A Sudden Fearful Death

chapter 4
Monk began his investigation not in the hospital- where he knew they would still be highly suspicious and defensive, and he might even jeopardize Hester's opportunities-but by taking the train on the Great Western line to Hanwell, where Prudence Barrymore's family lived. It was a bright day with a gentle breeze, and it would have been a delightful walk from the station through the fields into the village and along Green Lane toward the point where the river Brent met the Grand Junction Canal, had he not been going to see people whose daughter had just been strangled to death.

The Barrymore house was the last on the right, with the water rushing around the very end of the garden. At first, in the sunlight, with the windowpanes reflecting the image of the climbing roses and the air full of birdsong and the sound of the river, it was easy to overlook the drawn blinds and the unnatural stillness of the house. It was only when he was actually at the door, seeing the black crepe on the knocker, that the presence of death was intrusive.

"Yes sir?" a red-eyed maid said somberly.

Monk had had several hours to think of what he would say, how to introduce himself so they would not find him prying and meddlesome in a tragedy that was none of his business. He had no official standing now, which still stung him. It would be foolish to resent Jeavis, but his dislike of Runcorn was seated deep in the past, and even though he still remembered only patches of it, their mutual antagonism was one thing of which he had no doubt. It was in everything Runcorn said, in his gestures, in the very bearing of his body, and Monk felt it in himself as instinctive as flinching when something passed too close to his face.

"Good morning," he said respectfully, offering her his card. "My name is William Monk. Lady Callandra Daviot, a governor of the Royal Free Hospital -and a friend of Miss Barrymore's, asked me if I would call on Mr. and Mrs. Barrymore, to see if I could be of assistance. Would you ask them if they would be kind enough to spare me a little time? I realize the moment is inopportune, but mere are matters which unfortunately will not wait."

"Oh-well." She looked doubtful. 'Til ask, sir, but I can't say as I think they will. We just had a bereavement in the family, as I suppose you know, from what you say."

"If you would?" Monk smiled slightly.

The maid looked a trifle confused, but she acceded to his request, leaving him in the hallway while she went to inform her mistress of his presence. Presumably the house did not boast a morning room or other unoccupied reception room where unexpected callers might wait.

He looked around curiously as he always did. One could learn much from the observation of people's homes, not merely their financial situations but their tastes, a guess at their educations, whether they had traveled or not, sometimes even their beliefs and prejudices and what they wished others to think of them. In the case of family homes of more than one generation, one could also learn something of parents, and thus of upbringing.

The Barrymores' hallway did not offer a great deal. The house was quite large, but of a cottage style, low-windowed, low-ceilinged, with oak beams across. It had apparently been designed for the comfort of a large family, rather than to entertain guests or to impress. The hall was wooden-floored, pleasant; two or three chintz-covered chairs sat against the walls, but there were no bookcases, no portraits or samplers from which to judge the taste of the occupants, and the single hat stand was not of particular character and boasted no walking stick, and only one rather well worn umbrella.

The maid returned, still looking very subdued.

"If you will come this way, sir, Mr. Barrymore will see you in the study."

Obediently he followed her across the hall and down a narrow passage toward the rear of the house, where a surprisingly pleasant room opened onto the back garden. Through French doors he saw a closely clipped lawn shaded at the end by willows leaning over the water. There were few flowers, but instead delicate shrubs with a wonderful variety of foliage.

Mr. Barrymore was a tall, lean man with a mobile face full of imagination. Monk could see that the man in front of him had lost not only a child, but some part of himself. Monk felt guilty for intruding. What did law, or even justice, matter in the face of this grief? No solution, no due process or punishment, would bring her back or alter what had happened. What on earth use was revenge?

"Good morning, sir," Barrymore said soberly. The marks of distress were plain in his face, and he did not apologize for them or make useless attempts at disguise. He looked at Monk uncertainly. "My maid said you had called with regard to our daughter's death. She did not mention the police, but do I assume that that is who you are? She mentioned a Lady Daviot, but that must have been a misunderstanding. We know no one of that name."

Monk wished he had some art or gift to soften what must be said, but he knew of none. Perhaps simple truth was the best. Prevarication would lengthen it to no purpose.

"No, Mr. Barrymore, I used to be in the police, but I left the force. Now I work privately." He loathed saying that. It sounded grubby, as if he chased sneak thieves and errant wives. "Lady Callandra Daviot"-that sounded better-"is a member of the Board of Governors of the hospital, and had a deep regard for Miss Barrymore. She is concerned in case the police do not learn all the facts of the case, or do not pursue it thoroughly, should it lead to troubling any authorities or persons of consequence. Therefore she asked me, as a personal favor to her, if I would pursue the matter myself."

A wan smile flickered over Barrymore's face and vanished again.

"Does it not concern you to disturb important people, Mr. Monk? I would have thought you more vulnerable to disfavor than the police. One assumes they have the force of government to back them."

"That rather depends on who the important people are," Monk pointed out.

Barrymore frowned. They were still standing in the middle of the charming room with the garden beyond. It did not seem an occasion to sit.

"Surely you cannot suspect anyone of that nature to be involved in Prudence's death." Barrymore said the last word as if he still found it difficult to grasp, and none of the first agonizing pain had yet dulled.

"I have no idea," Monk replied. "But it is very usual for a murder investigation to uncover a great many other events and relationships which people would prefer to have kept secret. Sometimes they will go to considerable lengths to see that they remain so, even if it means concealing the real crime."

"And you imagine you will be able to learn something that the police will not?" Barrymore asked. He was still courteous but his disbelief was undeniable.

"I don't know, but I shall try. I have in the past succeeded where they have failed."

"Have you?" It was not a challenge, not even a question, merely a noting of fact. "What can we tell you? I know nothing of the hospital at all." He stared out of the window at the sunlight on the leaves. "Indeed, I know very little of the practice of medicine. I am a collector of rare butterflies, myself. Something of an authority on the subject." He smiled sadly, looking back at Monk. "It all seems rather pointless now, doesn't it?"

"No," Monk said quietly. 'The study of what is beautiful can never be wasted, especially if you are seeking to understand and preserve it."

