by Anne Perry
Hester opened her mouth to argue, but there was no logical answer, and she found herself at a loss for words.
He strode on in silence, still swiping occasionally at the odd stone on the path.
“Is that all you’ve done?” she said finally.
“What?”
“Discover that Nanette had a good motive, but no means, so far as you can find out.”
“No of course it isn’t.” He hit another stone. “I’ve looked into Prudence’s past, her nursing skills, her war record, anything I can think of. It’s all very interesting, very admirable, but none of it suggests a specific motive for murdering her—or anyone who might have wished to. I am somewhat hampered by not having any authority.”
“Well whose fault is that?” she said sharply, then immediately wished she had not, but was damned if she was going to apologize.
They walked for a further hundred yards in silence until they were back at Doughty Street, where she excused herself, pointing out that she’d had very little sleep and would be required to sit up all night with Mr. Prendergast again. They parted coolly, she back to the hospital, he she knew not where.
7
EVERYTHING THAT MONK had learned about Prudence Barrymore showed a passionate, intelligent, single-minded woman bent on caring for the sick to the exclusion of all else. While exciting his admiration, she had almost certainly not been an easy woman to know, either as a friend or as a member of one’s family. No one had mentioned whether or not she had the least sense of humor. Humor was at times Hester’s saving grace. No, that was not entirely true: he would never forget her courage, her will to fight for him, even when it seemed the battle was pointless and he not worth anyone’s effort. But she could still be insufferable to spend time with.
He was walking along the street under a leaden, gray sky. Any moment there would be a summer downpour. It would drench the pedestrians, bounce off the busy thoroughfare, washing horse droppings into the gutter and sending the water swirling in huge puddles across the street. Even the wind smelled heavy and wet.
He was in the Gray’s Inn Road going toward the hospital with the intention of seeing Evan again to ask him more about Prudence Barrymore’s character, if he were willing to share any information. And in conscience, he might not be. Monk disliked having to ask him. In Jeavis’s place he would not have told anyone else, and would verbally have flayed a junior who did.
And yet he did not think Jeavis’s ability equal to this case, which was an opinion for which he had no grounds. He knew his own successes since the accident, and some of them were precarious enough and owed much to the help of others, especially Hester. As to cases before the accident, he had only written records on which to rely. They all pointed to his brilliance, anger at injustice, impatience with hesitation or timidity, and gave little credit to anyone else. But since they were largely in his own handwriting, how accurate were they?
What was the memory that had teased at the edge of his mind during the train journey back from Little Ealing? He and Runcorn had been on a case together a long time ago, when Monk was new to the force. He had struggled to recapture something more, any clue as to what the case had been, but nothing came, only a sense of anger, a deep, white-hot rage that was like a shield against—against what?
It was beginning to rain, huge warm drops falling faster and faster. Somewhere far away, audible even above the clatter of wheels, came the rumble of thunder. A man hurried past him, fumbling to open up his black umbrella. A newsboy stuffed his papers hastily into a canvas satchel without ceasing his cries. Monk turned up his coat collar and hunched forward.
That was it. The press! His rage had protected him from any vulnerability to the clamor for an arrest, and the pressure from superiors. He had not cared what anyone else thought or felt, all that mattered to him was his own overpowering emotion over the crime itself, the fury of it consumed him. But what was the crime? Nothing in his memory gave any clue to follow. Search as he could, it was a blank.
It was intensely frustrating. And that feeling was familiar. He had been frustrated then. The helplessness underlying the anger all the time. There had been one blind alley after another. He knew the upsurge of hope, the anticipation, and then the disappointment, the hollowness of failure. His fury had been at least partially directed at Runcorn because he was too timid, too careful of the sensibilities of witnesses. Monk had wished to press them regardless, not for cruelty’s sake but because they were guarding their own petty little secrets when a far greater tragedy loomed over them with its brooding evil.
But what evil? All he could recall was a sense of darkness and a weight oppressing him, and always the rage.
The rain was heavy now, soaking through his trousers, making his ankles cold, and running down the back of his neck. He shivered violently, and quickened his pace. The water was rising in the gutter and swirling down the drains.
He needed to know. He needed to understand himself, the man he had been in those years, whether his anger was justified or merely the violence in his own nature finding an excuse—emotionally and intellectually dishonest. That was something he despised utterly.
And there was no excuse for self-indulgence at the expense of his task for Callandra. He had no idea who had murdered Prudence Barrymore, or why. There were too many possibilities. It could have been anything from a long hatred, frustration, or rejection such as that which must be felt by Geoffrey Taunton, or a mixture of the panic and jealousy which must have affected Nanette Cuthbertson as time passed by and still Geoffrey waited for Prudence and she kept him at bay, neither accepting him nor letting him go.
Or it could have been another lover, a doctor or hospital governor, a quarrel or an explosion of jealousy; or the blackmail that, according to Evan, Jeavis suspected of Kristian Beck.
Or if Prudence Barrymore were as opinionated, officious, and authoritarian as had been suggested, then it might as easily have been merely some nurse driven beyond the bounds of self-control by the constant abrasion to her temper and esteem. Perhaps one gibe, one criticism, had been the final straw, and someone had at last lashed out?
