A sudden, fearful death (35 page)

Callandra felt a scalding hot anger
well up in her. She hated the abortionist who had done this. It was a vile
thing to make money out of other people's fear and distress. For an honest
operation to go wrong was a common enough tragedy. This was not honest. God
knew if the practitioner was even a doctor, let alone a surgeon.

Please—please God it had not been
Kristian. The thought was so dreadful it was like a blow to the stomach,
driving the breath out of her.

Did she want to know, if it had
been? Would she not rather cling to what she had, the gentleness, the laughter,
even the pain of not being able to touch, of knowing she never could have more
than this? But could she live with not knowing? Would not the sick, crawling
fear inside her mar everything, guilty or not?

Robert Oliver was still staring at
her.

She forced herself to smile at him,
although she felt it was a hideous travesty of pleasure.

"Miss Stanhope and I were just
about to take a little refreshment, and she was to show me some flowers her
gardener has propagated. I am sure you will excuse us?" Gently she took
Victoria by the arm, and after only a moment's hesitation, Victoria came with
her, her face pale, her lip trembling. They walked in silence, close to each
other. Victoria never asked why Callandra had done such a thing, or what she
knew.

* * * * *

A memorial service was held for
Prudence Barrymore in the village church at Hanwell, and Monk attended. He went
as part of his duty to Callandra, but also because he felt a growing respect
for the dead woman, and a profound sense of loss that someone so alive and so
valuable should have gone. To attend a formal recognition of that loss was some
way of, if not filling the void, at least bridging it.

It was a quiet service but the
church was crowded with people. It seemed many had come from London to show
their respect and offer their condolences to the family. Monk saw at least a
score who must have been soldiers, some of them only too obviously amputees,
leaning on crutches or with empty sleeves hanging by their sides. Many others
had faces which should have looked young but showed signs of premature strain
and indelible memory, whom he took also to be soldiers.

Mrs. Barrymore was dressed entirely
in black, but her fair face glowed with a kind of energy as she supervised affairs,
greeted people, accepted condolences from strangers with a kind of amiable
confusion. It obviously amazed her that so many people should have held a deep
and personal regard for the daughter she had always found such a trial, and
ultimately a disappointment.

Her husband looked much closer to
the edge of emotion he could not contain, but there was an immense dignity
about him. He stood almost silently, merely nodding his head as people filed
past him and spoke of their sorrow, their admiration, their debt to his
daughter's courage and dedication. He was so proud of her that his head was
high and his back ramrod straight, as if for this day at least he too were a
soldier. But his grief was more than would allow his voice to come unchoked,
and he did not embarrass himself by trying more than a few words as courtesy
made it completely unavoidable.

There were flowers in tribute,
wreaths and garlands of summer blossoms. Monk had brought one himself—fullblown
summer roses—and laid it among the rest. He saw one of wildflowers, small and
discreet among the others, and he thought of the flowers of the battlefield. He
looked at the card. It said simply, 'To my comrade, with love, Hester."

For a moment he felt a ridiculous
surge of emotion that forced him to raise his head away from the bouquets and sniff
hard, blinking his eyes. He walked away, but not before he had noticed another
wreath, of plain white daisies, and the card, "Rest in the Lord, Florence
Nightingale."

Monk stood apart from the crowd,
not wishing to be spoken to by anyone. He was not doing his duty. He was here
to
observe and not to mourn, and yet the emotion welled up inside him and
would not be denied. It was not curiosity he felt, and just at that moment not
anger; it was grief. The slow sad music of the organ, the ancient stone of the
church arching over the small figures of the people, all in black, heads bared,
spoke of unrelieved loss.

He saw Callandra, quiet and
discreet, here for herself, not for the Board of Governors. Probably one of the
solemn dignitaries at the far side of the aisle was serving that function.
There had been a wreath from Sir Herbert and one from the hospital in general,
white lilies soberly arranged and some suitable inscription.

After the service chance brought
him inevitably to Mr. Barrymore, and it would have been ostentatiously rude to
have avoided him. He could not bear to say anything trite. He met Barrymore's
eyes and smiled very slightly.

"Thank you for coming, Mr.
Monk," Barrymore said with sincerity. "That was generous of you,
since you never knew Prudence."

"I know a great deal about
her," Monk replied. "And everything I have learned makes me feel the
loss more deeply. I came because I wished to."

Barrymore's smile widened, but his
eyes suddenly filled with tears and he was obliged to remain silent for a moment
until he mastered himself.

Monk felt no embarrassment. The
man's grief was genuine, and nothing which should shame or trouble the
onlooker. Monk held out his hand. Barrymore took it firmly and clasped it in a
hard warm grip, then let go.

It was only then that Monk noticed
the young woman standing half behind him and a little to his left. She was of
average height with a finely chiseled, intelligent face, which in different
circumstances would have been filled with humor and made charming by vivacity.
Even as somber as this, the lines of her normal character were plain. The resemblance
to Mrs. Barrymore was marked. She must be Faith Barker, Prudence's sister.
Since Barrymore had said she lived in Yorkshire and was presumably down only
for the service, he would have no other opportunity to speak with her. However
unsuitable or insensitive it seemed, he must force the issue now.

"Mrs. Barker?" he
inquired.

Her expression sharpened with
interest immediately. She regarded him up and down in an unusually candid
manner.