"Thank you," Barrymore said with a flash of gratitude. It was a minor thing, but at such times of numb tragedy the mind remembers the smallest kindness and clings to it amid the confusion and despair of events. Barrymore looked up at Monk and suddenly realized they were both standing and he had offered no hospitality of any sort. "Please sit down, Mr. Monk," he asked, sitting himself. "And tell me what I can do that will help. I really don't understand..."

"You could tell me something about her."

Barrymore blinked. "How can that help? Surely it was some madman? What sane person would do that to..." He was obliged to struggle to retain command of himself.

"That may be so," Monk interposed, to save Barrymore embarrassment. "But it is also possible that it was someone she knew. Even madmen have to have some sort of reason, unless they are simply lunatics, and there is no reason so far to suppose that there was a lunatic loose in the hospital. It is a place for the treatment of illnesses of the body, not of the mind. But of course, the police will make extensive inquiries to see if there were any strangers observed at all. You may be quite sure of that."

Banymore was still confused. He looked at Monk without comprehension.

"What do you want to know about Prudence? I cannot conceive of any reason at all why anyone who knew her would wish her harm."

"I heard she served in the Crimea?"

Unconsciously Barrymore straightened his shoulders. "Yes, indeed she did." There was pride in his voice. "She was one of the first to go out there. I remember the day she left home. She looked so terribly young." His eyes looked far beyond Monk into some place in his own inner vision.

"Only the young are so very confident. They have no idea what the world may bring them." He smiled with intense sadness. "They don't imagine that failure or death may come to them. It will always be someone else. That is immortality, isn't it? The belief."

Monk did not interrupt.

"She took one tin trunk," Barrymore went on. "Just a few plain blue gowns, clean linen, a second pair of boots, her Bible and journal, and her books on medicine. She wanted to be a doctor, you see. Impossible, I understand that, but it didn't stop her wanting it. She knew a great deal." For the first time he looked directly at Monk. "She was very clever, you know, very diligent. Studying came naturally to her. Nothing like her sister, Faith. She is quite different. They loved one another. After Faith was married and moved north, they wrote to each other at least once a week." His voice was thick with emotion. "She's going to be..."

"How were they different?" Monk asked, interrupting him for his own sake.

"How?" He was still gazing into the park, and the memories of happiness. "Oh, Faith was always laughing. She loved to dance. She cared about things, but she was such a flirt, then, so pretty. She found it easy to make people like her." He was smiling. "There were a dozen young men who were longing to court her. She chose Joseph Barker. He seemed so ordinary, a little shy. He even stuttered now and again when he was nervous." He shook his head a little as if it still surprised him. "He couldn't dance, and Faith loved to dance. But she had more sense than her mother or I. Joseph has made her very happy."

"And Prudence?" Monk prompted.

The light died out of his face.

"Prudence? She did not want to marry, she only cared about medicine and service. She wanted to heal people and to change things." He sighed. "And always to know more! Of course her mother wanted her to marry, but she turned away all suitors, and there were several. She was a lovely girl..." Again he stopped for a moment, his feelings too powerful to hide.

Monk waited..Barrymore needed time to recover control and master the outward show of his pain. Somewhere beyond the garden a dog barked, and from the other direction came the sound of children laughing.

"I'm sorry," Barrymore said after a few moments. "I loved her very much. One should not have favorite children, but Prudence was so easy for me to understand. We shared so many things-ideas-dreams..." He stopped, again his voice thick with tears.

"Thank you for sparing me your time, sir." Monk rose to his feet. The interview was unbearable, and he had learned all he could. "I will see what I can find from the hospital, and perhaps any other friends you think she may have spoken to lately and who may have some knowledge."

Barrymore recalled himself. "I have no idea how they could help, but if there is anything..."

"I would like to speak to Mrs. Barrymore, if she is well enough."

"Mrs. Barrymore?" He seemed surprised.

"She may know something of her daughter, some confidence perhaps, which might seem trivial but could lead us to something of importance."

"Oh-yes, I suppose so. I will ask her if she feels well enough." He shook his head very slightly. "I am amazed at her strength. She has borne this, I think, better than I." And with that observation, he excused himself and went to seek his wife.

He returned a few moments later and conducted Monk to another comfortable well-furnished room with flowered sofas and chairs, embroidered samplers on the walls, and many small ornaments of various types. A bookcase was filled with books, obviously chosen for their contents, not their appearance, and a basket of silks lay open next to a tapestry on a frame.

Mrs. Barrymore was far smaller than her husband, a neat little woman in a huge skirt, her fair hair graying only slightly, pulled back under a lace cap. Of course today she was wearing black, and her pretty, delicately boned face showed signs that she had wept very recently. But she was perfectly composed now and greeted Monk graciously. She did not rise, but extended to him a beautiful hand, partially covered by a fingerless lace mitten.

"How do you do, Mr. Monk? My husband tells me you are a friend of Lady Callandra Daviot, who was a patron of poor Prudence's. It is most kind of you to take an interest in our tragedy."

Monk silently admired Barrymore's diplomacy. He had not thought of such an elegant way of explaining it.

"Many people are moved by her loss, ma'am," he said aloud, brushing her fingertips with his lips. If Barrymore chose to present him as a gentleman, he would play the part; indeed, he would find acute satisfaction in it. Even though undoubtedly it was done for Mrs. Barrymore's benefit, to spare her the feeling that her life was being pried into by lesser people.

"It is truly terrible," she agreed, blinking several times. Silently she indicated where he might be seated, and he accepted. Mr. Barrymore remained standing beside his wife's chair, a curiously remote and yet protective attitude. "Although perhaps we should not be taken totally by surprise. That would be naive, would it not?" She looked at him with startlingly clear blue eyes.

Monk was confused. He hesitated, not wanting to preempt her by saying the wrong thing.

"Such a willful girl," Mrs. Barrymore went on, pinching in her mouth a little. "Charming and lovely to look at, but so set in her ways." She stared beyond Monk toward the window. "Do you have daughters, Mr. Monk?"

"No ma'am."

