real, although of course
he could not know the cause of it. His thin, earnest young face was full of
confusion.