A Sudden Fearful Death

chapter 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 serf-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 edg-ily. "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 dearly 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 knowledge 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."

"This young lady was tall, of a determined and intelligent manner, and would in all likelihood be plainly dressed, perhaps in blue or gray, and with few, if any, hoops in her skirts."

"Ah." The man's face lightened. "I think I may know the young lady you mean. Would she by any chance have been interested in medical books and papers? A most remarkable person, most serious-minded. Always very pleasant, she was, except to those who interrupted her unnecessarily and made light of her intention." He nodded quickly. "I do recall her being very brisk indeed with a young gentleman who was rather persistent in his attentions, shall we say?"

"That would be she." Monk felt a sudden elation. "She studied medical texts, you say?"

"Oh indeed yes; most diligent, she was. A very serious person." He looked up at Monk. "A trifle daunting, if you know what I mean, that a young lady should be so intent. I assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that someone in her family suffered a disease and she thought to learn as much of it as possible." His face fell. "Now it seems I was wrong and it was she herself. I am most deeply sorry. For all her solemnity, I rather took to her." He said it with a slight air of apology, as if it needed some explaining. "There was something in her that... oh well. I am very sorry to know it. How may I help you, sir? I have no recollection of what she read now, I am afraid. But perhaps I can look. It was very general..."

"No-no, that is not necessary, thank you," Monk declined. He had what he wished. "You have been most generous. Thank you, sir, for your time and your courtesy. Good day to you."

"Good day, Mr. er-good day, sir."

And Monk left with more knowledge than when he went in but no wiser, and with a feeling of success which had no basis at all in fact.

* * * * *

Hester also observed Callandra, but with a woman's eye and a far greater and more subtle sensitivity as to the cause of her distress. Only something deeply personal could trouble her so much. She could not be afraid for herself, surely? Jeavis would not suspect her of having murdered Prudence; she had no possible reason. And Monk had made no secret that it was Callandra who had hired him to investigate further.

Could it be that she knew, or thought she knew, who the murderer was, and feared for her own safety? It seemed unlikely. If she knew something, surely she would have told Monk immediately and taken steps to guard herself.

Hester was still turning over unsatisfactory possibilities in her mind when she was sent for to assist Kristian Beck. Mr. Prendergast was recovering well and no longer required her presence through the night. She was tired from too little sleep, the uncertainty of not being able to rest until she woke naturally.

Kristian Beck said nothing, but she knew from the occasional expression in his eyes that he was aware how weary she was, and he merely smiled at her occasional hesitations. He did not even criticize her when she dropped an instrument and had to reach down and pick it up, wipe it clean and then pass it to him.

When they were finished she was embarrassed at her ineptitude and eager to leave, but she could not forsake the opportunity to observe him further. He also was tired, and he was far too intelligent to be unaware of Jeavis's suspicions of him. It is at such times that people betray themselves: feelings are too raw to hide and there is no strength for the extra guard upon thought.

"I do not hold a great deal of hope for him," Kristian said to her quietly, regarding the patient "But we have done all we can."

"Do you wish me to sit up with himT' she asked out of duty. She was dreading his reply.

But she need not have been worried. He smiled-a brief, illuminating, and gentle gesture. "No. No, Mrs. Flaherty will assign someone. You should sleep."

"But-"

"You must learn to let go, Miss Latterly." He shook his head very slightly. "If you do not, you will exhaust yourself-and then whom can you help? Surely the Crimea taught you that the first rule of caring for others is that you must maintain your own strength, and that if you come to the limit of your own resources your judgment will be affected." His eyes did not leave her face. "And the sick deserve the best you can give. Neither skill nor compassion are enough; you must also have wisdom."

"Of course you are right," she agreed. "Perhaps I was losing my sense of proportion."

A flash of humor crossed his face. "It is not hard to do. Come." And he led the way out of the theater, holding the door open for her. They were in the corridor, walking side by side in silence, when they almost bumped into Callandra as she came out of one of the wards.

She stopped abruptly, the color rushing up her cheeks. There was no apparent reason she should have been flustered, and yet it seemed she was. Hester drew breath to say something, then realized that Callandra was looking only at Kristian; she was scarcely aware of Hester to his left and half a step behind.

"Oil-good morning-Doctor," Callandra said hastily, trying to regain her composure.