"Then my advice would be of little use to you, except of course that you may one day." She turned back to him, her lips touched by the ghost of a smile. "Believe me, a pretty girl can be an anxiety, a beauty even more so, even if she is aware of it, which does guard against certain dangers  -  and increases others." Her mouth tightened. "But an intellectual girl is immeasurably worse. A modest girl, comely but not ravishing, and with enough wit to know how to please but no ambitions toward learning, that is the best of all possible worlds." She looked at him carefully to make sure he understood. "One can always teach a child to be obedient, to learn the domestic arts and to have good manners."

Mr. Barrymore coughed uncomfortably, shifting his weight to the other foot.

"Oh, I know what you are thinking, Robert," Mrs. Barrymore said as if he had spoken. "A girl cannot help having a fine mind. All I am saying is that she would have been so much happier if she had contented herself with using it in a suitable way, reading books, writing poetry if she so wished, and having conversations with friends." She was still perched on the edge of her chair, her skirts billowed around her. "And if she desired to encourage others, and had a gift for it," she continued earnestly, "then there is endless charitable work to be done. Goodness knows, I have spent hours and hours upon such things myself. I cannot count the numbers of committees upon which I have served." She counted them off on her small mittened fingers. "To feed the poor, to find suitable accommodation for girls who have fallen from virtue and cannot be placed in domestic service anymore, and all manner of other good causes." Her voice sharpened in exasperation. "But Prudence would have none of that She would pursue medicine! She read all sorts of books with pictures in them, things no decent woman should know!" Her face twisted with distaste and embarrassment. "Of course I tried to reason with her, but she was obdurate."

Mr. Barrymore leaned forward, frowning. "My dear, there is no use in trying to make a person different from the way she is. It was not in Prudence's nature to abandon her learning." He said it gently, but there was a note of weariness in his voice as if he had said the same thing many times before and, as now, it had fallen on deaf ears.

Her neck stiffened and her pointed chin set in determination.

"People have to learn to recognize the world as it is." She looked not at him but at one of the paintings on the wall, an idyllic scene in a stable yard. "There are some things one may have, and some one may not." Her pretty mouth tightened. "I am afraid Prudence never learned the difference. That is a tragedy." She shook her head. "She could have been so happy, if only she had let go of her childish ideas and settled down to marry someone like poor Geoffrey Taunton. He was extremely reliable and he would have had her. Now, of course, it is all too late." Then without warning her eyes filled with tears. "Forgive me," she said with a ladylike sniff. "I cannot help but grieve."

"It would be inhuman not to," Monk said quickly. "She was a remarkable woman by all accounts, and one who brought comfort to many who were in the throes of intense suffering. You must be very proud of her."

Mr. Barrymore smiled, but was too filled with emotion to speak.

Mrs. Barrymore looked at Monk with faint surprise, as if his praise for Prudence puzzled her.

"You speak of Mr. Taunton in the past tense, Mrs. Barrymore," he continued. "Is he no longer alive?"

Now she looked thoroughly startled. "Oh yes. Yes indeed, Mr. Monk. Poor Geoffrey is very much alive. But it is too late for Prudence, poor girl. Now, no doubt, Geoffrey will marry that Nanette Cuthbertson. She has certainly been pursuing him for long enough." For a moment her face changed and an expression came on it not unlike spite. "But as long as Prudence was alive, Geoffrey would never look at her. He was 'round here only last weekend, asking after Prudence, how she was doing in London and when we expected her home again."

"He never understood her," Mr. Barrymore said sadly. "He always believed it was only a matter of waiting and she would come 'round to his way of thinking, that she'd forget nursing and come home and settle down."

"And so she would," Mrs. Barrymore said hastily. "Only she might have left it too late. There are only so many years when a young woman is attractive to a man who wishes to marry and have a family." Her voice rose in exasperation. "Prudence did not seem to appreciate that, though goodness knows how often I told her. Time will not wait for you, I said. One day you will realize that." Again her eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

Mr. Barrymore was embarrassed. He had already argued with his wife once on this issue in front of Monk, and there seemed nothing more to say.

"Where would I find Mr. Taunton?" Monk asked. "If he saw Miss Barrymore quite often, he may even know of someone who was causing her anxiety or distress."

Mrs. Barrymore looked back at him, jerked out of her grief momentarily by a question which she found extraordinary.

"Geoffrey? Geoffrey would not know anyone likely to-to commit murder, Mr. Monk! He is a most excellent young man, as respectable as one could wish. His father was a professor of mathematics." She invested the last word with great importance. "Mr. Barrymore knew him, before he died about four years ago. He left Geoffrey very well provided for." She nodded. "I am only surprised he has not married before now. Usually it is a financial restriction that prevents young men from marrying. Prudence did not know how fortunate she was that he was prepared to wait for her to change her mind."

Monk could offer no opinion on that.

"Where does he live, ma'am?" he asked.

"Geoffrey?" Her eyebrows rose. "Little Ealing. If you go down Boston Lane and turn right, then follow the road about a mile and a quarter or so, then on your left you will find the Ride. Geoffrey lives along there. After that, you will have to ask. I think that is simpler than my trying to describe the house, although it is most attractive; but then they all are along there. It is a most desirable area."

"Thank you, Mrs. Barrymore, that is very clear. And how about Miss Cuthbertson, who apparently fancied herself Miss Barrymore's rival? Where might I find her?"

"Nanette Cuthbertson?" Again the look of dislike marred her expression. "Oh, she lives on Wyke Farm, right at the other side of the railway line, on the edge of Osterley Park." She smiled again, but with her lips only.

"Very agreeable really, especially for a girl who is fond of horses and that type of thing. I don't know how you will get there. It is a long way 'round, by Boston Lane. Unless you can hire a vehicle of some sort, you will have to walk over the fields." She waved her mittened hand in the air in a curiously graceful gesture. "If you begin westwards as you are level with Boston Farm, that should bring you to about the right place. Of course I always go by pony cart, but I think my judgment is correct."

"Thank you, Mrs. Barrymore." He rose to his feet, inclining his head courteously. "I apologize for intruding, and am most grateful for your help."

Barrymore looked at him quickly. "If you learn anything, would it be within the ethics of your profession to let us know?"