He was almost at the hospital entrance.
He ran the final few yards and climbed the steps two at a time to be in the shelter at last, then stood in the entrance hall dripping pools of water onto the floor. He turned down his collar and smoothed his lapels and pushed his fingers through his hair in unconscious vanity. He wanted to see Evan alone, but he could not wait for an opportunity to present itself. He would have to look for him and hope he found him without Jeavis. He set out, still trailing water.
As it happened he was unfortunate. He had planned using the excuse that he was seeking Callandra, if anyone asked him his business. But he almost bumped into Jeavis and Evan as he was going along the corridor and they were standing near the laundry chute.
Jeavis looked up in surprise, at first suspecting a governor from Monk’s dress, then recognizing his face, and his own expression darkening in suspicion.
“Hello—what are you doing here, Monk?” He smiled bleakly. “Not sick, are you?” He looked at Monk’s rain-darkened coat and wet footprints, but added nothing.
Monk hesitated, considering a lie, but the thought of excusing himself to Jeavis, even obliquely, was intolerable.
“I have been retained by Lady Callandra Daviot, as I daresay you know,” he answered. “Is that the chute down to the laundry room?”
Evan looked acutely uncomfortable. Monk was tearing his loyalties and he knew it. Jeavis’s face was hard. Monk had driven him onto the defensive. Perhaps that was clumsy. On the other hand, it might only have precipitated the inevitable.
“Of course it is,” he said coldly. He raised his pale brows. “Is this the first time you’ve seen it? A bit slow for you, Monk.”
“Don’t see what I can learn from it,” Monk replied edgily. “If there were much, you would have made an arrest already.”
“If I’d found any evidence anywhere, I’d have made
an arrest,” Jeavis said with an odd flash of humor. “But I don’t suppose that’ll stop you padding around behind me, all the same!”
“Or the occasional place before you,” Monk added.
Jeavis shot him a glance. “That’s as may be. But you’re welcome to peer down that chute all you wish. You’ll see nothing but a laundry basket at the bottom. And at the top, there’s a long corridor with few lights and half a dozen doors, but none along this stretch except Dr. Beck’s office, and the treasurer’s office over there. Make what you like out of that.”
Monk looked around, gazing up and down the length of the corridor. The only definite thing he concluded was that if Prudence had been strangled here beside the chute, then she could not have cried out without being heard had there been anyone in Beck’s office or the treasurer’s. The other doors seemed to be far enough away to be out of earshot. Similarly, if she had been killed in one of the other rooms, then she must have been carried some distance along the open corridor, which might have posed a risk. Hospital corridors were never entirely deserted, as those in a house or an office might be. However, he was not going to say so to Jeavis.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Jeavis said dryly, and Monk knew his thoughts were precisely the same. “Looks unpleasantly like the good Dr. Beck, don’t you think?”
“Or the treasurer,” Monk agreed. “Or someone who acted on the spur of the moment, right here, and so swiftly and with such surprise she had no time to cry out.”
Jeavis pulled a face and smiled.
“Seems to me like a woman who would have fought,” he said with a little shake of his head. “Tall, too. Not weakly, by all accounts. Mind, some of the other nurses are built like cart horses.” He looked at Monk with bland, challenging amusement. “Seems she had a tongue as sharp as one o’ the surgeon’s knives and didn’t spare them if she thought they slacked in their duty. A very different sort of woman, Nurse Barrymore.” Then he added under his breath, “Thank God.”
“But good enough at her job to be justified in her comments,” Monk said thoughtfully. “Or they’d have got rid of her, don’t you think?” He avoided looking at Evan.
“Oh yes,” Jeavis agreed without hesitation. “She seems to have been that, all right. Don’t think anyone would have put up with her otherwise. At least, not those that disliked her. And to be fair, that wasn’t everyone. Seems she was something of a heroine to some. And Sir Herbert speaks well enough of her.”
A nurse with a pile of clean sheets approached and they moved aside for her.
“What about Beck?” Monk asked when she had gone.
“Oh, him too. But then, if he killed her, he’s hardly going to tell us that he couldn’t abide her, is he?”
“What do other people say?”
“Well now, Mr. Monk, I wouldn’t want to rob you of your livelihood by doing your work for you, now would I?” Jeavis said, looking Monk straight in the eyes. “If I did that, how could you go to Lady Callandra and expect to be paid?” And with a smile he glanced meaningfully at Evan and walked away down the corridor.
Evan looked at Monk and shrugged, then followed dutifully. Jeavis had already stopped a dozen yards away and was waiting for him.
Monk had little else to do here. He had no authority to question anyone, and he resisted the temptation to find Hester. Any unnecessary association with him might lessen her ability to question people without arousing suspicion and destroy her usefulness.
He had the geography of the place firmly in his mind. There was nothing more to learn standing here.
He was on his way out again, irritated and short-tempered, when he saw Callandra crossing the foyer. She looked tired and her hair was even more unruly than usual. The characteristic humor had left her face and there was an air of anxiety about her quite out of her customary spirit.