He looked a little puzzled. "Good morning, Lady Callandra." His voice was soft and he spoke the words very distinctly, as if he liked her name on his tongue. He frowned. "Is all well?"

"Oh yes," she replied. Then she realized how ridiculous that was, in the circumstances. She smiled, but the effort it cost her was plain to Hester. "As good as we may hope, with police all over the place, I suppose. They do not seem to have achieved anything."

"I doubt they would tell us if they had," Kristian said ruefully. Then he gave a thin answering smile, full of doubt and self-mockery. "I'm sure they suspect me! Inspector Jeavis keeps on asking me about having quarreled with poor Nurse Barrymore. I've finally remembered it was over a mistake she felt one of the student doctors had made, which I overruled. It makes one wonder just what was overheard, and by whom." He shook his head a little. "I never before worried greatly what people thought of me, but now I confess it is in my mind more and more of the time."

Callandra did not look directly at him, and the color was high in her cheeks. "You cannot govern your life by what you fear others may think of you. If-if what you are doing is what you believe to be right-they will have to think as they please." She took a deep breath and then said nothing.

Both Hester and Kristian waited for her to continue, but she did not. Left as it was it sounded bare, and a little trite, hot like Callandra at all.

"Does..." She looked at Kristian directly. "Does Jeavis disturb you?" This time her eyes searched his face.

"I dislike being suspected," he answered frankly. "But I know the man is only doing his duty. I wish I had some idea what actually happened to poor Nurse Barrymore, but hard as I think, nothing conies to me."

"There are innumerable reasons why someone might have killed her," Callandra said with sudden ferocity. "A rejected lover, a jealous woman, an envious nurse, a mad or disaffected patient, all sorts of people." She finished a little breathlessly, and without looking at Hester.

"I expect Jeavis will have thought of those things too."

Kristian pulled a slight face. His eyes never left Callandra's. "I hope he is pursuing them with equal diligence. Do you wish to speak to me about something? Or did we merely bump into you?"

"Just... chance," Callandra replied. "I am-on my way to see the chaplain."

Kristian bowed very slightly and excused himself, leaving Hester and Callandra alone in the corridor. Apparently without realizing it, Callandra watched him until he turned the corner into a ward and disappeared, then she looked back at Hester.

"How are you, my dear?" she asked with a sudden gentleness in her voice. "You look very tired." She herself looked exhausted. Her skin was pale and her hair wilder than ever, as if she had run her fingers through it distractedly.

Hester entirely dismissed her own feelings. There was obviously some deep trouble in Callandra and her whole concern- was how to help. She was uncertain as to whether she should even acknowledge that she was aware of it, much less ask what it was. Something in Callandra's manner made her feel it was private, and in all possibility that was part of its burden.

She made herself assume a casual expression.

"I'm tired at the moment," she acknowledged. There was no point in a lie; it would be unbearably patronizing. "But the work is most rewarding. Sir Herbert really is a brilliant surgeon. He has not only skill but courage."

"Yes indeed," Callandra agreed with a flash of enthusiasm. "I hear he is high in line for appointment as medical adviser to someone in the Royal household-I forget whom."

"No wonder he is looking pleased with himself," Hester said immediately. "But I daresay it is well deserved. Still, it is a great honor."

"Indeed." Callandra's face darkened again. "Hester, have you seen William lately? Do you know how he is doing-if he has learned anything... pertinent?" There was an edge to her voice and she looked at Hester with a nervousness she failed to conceal.

"I haven't seen him for a day or two," Hester replied, wishing she knew what better to say. What troubled Callandra so much? Usually she was a woman of deep sensitivity, of empathy and a great will to fight, but for all that, there was an inner calm in her, a certainty that no outside forces could alter. Suddenly that peace at the core of her was gone. Whatever it was she feared had struck at the root of her being.

And it concerned Kristian Beck. Hester was almost sure of that. Had she heard the rumors of his quarrel with Prudence and feared he was guilty? Even so, why would that cause her anything but the same grief it would bring everyone else? Why should it disturb her in this quite fundamental way?