"I shall report to Lady Callandra, but I have no doubt she will tell you," Monk answered. He would have no compunction whatever in telling this quiet, grieving man anything that would help him, but he thought Barrymore would find it easier from Callandra, and it would be a way to avoid telling him anything that might be true but merely painful, and of no consequence in pursuing or convicting whoever murdered Prudence Barrymore. He thanked them again, and again expressed his condolences. Mr. Barrymore accompanied him to the door, and he took his leave.

It was a very pleasant day, and he enjoyed the half hour it took him to walk from Green Lane to Little Ealing and find the home of Geoffrey Taunton. And the time gave him the opportunity to formulate in his mind what he would say. He did not expect it to be easy. Geoffrey Taunton might even refuse to see him. People react differently to grief. With some, the anger comes first, long before the simple acceptance of pain. And of course it was perfectly possible that Geoffrey Taunton might have been the one who killed her. Perhaps he was not as willing to wait as he had been in the past, and his frustration had finally boiled over? Or maybe it was passion of a different sort which had run out of control, and then he regretted it and wished to marry this Nanette Cuthbertson instead. He must remember to ask Evan precisely what the medical examiner's report had said. For example, had Prudence Barrymore been with child? From her father's account of her, that seemed unlikely, but then fathers are frequently ignorant of that aspect of their daughters' lives, from preference or by design.

It really was a splendid day. The fields stretched out on either side of the lane, light wind rippling through the wheat, already turning gold. In another couple of months the reapers would be out, backs bent in the heat and the grain dust, the smell of hot straw everywhere, and the wagon somewhere behind them with cider and loaves of bread. In his imagination he could hear the rhythmic swishing of the scythe, feel the sweat on his bare skin, and the breeze, and then the shelter of the wagon, the thirst, and the cool sweet cider, still smelling of apples.

When had he ever done farm laboring? He searched his mind and nothing came. Was it here in the south, or at home in Northumberland, before he had come to London to learn commerce, make money, and becoming something of a gendeman?

He had no idea. It was gone, like so much else. And perhaps it was as weD. It might belong to some personal memory, like the one of Hermione, which still cut so deep into his emotions. It was not losing her, that was nothing. It was his own humiliation, his misjudgment, the stupidity of having loved so much a woman who had not in her the capacity to love in return. And she had been honest enough to admit that she did not even wish to. Love was dangerous. It could hurt. She did not want hostages to fortune and she said so.

No, definitely any memories he chased from now on would be professional ones. There at least he was safe. He was brilliant. Even his bitterest enemy, and so far that was Runcorn, had never denied his skill, his intelligence, or his intuition, and the dedication which harnessed them all and had made him the best detective in the force. He strode briskly. There was no sound but his own steps and the wind across the fields, faint and warm. In the early morning there could have been larks, but now it was too late.

And there was another reason, apart from the gratification of pride, why he should remember all he could. He needed to make his living by detection now, and without the memory of his past contacts with the criminal underworld, the minutiae of his craft, the names and faces of those who owed him debts or who feared him, those who had knowledge he would find useful, those who had secrets to hide. Without all this he was handicapped, starting again as a beginner. He needed to know more fully who his friends and his enemies were. Blindfolded by forgetting, he was at their mercy.

The warm sweet scent of honeysuckle was thick around him. Here and there long briers of wild rose trailed pink or white sprays of bloom.

He turned right into the Ride and after a hundred yards found an old carter leading his horse along the lane. He inquired after Geoffrey Taunton, and, after a few minutes' suspicious hesitation, was directed.

The house was gracious from the outside, and the plaster showed signs of having been fairly recently embellished with new pargetting in rich designs. The half timbering was immaculate. Presumably that was all done when Geoffrey Taunton came into his father's money.

Monk walked up the neat gravel drive, which was weed-less and recently raked, and knocked at the front door. It was now early afternoon and he would be fortunate to find the master of the house at home; but if he were out, then he would endeavor to make an appointment for a later time.

The maid who answered the door was young and bright-eyed, full of curiosity when she saw a smartly dressed stranger on the step.

"Yes sir?" she said pleasantly, looking up at him.

"Good afternoon. I have no appointment, but I should like to see Mr. Taunton, if he is at home. If I am too early, perhaps you would tell me when would be a more convenient time?"

"Oh not at all, sir, this is an excellent time." Then she stopped and hesitated, realizing she had defied the social convention of pretending her employer was not in until she had ascertained whether the visitor was to be received or not. "Oh, I mean..."

Monk smiled in spite of himself. "I understand," he said dryly. "You had better go and ask if he will see me." He handed her his card, which showed his name and his residence, but not his occupation. "You may tell him it is in connection with one of the Board of Governors of the Royal Free Hospital in Gray's Inn, a Lady Callandra Daviot." That sounded impressive, not too personal, and it was true, in fact if not in essence.

"Yes sir," she said with a lift of interest in her voice. "And if you'll excuse me, I'll go and ask, sir." With a swish of skirts, she turned and was gone after having left Monk in the morning room in the sun.

Geoffrey Taunton himself came less than five minutes later. He was a pleasant-looking mart in his early thirties, tall and well built, now dressed in the fashionless black of mourning. He was of medium coloring and good features, regular and well proportioned. His expression was mild, and at the moment marred by grief.

"Mr. Monk? Good afternoon. What may I do to be of service to you and the Board of Governors?" He held out his hand.

Monk took it with a twinge of guilt for his misrepresentation, but it was easily dismissed. There were greater priorities.

"Thank you for sparing me the time, sir, and excusing my calling without notice," he apologized. "But I heard of you only through Mr. Barrymore when I called upon him this morning. As you may have assumed, it is in connection with the death of Miss Prudence Barrymore that I have been consulted."

"Consulted?" Taunton frowned. "Surely it is a police matter?" His expression was one of sharp disapproval. "If the Board of Governors are concerned about scandal, there is nothing whatever I can do to assist them. If they employ young women in such a calling, then there are all sorts of unfortunate circumstances which may arise, as I frequently tried to impress upon Miss Barrymore, but without success.

