by Anne Perry
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 man 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.” Taunton 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 Willia
m 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 gentle.
“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?”
