by Anne Perry
She had been profoundly frightened, but now she was sufficiently safe, she could give rein to anger also.
“Nothing happened to me,” she said icily. “You asked me to go there—”
“Callandra asked you,” he interrupted with a curl of his lip.
“If you like,” she said equally quickly, and with a tight hard smile to match his. “Callandra asked me in order to assist you in getting the information that you could not have found yourself.”
“That she thought I could not have found,” he corrected again.
She raised her eyebrows very high. “Oh—was she mistaken? I cannot understand how. I have not seen you around the corridors or in the wards and operating rooms. Or was that dresser who fell over the slop pail yesterday you in heavy disguise?”
A flash of amusement crossed his eyes but he refused to give way to it.
“I do not risk my life in idiotic ways to get information!” he said coldly.
“Of course not,” she agreed, aching to hit him, to feel the release of physical action and reaction, to contact him more immediately than with words, however stinging the sarcasm. But self-preservation restrained her hand. “You always play very safe, no risk at all,” she went on. “No danger to yourself. To hell with the results. How unfortunate if the wrong man is hanged—at least we are all safe. I have noticed that is your philosophy.”
In a cooler temper he would not have responded to that, but his anger was still boiling.
“I take risks when it is necessary. Not when it is merely stupid. And I think what I’m doing first!”
This time she did laugh, loudly, uproariously, and in a most undignified and unladylike fashion. It felt wonderful. All the tensions and fears fled out of her, the fury and the loneliness, and she laughed even harder. She could not have stopped even if she had tried and she did not try.
“Stupid woman,” he said between his teeth, his face coloring. “God preserve me from the half-witted!” He turned away because he was about to laugh as well, and she knew it as surely as if he had.
Eventually, with tears streaming down her face, she regained control of herself and fished for a handkerchief to blow her nose.
“If you have composed yourself?” he said, still trying to maintain a frigid expression. “Then perhaps you will tell me if you have learned anything useful, either in this operation or in any other?”
“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “That is what I came for.” She had already decided, without even having to consider it, that she would not tell him about Callandra’s feelings for Kristian Beck. It was a totally private matter. To mention it would be a kind of betrayal. “The corridor is almost deserted at that time of day, and the few who do pass along it are either rushed or too tired to remark anything, or both. They didn’t notice me, and I don’t think they would have noticed anyone else either.”
“Not even a man?” he pressed, his attention fully back on the case again. “In trousers and jacket, rather than a dresser’s clothes?”
“It’s very dim. I don’t think they would have,” she said thoughtfully. “One would simply have to have turned one’s back and pretended to be putting something down the chute. At that time in the morning people have been on duty all night and are too exhausted to mind anyone else’s business. Their own is more than enough. They are thinking of lying down somewhere and going to sleep. That’s about all that matters.”
He looked at her more closely.
“You look tired,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “In fact, you look awful.”
“You don’t,” she rejoined instantly. “You look very well. But then I daresay I have been working a great deal harder than you have.”
He took her totally by surprise by agreeing with her.
“I know.” He smiled suddenly. “Let us hope the sick are suitably grateful. I expect Callandra will be, and you can buy a new dress. You certainly need one. What else did you discover if anything?”
The remark about the dress stung. She was always aware of how very smart he was. She would never have let him know—he was more than vain enough—but she admired it. She also knew quite well that she was seldom fashionable herself, and never really feminine. It was an art which eluded her, and she had stopped trying. She would love to be as beautiful as Imogen, as graceful and romantic.
He was staring at her, waiting for a reply.
“Sir Herbert is very likely to be offered a position as medical adviser to a member of the Royal household,” she said hastily. “I don’t know who.”
“Doesn’t seem to be relevant.” He shrugged, dismissing it. “But I suppose it may be. What else?”
“Sir John Robertson, one of the governors, has financial troubles,” she recounted in a businesslike tone. “The chaplain drinks; not wildly, but more than is good for his judgment at times, and his balance. And the treasurer has wandering eyes, and hands, where the better-looking nurses are concerned. But he favors fair hair and generous bosoms.”
Monk glanced at her but forbore from comment.
“Not likely to have bothered Prudence, then,” he observed.
She felt as if his remark had been personal and included her.
“I think she could have dealt with him very adequately if he had,” she answered fiercely. “I certainly could.”
He grinned broadly, on the edge of laughter, but he said nothing aloud.
“And did you discover anything?” she inquired with raised eyebrows. “Or have you simply been waiting to see what I would learn?”
“Of course I discovered things. Are you requiring me to report to you?” He sounded surprised.
“Certainly I am.”
“Very well. Both Geoffrey Taunton and Nanette Cuthbertson had excellent opportunity,” he recounted, standing a little more upright, like a soldier reporting, but he was still smiling. “He was in the hospital that morning to see Prudence, and by his own admission he quarreled with her.”
“She was seen alive after the quarrel,” she interrupted.
“I know that. But there is no proof he left the hospital. He did not catch the next train. In fact, he did not return home until midday and cannot prove where he was. Do you think I would bother to mention it if he could?”