"Hospitals are not salubrious places," he continued with asperity. "Either physically or morally. It is bad enough to have to visit them if one should require surgery which cannot be performed in one's own home, but a woman who seeks employment there runs horrible risks. Most especially if the woman concerned is of gentle birth and has no need whatever to earn her living." His face darkened with pain at the uselessness of it, and he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He looked stubborn, bewildered, and acutely vulnerable.

Evan would have been sorry for him; Runcorn would have agreed. Monk could only feel angry at his blindness. They were still standing in the morning room facing each other across the green carpet, neither willing to sit.

"I imagine she served out of compassion for the sick rather than for the financial reward," Monk said dryly. "From what I have heard said of her, she was a woman of remarkable gifts and great dedication. That she did not work from necessity can only be to her credit."

"It cost her her life," Taunton said bitterly, his wide eyes full of fury. "That is a tragedy and a crime. Nothing can bring her back, but I want to see whoever did this hanged."

"If we catch him, I daresay that will be your privilege, sir," Monk replied harshly. "Although watching a hanging is a vile affair, in my opinion. I have only seen two, but they were both experiences I would prefer to forget."

Taunton looked startled and his mouth went slack, then he winced with displeasure. "I did not mean it literally, Mr. Monk. That is, as you say, a vile thought. I simply meant that I desire it to be done."

"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.

"She was murdered," he replied, his words violent, his voice gende.

"Oh." She paled visibly, but whether it was the news or his manner of delivering it, he could not tell. "How dreadful! I am sorry. I didn't realize..." She looked at him with puckered brows. "Mr. Taunton said that hospitals were not good places at all, but he did not say more than that. I had no idea they were so dangerous. Illness, of course I understand. One expects it. But not murder."

"The place of it may have been coincidental, Miss Cuthbertson. People are murdered in houses also; we do not say that houses are therefore dangerous places."

An orange-and-black butterfly flew erratically between them and disappeared.

"I don't understand..." And her expression made it quite obvious that she did not.

"Did you know Miss Barrymore well?"

She began to walk very slowly back toward the farm buildings. There was room on the hard track for him to walk beside her, the horse trailing behind, head low.

"I used to," she replied thoughtfully. "When we were much younger, growing up. Since she went to the Crimea I don't think any of us would say we knew her anymore. She changed, you see." She looked around at him to make sure he understood.

"I imagine it is an experience which would change anyone," he agreed. "How could one see the devastation and the suffering without being altered by it?"

"I suppose not," she agreed, glancing behind her to make sure the horse was still following obediently. "But it made her very different She was always... if I say headstrong, please do not think I wish to speak ill of her, it is simply that she had such fierce desires and intentions." She paused for a moment, ordering her thoughts. "Her dreams were different from other people's. But after she came home from Scutari she was..." She frowned, searching for the word. "Harder-harder inside." Then she glanced up at Monk with a brilliant smile. "I'm sorry. Does that sound very unkind? I did not mean to be."

Monk looked at the warm brown eyes and the delicate cheeks and thought that was exactly what she meant to be, but the last thing she wished anyone to think of her. He felt part of himself respond to her and he hated his own gullibility. She reminded him of Hermione, and God knew how many other women in the past, whose total femininity had appealed to him and deluded him. Why had he been such a fool? He despised fools.

There was a large part of him which was skeptical, even cynical. If Mrs. Barrymore were right, then this charming woman with her soft eyes and smiling mouth had wanted Geoffrey Taunton for herself for a long time, and must have bitterly resented his devotion to Prudence. How old had Prudence been? Callandra had said something about late twenties. Geoffrey Taunton was certainly that and more. Was Nanette Cuthbertson contemporary, or only a little younger? If so, then she was old for marriage, time was running out for her. She would soon be considered an old maid, if not already, and definitely old for bearing her first child. Might she feel more than jealousy, a sense of desperation, panic as the years passed and still Geoffrey Taunton waited for Prudence and she refused him for her career?

"Did you not," he said noncommittally. "I daresay it is true, and I am asking for truth, hard or not. A polite lie will serve no good now; in fact, it will obscure facts we need to know." His voice had been cold, but she saw justification in it She kept the horse close behind her with a heavy pressure on the reins.

"Thank you, Mr. Monk, you set my mind at rest It is unpleasant to speak ill of people, even slightly."

"I find many people enjoy it," he said with a slow smile. "In fact, it is one of their greatest pleasures, particularly if they can feel superior at the time."

She was taken aback. It was not the sort of thing one acknowledged. "Er-do you think so?"

He had nearly spoiled his own case. "Some people," he said, knocking the head off a long stalk of wheat that had grown across the path. "But I regret I have to ask you to tell me something more of Prudence Barrymore, even if it is distasteful to you, because I do not know who else to ask, who will be frank. Eulogies are no help to me."

This time she kept her eyes straight ahead. They were almost to the farm gate and he opened it for her, waited while the horse followed her through, then went through himself and closed it carefully. An elderly man in a faded smock and trousers tied around the ankles with string smiled shyly, then took the animal. Nanette thanked him and led Monk across the yard toward the kitchen garden, and he opened the door of the farmhouse. It was not into the kitchen as he had expected, but a side entrance to a wide hallway.

"May I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Monk?" Nanette said with a smile. She was of more than average height and slender, a tiny waist and slight bosom. She moved with skill to maneuver the skirts of her riding habit so they seemed part of her and not an encumbrance, as they were to some women.

"Thank you," he accepted. He did not know if he could learn anything useful from her, but he might not have another opportunity. He should use this one.

She laid her hat and crop on the hall table, then rang for a maid, requested tea, and conducted him to a pretty sitting room full of flowered chintz. They made trivial conversation till the tea was brought and they were alone again and could remain uninterrupted.

"You wish to know about poor Prudence," she said immediately, passing him his cup.

"If you please." He accepted it.

She met his eyes. "Please understand that I am speaking so frankly only because I am aware that kindness is of no use in finding out who killed her, poor soul."

"I have asked you to be frank, Miss Cuthbertson," he encouraged her.

She settled back in her chair and began to speak, her gaze unflinching.