She was almost up to Monk before she looked at him clearly enough to recognize him, then her expression changed, but he could see the deliberate effort it cost her.
Was it simply the death of a nurse, one as outstanding as Prudence Barrymore, which grieved her so deeply? Was it the haste with which it had followed on the heels of the tragedy of Julia Penrose and her sister? Again he had that appallingly helpless feeling of caring for someone, admiring her and being truly grateful, and totally unable to help her pain. It was like the past all over again, his mentor who had helped him on his first arrival in London, and the tragedy that had struck him down and begun Monk’s career in the police. And now, as then, he could do nothing. It was another emotion from the past crowding the present and tearing at him with all its old power.
“Hello William.” Callandra greeted him politely enough, but there was no pleasure in her voice, no lift at all. “Are you looking for me?” There was a flicker of anxiety as she said it, as if she feared his answer.
He longed to be able to comfort her, but he knew without words that whatever distressed her so deeply was private and she would speak of it without prompting if ever she wished him to know. The kindest thing he could do now would be to pretend he had not noticed.
“Actually I was hoping to see Evan alone,” he said ruefully. “But I ran into Jeavis straightaway. I’m on my way out now. I wish I knew more about Prudence Barrymore. Many people have told me their views of her, and yet I feel I am still missing something essential. Hester remembers her, you know….”
Callandra’s face tightened, but she said nothing.
A student doctor strode past, looking harassed.
“And I went to see Miss Nightingale. She spoke of Prudence very highly. And of Hester too.”
Callandra smiled a trifle wanly.
“Did you learn anything new?”
“Nothing that throws any light on why she might have been killed. It seems she was an excellent nurse, even brilliant. Her father did not exaggerate her abilities, or her dedication to medicine. But I wonder—” He stopped abruptly. Perhaps his thought was unfair and would hurt Callandra unnecessarily.
“You wonder what?” She could not leave it. Her face darkened, and the tiredness and the concern were there.
He had no idea what she feared, so he could not choose to avoid it.
“I wonder if her knowledge was as great as she thought it was. She might have misunderstood something, misjudged—”
Callandra’s eyes cleared. “It is a possibility,” she said slowly. “Although I cannot yet see how it could lead to murder. But pursue it, William. It seems to be all we have at present. Please keep me informed if you learn anything.”
They nodded briefly to the chaplain as he passed, muttering to himself.
“Of course,” Monk agreed. And after bidding her goodbye he went out through the foyer into the wet streets. It had stopped raining, and the footpath and the roadway were glistening in the brightness of the sun. The air was filled with myriad smells, most of them warm, heavy, and not very pleasant: horse droppings, overflowing drains unable to take the downpour. Rubbish swirled along the gutters in the torrent. Horses clattered by, flanks steaming, vehicle wheels sending up showers of water.
Where could he find out Prudence’s real ability? No one in the hospital would give him an unbiased opinion, nor would her family, and certainly not Geoffrey Taunton. He had already learned all he could expect to from Florence Nightingale. There was no recognized body that passed judgment on the abilities of nurses, no school or college of training.
He might find an army surgeon who had known her, for whatever his opinion would be worth on the subject. They must have been hurried, always tired, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the sick and injured. How much would they remember of any individual nurse and her medical knowledge? Had there even been time for anything beyond the most hasty treatment, little more than amputation, cauterization of the stump, stitching, splinting, and prayer?
He was walking along the fast-drying pavement, ignoring the passersby and going generally southward without any destination in mind.
Had she thought to improve her know
ledge since leaving the Crimea? How would she have gone about it? No medical school accepted women. The idea was unthinkable. What private study was there? What might she learn without a teacher?
Some hazy memory of his own youth intruded into his mind. When he had first come down to London from Northumberland, desperate to better himself, absorb every piece of knowledge he could, and arm himself against a busy, impatient, and suspicious world, he had gone to the reading room of the British Museum.
Hastily he turned on his heel and walked back the twenty yards to Guildford Street and increased his pace past the Foundling Hospital toward Russell Square, then Montague Street and the British Museum. Once inside he went straight to the reading room. Here she would find all manner of books and papers if she were really as thirsty for learning as her father had said.
He approached the attendant with a sense of excitement that was wildly out of proportion to the importance of his quest.
“Excuse me, sir, may I interrupt you for a little of your time?”
“Good afternoon, sir. Of course you may,” the man replied with a civil smile. He was small and very dark. “How may I be of service to you? If there is something you wish to find …” His eye roamed in unconcealed awe around the vast expanse of books both visible and invisible. All the world’s knowledge was here, and the miracle of it still amazed him. Monk could see it in his eyes.
“I am inquiring on behalf of the friends and family of a young lady whom I believe used to study here,” Monk began, more or less truthfully.
“Oh dear.” The man’s face darkened. “Oh dear. You speak, sir, as if she were deceased.”
“I am afraid she is. But as so often happens, those who mourn her wish to know anything they can of her. It is all there is left.”
“Of course. Yes, of course.” The man nodded several times. “Yes, I do understand. But people do not always leave their names, you know, particularly if it is newspapers and periodicals that they come to read. Or the sort of thing young ladies usually seek—I’m afraid.”