She shrugged. “Go on.”
“And Miss Cuthbertson was also up in town that morning. She had been here since the previous night, when she attended a ball at Mrs. Waldemar’s house, which is in Regent Square, only two streets away from the hospital.” He was looking at her as he spoke. “And curiously, after having danced all night, she rose very early and was absent for breakfast. According to her, she went for a walk in the fresh air. She says it was not to the hospital, but there is no proof of where it was. No one saw her.”
“And she had an excellent motive in jealousy,” Hester agreed. “But would she be strong enough?”
“Oh yes,” he said without hesitation. “She is a fine horsewoman. I watched her the other day reining in an animal any man would have trouble mastering. She has the strength, especially if she took someone by surprise.”
“And I suppose she could have passed herself off as a nurse if she had a plain enough dress,” she said thoughtfully. “But there is nothing to prove that she did.”
“I know that.” His voice rose sharply. “If there were I would have taken it to Jeavis.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing indicative.”
“Then I suppose we had better return to work and try harder.” She rose to her feet. “I think I shall see if I can learn more about some of the governors—and Sir Herbert and Dr. Beck.”
He moved to stand between her and the door, his face suddenly completely serious, his eyes intent on hers.
“Be careful, Hester! Someone murdered Prudence Barrymore—not in a fight and not by accident. He will just as easily kill you if you let him think he has cause.”
“Of course I will be careful,” she said with a quick rush of warmth. “I am not asking qu
estions, I am simply observing.”
“Possibly,” he conceded doubtfully.
“What are you going to do?”
“Investigate the student doctors.”
“Tell me if there is anything I can do to be of help. I may learn something of them.” He was standing close to her, listening, watching her face. “They seem very ordinary to me so far, overworked, eager to learn, arrogant toward the female staff, full of stupid jokes to offset the distress they feel when people die and their own inadequacy, always poor and often hungry and tired. They make bad jokes about Sir Herbert, but they admire him immensely.”
“Do you?” Suddenly he seemed more interested.
“Yes,” she answered with surprise. “Yes. I think I do, now.”
“Be careful, Hester!” he said again, urgency mounting in his voice.
“You already said that, and I promised I would. Good night.”
“Good night …”
The following day she had several hours off duty, and used them to visit two people for whom she had formed a considerable friendship. One was Major Hercules Tiplady, although the “Hercules” was a secret between them which she had promised not to reveal. She had been nursing him privately during his recovery from a badly broken leg while she was involved in the Carlyon case, and she had grown unusually fond of him. She did not often feel more than a regard and a responsibility toward her patients, but for the major she had developed a genuine friendship.
She had known Edith Sobell before the case. It was their friendship which had drawn her into it, and through that hectic time they had become very close. When Edith had left home it had been Hester who had made it possible by introducing her to the major, and from that had sprung his offer to employ her, a widow with no professional skills, as his secretary and assistant to help him write his memoirs of his experiences in India.
Hester arrived in the early afternoon, without having given notice of her intention because there had been no time. However, she was welcomed in with delight and an immediate abandonment of all work.
“Hester! How wonderful to see you. How are you? You look so tired, my dear. Do come in and tell us how you are, and let us fetch tea for you. You are stopping, aren’t you?” Edith’s curious face, at once plain and beautiful, was shining with enthusiasm.
“Of course she is staying,” the major said quickly. He was fully restored to health now and walked with only the barest limp. Hester had never seen him active before, and it was quite startling to have him upright and attending to her, rather than her assisting him. All the marks of pain and frustration were gone from his face and he still looked as scrubbed pink and clean and his hair stood up like a white crest.
She acquiesced with pleasure. It was a warm, very sweet feeling to be among friends again, and with no duties to perform and nothing expected of her beyond tea and conversation.
“Who are you with now? Where are you nursing?” Edith asked eagerly, folding herself into a large armchair in a characteristic gawky mixture of grace and inelegance. It delighted Hester to see it: it meant she was utterly at home here. There was no perching on the edge of the chair, back straight, skirts arranged, hands folded as a lady should. Hester found herself relaxing also, and smiling for no particular reason.
“At the Royal Free Hospital on the Gray’s Inn Road,” she replied.
“A hospital?” Major Tiplady was amazed. “Not privately? Why? I thought you found it too …” He hesitated, unsure how to say what he meant diplomatically.
“Restricting to your temper,” Edith finished for him.
“It is,” Hester agreed, still smiling. “I am only there temporarily. It was very civil of you not to remind me that I am also fortunate to find a hospital which will take me after my last experience. Lady Callandra Daviot is on the Board of Governors. She obtained the position for me because their best nurse, another from the Crimea, was murdered.”
“Oh how terrible!” Edith’s face fell. “How did it happen?”
“We don’t know,” Hester replied with a return to gravity. “Lady Callandra has called Monk into the case, as well as the police, of course. And that is why I am there.”
“Ah!” The major’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “So you are engaged upon detection again.” Then he also became very grave. “Do be careful, my dear. Such an undertaking may become dangerous if your intent is realized.”