"I have known Prudence since we were both girls. She always had a curiosity much greater than most people's, and a dedication to learn all she could. Her mother, who is a dear creature, most sensible, tried to dissuade her, but to no avail. Have you met her sister, Faith?"

"No."

"A very nice person," she said with approval. "She married and went to live in York. But Prudence was always her father's favorite, and I regret the necessity to say so, but I think he indulged her when it might have been in her greater interest to have exercised a little more discipline." She shrugged, looking at Monk with a smile. "Anyway, the result was that when we here in England began to learn a little of how serious the war in the Crimea had become, Prudence decided to go out there and nurse our soldiers, and nothing on earth would deter her."

Monk forbore from interruption with difficulty. He wanted to tell this equally determined, rather complacent, pretty woman who was discreetly flirting with him something of the horror of the battlefield and the hospital as he had learned it from Hester. He forced himself to keep silent, merely looking at her to continue.

She did not need prompting.

"Of course we all assumed that when she came home she would have had enough of it," she said quickly. "She had served her country and we were all proud of her. But not at all. She then insisted on continuing with nursing and took up a post in the hospital in London." She was watching Monk's face closely, all the time biting her lip as if uncertain what to say, although he knew from the strength in her voice that that was anything but the case. "She became very-very forceful," she continued. "Very outspoken in her opinions and extremely critical of the medical authorities. I am afraid she had ambitions that were totally impossible and quite unsuitable anyway, and she was bitter about it." She searched Monk's eyes, trying to judge his thoughts. "I can only assume that some of her experiences in the Crimea were so fearful that they affected her mind and destroyed her judgment to some extent. It is really very tragic." As she said it her face was very sober.

"Very," Monk agreed tersely. "It is also tragic that someone should have killed her. Did she ever say anything to you about anyone who might have threatened her or wished her ill?" It was an ingenuous question, but there was always the remote chance she might give a surprising answer.

Nanette shrugged very slightly, a delicate, very feminine gesture of her shoulders.

"Well, she was very forthright, and she could be highly critical," she said reluctantly. "I fear it is not impossible that she offended someone sufficiently that he became violent, which is a fearful thought. But some men do have ungovernable tempers. Perhaps her insult was very serious, threatening his professional reputation. She did not spare people, you know."

"Did she mention anyone by name, Miss Cuthbertson?"

"Oh not to me. But then their names would mean nothing to me even if I heard them."

"I see. What about admirers? Were there any men, do you know, who might have felt rejected by her, or jealous?"

The blush on her cheek was very slight, and she smiled as if the question were of no consequence to her.

"She did not confide that sort of thing to me, but I gathered the impression that she had no time for such emotions." She smiled at the absurdity of such a nature. "Perhaps you had better ask someone who knew her from day to day."

"I shall. Thank you for your candor, Miss Cuthbertson. If everyone else is as frank with me, I shall be very fortunate."

She leaned forward in her chair a little. "Will you find out who killed her, Mr. Monk?"

"Yes." He was quite unequivocal, not because he had any conviction, still less any knowledge, but he would not admit the possibility of defeat.

"I am so glad. It is most comforting to know that in spite of tragedy, there are people who will see that at least justice is done." Again she smiled at him, and he wondered why on earth Geoffrey Taunton had not wooed this woman, who seemed so excellently suited to his life and his personality, but had chosen instead to waste his time and his emotion on Prudence Barrymore. She could never have made either him or herself happy in such an alliance, which to him would have been fraught with tension and uncertainty, and to her would have been at once barren and suffocating.

But then he had imagined himself so in love with Hermione Ward, who would have hurt and disappointed him at every turn and left him in the bitterest loneliness. Perhaps in the end he would even have hated her.

He finished his tea and excused himself. Thanking her again, he took his leave.

* * * * *

The return journey to London was hot and the train crowded. He was suddenly very tired and closed his eyes, leaning back against the seat. The rattle and sway of the carriage was curiously soothing.

He woke up with a start to find a small boy staring at him with intense curiosity. A fair-haired woman pulled at the child's jacket and ordered him to mind his manners and not to be so rude to the gentleman. Then she smiled shyly at Monk and apologized.

"There is no harm in it, ma'am," he replied quietly, but his mind was suddenly jolted by a vivid fragment of memory. It was a sensation he had felt many times since his accident, and more and more frequently in the last few months, but it never ceased to bring with it a frisson of fear. So much of what he learned of himself showed him only actions, not reasons, and he did not always like the man he discovered.

This memory was sharp and bright, and yet distant. He was not the man of today, but very much of yesterday. The picture in his mind was full of sunlight, and for all its clarity there was a sense of distance. He was younger, far younger, new at his job with all the eagerness and the need to learn that comes with being a novice. His immediate senior was Samuel Runcorn, that was perfectly clear. He knew it as one knows things in dreams; there is no visible evidence, and yet the certainty is unquestionable. He could picture Runcorn as sharply as the young woman on the seat opposite him in the clanking train as it rushed past the houses toward the city. Runcorn, with his narrow face and deep-set eyes. He had been handsome then: bony nose, good brow, broad mouth. Even now it was only his expression, the mixture of temper and apology in his eyes, which marred him.

What had happened in the intervening years? How much of it had been Monk's doing? That was a thought which returned to him again and again. And yet that was foolish. Monk was not to blame. Whatever Runcorn was, it was his own doing, his own choice.

Why had that memory returned? Just a snatch, a journey in a train with Runcorn. Runcorn had been an inspector, and Monk a constable working on a case under his direction.

They were coming into the outskirts of Bayswater, not far to go to the Euston Road and home. It would be good to get out of this noisy, jiggling, confined space and walk in the fresh air. Not that Fitzroy Street would be like Boston Lane with the wind over the wheat fields.

He was aware of a sharp inner sense of frustration, of questions and answers that led nowhere, of knowing that someone was lying, but not who. They had been days on the case and learned nothing that made sense, no string of evidence that began to form a story.

Except that this was the first day. Prudence Barrymore had died only yesterday. The emotion came from the past, whatever he and Runcorn had been doing however many years ago-was it ten, fifteen? Runcorn had been different. He had had more confidence, less arrogance, less need to exert his authority, less need to show he was right. Something had happened to him in the years between which had destroyed an element of belief in himself, injuring some inner part so that now it was maimed.