"Are you Mr. Monk?" she
inquired with a courtesy which robbed it of the bluntness it would otherwise
have had. Her face was remarkably pleasing, now that she had temporarily cast
aside the complete solemnity of mourning. He could see in her the girl who
danced and flirted that her mother had described.

"Yes," he acknowledged,
wondering what had been said of him to her.

Her look was confidential, and she
placed a black-gloved hand on his arm.

"May we speak alone for a few
moments? I realize I am taking up your time, but I should appreciate it more
than you can know."

"Of course," he said
quickly. "If you don't mind coming back toward the house?"

"Thank you so much." She
took his arm and they went together through the mourners out of the shadow of
the church and into the sunlight, picking their way between the gravestones
into a quiet corner in the long grass close to the wall.

She stopped and faced him.

"Papa said you were inquiring
into Prudence's death, independently from the police. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"But you will take to the
police anything you find which may be of importance, and force them to act upon
it?"

"Do you know something Mrs.
Barker?"

"Yes—yes I do..Prudence wrote
to me every two or three days, regardless of how busy she was. They were not
merely letters, they were more in the nature of diaries, and notes upon the
cases she worked on that she felt to be interesting or medically
instructive." She was watching his face keenly. "I have them all
here—at least all those from the last three months. I think that will be sufficient."

"Sufficient for what,
ma'am?" He could feel excitement bubbling up inside him, but he dared not
be precipitate, in case it should prove to be an ill-founded suspicion, a
matter of guesses rather than fact, a sister's natural desire for revenge—or as
she would see it, justice.

'To hang him," she said
unequivocally. Suddenly the charm fled from her eyes and left them bleak,
angry, and full of grief.

He held out his hand. "I
cannot say until I have read them. But if they are, I give you my word I shall
not rest until it is done."

"That is what I thought."
A smile flashed across her mouth and vanished. "You have a ruthless face,
Mr. Monk. I should not care to have you pursuing me." She fished in an
unusually large black reticule and brought out a bundle of envelopes.
"Here." She offered them to him. "I hoped you would come to the
service. Please take these and do what you must. Perhaps one day I may have
them back— after they have served their purpose in evidence?"

"If it lies within my
power," he promised.

"Good. Now I must return to my
father and be what comfort I can to him. Remember, you have given me your word!
Good day, Mr. Monk." And without adding anything further, she walked away,
very upright, head held stiff and straight, until she mingled with a group of
soldiers, some one-armed or one-legged, who parted awkwardly to allow her
through.

* * * * *

He did not open the letters to read
until he reached his home and could do so in comfort and without haste.

The first had been written some
three months earlier, as Faith Barker had said. The handwriting was small,
ugtidy, and obviously written at speed, but there was nothing cramped or mean
about it, and it was easily legible.

Dear Faith,

Another long and
most interesting case today. A woman came in with a tumor of the breast. The
poor creature had been in pain for some considerable time, but too frightened
to consult anyone in the matter. Sir Herbert examined her, and told her it
must be removed as soon as possible, and he would do it himself. He reassured
her until she was almost without anxiety, and she was duly admitted to the
hospital.

Then followed a detailed and highly
technical description of the operation itself, and Sir Herbert's brilliance in
its performance.

Afterwards I had a hasty meal with Sir Herbert (we
had been working long without a break or refreshment of any sort). He explained
to me many ideas of his on further procedure which could cut down the shock to
the patient in such operations. I think his ideas are quite excellent, and
would love to see him obtain the position where he has the opportunity to
exercise them. He is one of the great ornaments to both the study and the
practice of medicine. I sometimes think his hands are the most beautiful part
of any human being I have ever seen. Some speak of hands in prayer as
exquisite. I think hands in healing can never be superseded by anything.

I went to bed so
tired! And yet so very happy!

Your loving
sister.

Monk set it aside. It was personal,
perhaps mildly suggestive—certainly far from accusing, let alone damning.

He read the next one, and the next.
They were essentially similar, a great deal of medical comment and detail, and
again the reference to Sir Herbert and his skill.

It was ridiculous to feel so
disappointed. What had he expected?

He read three more, his attention
increasingly waning.

Then quite suddenly he found his
heart beating and his fingers stiff as he held the paper.

I spoke for over an hour with Sir Herbert last night. We
did not finish until nearly midnight, and both of us were too overwrought by
events to retire immediately. I have never admired a man's skills more, and I
told him so. He was very gentle and warm toward me. Faith, I really believe
true happiness is possible for me, in a way I only dreamed as a girl. I am on
the brink of all I have wanted for so long. And Herbert is the one who can
bring it about for me.

I went to bed so
happy—and excited. I hope—I dream—I even pray! And it all lies with Herbert.
God be with him.

Prudence.

Frantically Monk leafed through
more letters, and found other passages in the same vein, full of hope and
excitement, full of reference to happiness in the future, dreams coming true,
in among the medical details and case histories.

He has it in his
power to make me the happiest woman in the world. I know it sounds absurd,
impossible, and I do understand what you tell me, all the cautions and
warnings, and that you have only my happiness
^J
n mind. But if it all
comes true ... And he could make it happen, Faith—he could! It is not
impossible after all. I have searched and thought, but I know of no law which
cannot be fought or circumvented. Pray for me, my dear sister. Pray for me!

And then the tone changed, quite
suddenly, only a week before her death.