“You have no need for concern,” Hester assured him. “I am simply a nurse working like any other.” She smiled broadly. “Such dislike as I have collected is because I served in the Crimea and am bossy and opinionated.”
“And what was the dead nurse like?” Edith inquired.
“Bossy and opinionated.” Hester gave a wry smile. “But truly, if that were a motive for murder there would be few of us left.”
“Have you any idea why she was killed?” the major asked, leaning over the back of the chair in which Edith was sitting.
“No—no we haven’t. There are several possibilities. Monk is looking into some of them. I should like to find out more about a German doctor who is working there. I admit I like him and am more eager to prove his innocence than his guilt. I wonder if …” Then she stopped. What she had been going to say sounded impertinent now.
“We could help you,” the major finished for her. “We should be delighted. Tell us his name, and what you know about him, and we shall search for the rest. You may depend upon us. Mayn’t she, Edith?”
“Most certainly,” Edith said keenly. “I have become really quite good at discovering things—in a literary sort of way, of course.” She smiled ruefully, her individual face with its curved nose and humorous mouth showing her perception of the difference between research and detection as she thought Hester practiced it. “But I imagine much will be known of him by hospitals where he has worked before. I shall pursue it straightaway. There are medical authorities who have lists of all sorts.” She rearranged herself a little more comfortably. “But tell us what else you have been doing. How are you? You do look rather tired.”
“I shall order tea,” the major said with decision. “You must be thirsty. It’s terribly hot today, and no doubt you walked at least some of the way. Would you like some cucumber sandwiches? And perhaps tomato? I remember you were always fond of tomato.”
“I should love some.” Hester accepted with pleasure, for the refreshment itself, but even more for the friendship and the simple warmth of the occasion. She looked up at the major and smiled. “How thoughtful of you to remember.”
He blushed very faintly and went off about his errand, beaming with satisfaction.
“Tell me,” Edith said again, “everything that is fun and interesting and that you care about since we last met.”
Hester wriggled a little farther down in her chair and began.
At about the same time that Hester was enjoying her tea and cucumber sandwiches with Edith and the major, Callandra was picking up a very elegant wafer-thin finger of bread and butter at the garden party of Lady Stanhope. She was not fond of garden parties, still less of the sort of people who usually attended them, but she had come because she wanted to meet the daughter that Hester had told her Sir Herbert had spoken of, the one maimed for life by the bungled abortion. Even thinking of it chilled her so deeply she felt a little sick.
All around her were the sounds of tinkling cups and glasses, murmured conversation, laughter, the swish and rustle of skirts. Footmen moved discreetly among the guests with fresh bottles of chilled champagne or tall glasses of iced lemonade. Maids in crisp lace aprons and starched caps offered trays of sandwiches and tiny pastries or cakes. A titled lady made a joke, and everyone around her laughed. Heads turned.
It had not been easy to obtain an invitation. She was not acquainted with Lady Stanhope, who was a quiet woman better pleased to remain at home with her seven children than involve herself in public affairs, and entered society only as much as was required of her to maintain her husband’s standing, and not to find herse
lf remarked upon. This garden party was a way of discharging a great many of her obligations in one event, and she was not totally conversant with her guest list. Consequently she had not seemed surprised to meet Callandra. Perhaps she supposed her to be someone whose hospitality she had accepted without remembering, and whom she had invited in order to cancel a debt.
Callandra had actually come in the company of a mutual friend, upon whom she felt quite free to call for a favor without any detail of explanation.
She’d had to dress far more formally than she enjoyed. Her maid, a most comfortable and agreeable creature who had worked for her for years, had always found hair difficult and possessed little natural art with it. On the other hand, she was extremely good-tempered, had excellent health, a pleasing sense of humor, and was supremely loyal. Since Callandra seldom cared in the slightest what her hair looked like, these virtues far outweighed her failings.
However, today it would have been appreciated had she had skill with the comb and pin. Instead, Callandra looked as if she had ridden to the event at a gallop, and every time she put her hand up to tidy away a stray strand, she made it worse and (if such a thing were possible) drew more attention to it.
She was dressed in a medium shade of blue, trimmed with white. It was not especially fashionable, but it was most becoming, and that, at her age, mattered far more.
She was not really sure what she hoped to achieve. Even in the most fluent and companionable conversation with Victoria Stanhope, should she contrive such a thing, she could hardly ask her who had operated on her so tragically, nor what money he had taken from her for the act—one could hardly call it a service.
She was standing at the edge of the lawn, next to the herbaceous border, which was now filled with soaring delphiniums, blazing peonies, rather overblown poppies, and some blue veronica and catmint which smelled delicious. She felt miserable, out of place, and extremely foolish. It was quite pointless to have come, and she was on the edge of looking for some socially acceptable excuse to leave when she was engaged in conversation by an elderly gentleman who was determined to explain to her his theories on the propagation of pinks, and assure that she understood precisely how to instruct her gardener in the matter of cuttings.