Did Monk know what it was? At least had he known before the accident? Was Runcom's hatred of him born of that: his vulnerability, and Monk's use of it?

The train was going through Paddington now. Not long till he was home. He ached to be able to stand up.

He closed his eyes again. The heat in the carriage and the rhythmic swinging to and fro, the incessant clatter as the wheels passed over the joins in the rails, were hypnotic.

There had been another constable on the case as well, a slight young man with dark hair that stood up from the brow. The memory of him was vivid and acutely uncomfortable, but Monk had no idea why. He racked his brain but nothing came. Had he died? Why was there this unhap-piness in his mind when he pictured him?

Runcorn was different; for him he felt anger and a swift harsh contempt. It was not that he was stupid. He was not: his questions were perceptive enough, well phrased, well judged, and he obviously weighed the answers. He was not gullible. So why did Monk find himself unconsciously curling his lip?

What had the case been? He could not remember that either! But it had mattered, of that he had no doubt at all. It was serious. The superintendent had been asking them every day for progress. The press had been demanding someone be caught and hanged. But for what?

Had they succeeded?

He sat up with a jolt. They were at Euston Road and it was time he got off or he would be carried past his stop. Hastily, apologizing for treading on people's feet, he scrambled out of his seat and made his way out onto the platform.

He must stop dwelling in the past and think what next to do in the murder of Prudence Barrymore. There was nothing to report to Callandra yet, but she might have something to tell him, although it was a trifle early. Better to leave it a day or two, then he might have something to say himself.

He strode along the platform, threading his way among the people, bumping into a porter and nearly tripping over a bale of papers.

What had Prudence Barrymore been like as a nurse? Better to begin at the beginning. He had met her parents, her suitor, albeit unsuccessful, and her rival. In time he would ask her superiors, but they were, or might be, suspects. The best judge of the next stage in her career would be someone who had known her in the Crimea, apart from Hester. He dodged around two men and a woman struggling with a hat box.

What about Florence Nightingale herself? She would know something about all her nurses, surely? But would she see Monk? She was now feted and admired all over the city, second in public affection only to the Queen.

It was worth trying.

Tomorrow he would do that. She was immeasurably more famous, more important, but she could not be more opinionated or more acid-tongued than Hester.

Unconsciously he quickened his step. It was a good decision. He smiled at an elderly lady who glared back at him.

* * * * *

Florence Nightingale was smaller than he had expected, slight of build and with brown hair and regular features, at a glance quite unremarkable. It was only the intensity of her eyes under the level brows which held him, and the way she seemed to look right into his mind, not with interest, simply a demand that he meet her honesty with equal candor. He imagined no one dared to waste her time.

She had received him in some sort of office, sparsely furnished and strictly functional. He had gained admittance only with difficulty, and after explaining his precise purpose. It was apparent she was deeply engaged in some cause and had set it aside only for the duration of the interview.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Monk," she said in a strong clear voice. "I believe you have come in connection with the death of one of my nurses. I am extremely sorry to hear of it. What is it you wish of me?"

He would not have dared prevaricate, even if it had been his intention.

"She was murdered, ma'am, while serving in the Royal Free Hospital. Her name was Prudence Barrymore." He saw the shadow of pain pass over Florence Nightingale's calm features, and liked her the better for it. "I am inquiring into her murder," he went on. "Not with the police but at the wish of one of her friends."

"I am deeply sorry. Please be seated, Mr. Monk." She indicated a hard-backed chair and sat in one opposite, holding her hands in her lap and staring at him.

He obeyed. "Can you tell me something of her nature and her abilities, ma'am?" he asked. "I have already heard that she was dedicated to medicine to the exclusion of all else, that she had refused a man who had admired her for many years, and that she held her opinions with great conviction."

A flicker of amusement touched Florence Nightingale's mouth. "And expressed them," she agreed. "Yes, she was a fine woman, with a passion to learn. Nothing deterred her from seeking the truth and acknowledging it."

"And telling it to others?" he asked.

"Of course. If you know the truth, it takes a gentler and perhaps a wiser woman than Prudence Barrymore not to speak it aloud. She did not understand the arts of diplomacy. I fear that perhaps I do not either. The sick cannot wait for flattery and coercion to do their work."

He did not flatter her with agreement. She was not a woman who would have valued the obvious.

"Might Miss Barrymore have made enemies profound enough to have killed her?" he asked. "I mean, was her zeal to reform or her medical knowledge sufficient for that?"

For several moments Florence Nightingale sat silent, but Monk knew perfectly well that she had understood him and that she was considering the question before answering.

"I find it unlikely, Mr. Monk," she said at last "Prudence was more interested in medicine itself than in ideas of reforming such as I have. I desire above all things to see the simple changes that would save so many lives and cost little, such as proper ventilation of hospital wards." She looked at him with brilliant eyes, burning with the intensity of her feeling. Already the timbre of her voice had altered and there was a new quality of urgency in it. "Have you any idea, Mr. Monk, how stuffy most wards are, how stale the air and full of noxious vapors and fumes? Clean air will do as much to heal people as half the medicines they are given." She leaned forward a fraction. "Of course our hospitals here are nothing like the hospitals in Scutari, but still they are places where as many people die of infections caught there as of the original complaints that brought them! There is so much to do, so much suffering and death which could be avoided." She spoke quietly, and yet Monk, listening to her, felt a quiver of excitement inside himself. There was a passion in her eyes which lit them from within. No longer could Monk possibly say she was ordinary. She possessed a fierceness, a solitary fire, and yet a vulnerability which made her unique. He caught a glimpse of what it was that had inspired an army to love her and the nation to revere her, and yet leave her with such a core of inner loneliness.

"I have a friend"-he used the word without thinking- "who nursed with you in the Crimea, a Miss Hester Latterly..."

Her face softened with instant pleasure. "You know Hester? How is she? She had to return home early because of the death of both of her parents. Have you seen her recently? Is she well?"

"I saw her two days ago," he answered readily. "She is in excellent health. She will be most pleased to know you asked after her." He felt slightly proprietorial. "She is largely nursing privately at present. I am afraid her outspokenness cost her her first hospital post." He found himself smiling, although at the time he had been both angry and critical. "She knew more of fever medicine than the doctor, and acted upon it. He never forgave her."

Florence smiled, a peaceful inward amusement, and he thought a certain pride. "I am not surprised," she admitted. "Hester never suffered fools easily, especially military ones, and there are a great many of those. She used to get so angry at the waste and told them how stupid they were and what they should have done." She shook her head. "I think had she been a man, Hester might have made a good soldier. She had all the zeal to fight and a good instinct for strategy, at least of a physical sort."

"A physical sort?" He did not understand. He had not noticed Hester being particularly good at planning ahead-in fact, rather the opposite.

She saw his confusion and the doubt in him.

"Oh, I don't mean of a type that would be any use to her," she explained. "Not as a woman, anyway. She could never bide her time and manipulate people. She had no patience for that. But she could understand a battlefield. And she had the courage."

He smiled in spite of himself. That was the Hester he knew.

But Florence was not looking at him. She was lost in memory, her mind in the so recent past.

"I am so sorry about Prudence," she said, more to herself than to Monk, and her face was suddenly unbearably sad and lonely. "She had such a passion to heal. I can remember her going out more than once with field surgeons. She was not especially strong, and she was terrified of crawling things, insects and the like, but she would sleep out in order to be there when the surgeons most needed her. She would be sick with the horror of some of the wounds, but only af- terwards. She never gave way at the time. How she would work. Nothing was too much. One of the surgeons told me she knew as much about amputating a limb as he did himself, and she was not afraid to do it, if she had to, if there was no one else there."

Monk did not interrupt. The quiet sunlit room in London disappeared and the slender woman in her drab dress was the only thing he saw, her intense and passionate voice all he heard.

"It was Rebecca who told me," she went on. "Rebecca Box. She was a huge woman, a soldier's wife, nearly six feet tall she was, and as strong as an ox." The smile of memory touched her lips. "She used to go out into the battlefield, ahead of the guns even, and pick up the wounded men far beyond where anyone else would go, right up to the enemy. Then she would put them across her back and carry them home."

She turned to Monk, searching his face. "You have no idea what women can do until you have seen someone like Rebecca. She told me how Prudence first took off a man's arm. It had been hacked to the bone by a saber. It was bleeding terribly, and there was no chance of saving it and no time to find a surgeon. Prudence was as white as the man himself, but her hand was steady and her nerve held. She took it off just as a surgeon would have. The man lived. Prudence was like that. I am so sorry she is gone." Still her gaze was fixed on Monk's as if she would assure herself he shared her feeling. "I shall write to her family and convey my sympathies."

Monk tried to imagine Prudence in the flare of an oil lamp, kneeling over the desperately bleeding man, her strong steady fingers holding the saw, her face set in concentration as she used the skill she had so often watched and had thus learned. He wished he had known her. It was painful that where there had been this brave and willful woman now there was a void, a darkness. A passionate voice was silenced and the loss was raw and unexplained.

It would not remain so. He would find out who had killed her, and why. He would have a kind of revenge.

"Thank you very much for sparing me your time, Miss Nightingale," he said a little more stiffly than he had meant. "You have told me something of her which no one else could."

"It is a very small thing," she said, dismissing its inadequacy. "I wish I had the remotest idea who could have wished her dead, but I have not. When there is so much tragedy and pain in the world that we cannot help, it seems incomprehensible that we should bring even more upon ourselves. Sometimes I despair of mankind. Does that sound blasphemous, Mr. Monk?"

"No ma'am, it sounds honest."

She smiled bleakly. "Shall you see Hester Latterly again?"

"Yes." hi spite of himself his interest was so sharp he spoke before he thought. "Did you know her well?"

"Indeed." The smile returned to her mouth. "We spent many hours working together. It is strange how much one knows of a person laboring in a common cause, even if one said nothing of one's own life before coming to the Crimea, nothing of one's family or youth, nothing of one's loves or dreams, still one learns of another's nature. And perhaps that is the real core of passion, don't you think?"

He nodded, not wishing to intrude with words.

"I agree," she went on thoughtfully. "I know nothing of her past, but I learned to trust her integrity as we worked night after night to help the soldiers and their women, to get food for them, blankets, and to make the authorities allow us space so the beds were not crammed side by side." She gave an odd, choked little laugh. "She used to get so angry. I always knew if I had a battle to fight that Hester would be by my side. She never retreated, never pretended or flattered. And I knew her courage." She hunched her shoulders in a gesture of distaste. "She loathed the rats, and they were all over the place. They climbed the walls and fell off like rotten plums dropping off a tree. I shall never forget the sound of their bodies hitting the floor. And I watched her pity, not useless, not maudlin, just a long slow ache inside as she knew the pain of others and did everything within her human power to ease it. One has a special feeling for someone with whom one has shared such times, Mr. Monk. Yes, please remember me to her."

"I will," he promised.

He rose to his feet again, suddenly acutely conscious of the passage of time. He knew she was fitting him in between one meeting and another of hospital governors, architects, medical schools, or organizations of similar nature. Since her return from the Crimea she had never ceased to work for the reforms in design and administration in which she believed so fervently.

"Whom will you seek next?" She preempted his farewell. She had no need to explain to what matter she was referring and she was not a woman for unnecessary words.

"The police," he answered. "I still have friends there who may tell me what the medical examiner says, and perhaps what the official testimony is of other witnesses. Then I shall appeal to her colleagues at the hospital. If I can persuade them to speak honestly of her and of one another, I may learn a great deal."

"I see. May God be with you, Mr. Monk. It is more than justice you must seek. If women like Prudence Barrymore can be murdered when they are about their work, then we are all a great deal the poorer, not only now, but in the future as well."

"I do not give up, ma'am," he said grimly, and he meant it, not only to match his determination with hers, but because he had a consuming personal desire to find the one who had destroyed such a life. "He will rue the day, I promise you. Good afternoon, ma'am."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Monk."