The answer was obvious. There was only one possibility in Hester's mind, one reason such a thing would have disturbed her. Her mind flew back to a bitter night during the siege of Sebastopol. The snow had been deep, muffling the hills in white, deadening sound, laying a biting cold upon everything. The wind had got up so it bit through the thin blankets the men huddled in, shuddering with cold. Everyone was hungry. Even now she could not bear to think of the horses.

She had thought herself in love with one of the surgeons-although what was the difference between being in love and thinking yourself so? Surely an emotion is the same whether it lasts or not-like pain. If you believe you hurt, you feel it just the same.

It was that night that she had realized he had been so terrified on the battlefield that he had left wounded men to die. She could still remember the agony of that discovery now, years after she had ceased to feel anything for him except compassion.

Callandra was in love with Kristian Beck. Of course. Now that she realized it, she wondered how she had ever failed to see it. And she was terrified that he was guilty.

Was that merely because of Jeavis's suspicions over the half-heard quarrel? Or had she learned something further herself?

She looked at Callandra's pale, tired face and knew that she would tell her nothing, not that Hester would have asked. In her place, Hester would have told no one. She would have gone on believing there must be some reason, some explanation that cast a different light. She remembered the murder of Joscelin Grey, and all the doubt and pain that had cost, and knew that to be true.

"I had better find him and tell him my progress, though," she said aloud, jerking Callandra's attention back. "Little as it is."

"Yes-yes of course," Callandra agreed. "Then I shall not detain you longer. But do get some sleep, my dear. Everyone has to rest some time, or they cannot have the strength to be useful."

Hester smiled briefly, as if in agreement, and excused herself.

* * * * *

Before she found Monk again she wanted to have another look at the corridor near the laundry chute at seven in the morning, roughly the time at which Prudence had been killed. She took steps to see that she was awake at half past six, and by seven she was alone beside the chute. It was broad daylight, and it had been for nearly three hours, but the stretch of the passage was dim because there were no windows, and at this time of the year the gas was not lit.

She stood against the wall and waited. In thirty-five minutes one dresser passed her carrying a bundle of bandages, looking neither to right nor left. He appeared tired, and Hester thought that quite possibly he did not even see her. If he had, she doubted very much he could have said afterwards who she was.

One nurse passed, going in the opposite direction. She swore at Hester in a general impersonal anger without looking at her. She was probably tired, hungry, and saw nothing ahead of her but endless days and nights the same. Hester had no heart to swear back.

After another quarter hour, having seen no one, she was about to leave. She had learned all she wished to. Maybe Monk already knew it, but if he did, it was by other evidence. She knew it for herself. Anyone would have had time to kill Prudence and put her in the laundry chute without fear of being observed, or even if they were, of being recognized by a witness who would testify against them.

She turned and walked toward the stairs down-and almost bumped into the huge form of Dora Parsons, standing with her arms folded.

"Oh!" Hester stopped abruptly, a sudden chill of fear running through her.

Dora grasped hold of her like an immovable clamp. Struggle would have been pointless.

"And what were you doing standing there in the shadows by the laundry chute, miss?" Dora said very quietly, her voice no more than a husky whisper.

Hester's mind went numb. It was instinctive to deny the truth, but Dora's bright odd eyes were watching her intently, and there was nothing gullible in her-in fact, she looked hideously knowing.

"I-" Hester began, chill turning to hot panic. There was no one else within hearing. The deep stairwell was only two feet away. A quick lift by those huge shoulders and she would be over it, to fall twenty or thirty feet down onto the stone floor of the laundry room. Was that how it had been for Prudence? A few moments of throat-closing terror and then death? Was the whole answer as simple as this-a huge, ugly, stolid nurse with a personal hatred of women who were a threat to her livelihood with their new ideas and standards?

"Yeah?" Dora demanded. "What? Cat got your tongue? Not so smart now, are we?" She shook Hester roughly, like a rat. "What were you doing there? What were you waiting for, eh?"

There was no believable lie. She might as well die, if she were going to, telling the truth. It did occur to her to scream, but that might well panic Dora into killing her instantly.

"I was..." Her mouth was so dry she had to gulp and swallow before she could form the words. "I was..." she began again, "trying to see how deserted the-the corridor was at this time of day. Who usually passed." She swallowed again. Dora's huge hands were gripping her arms so tightly she was going to have purple bruises there tomorrow-if there was a tomorrow.

Dora moved her face a fraction closer till Hester could see the open pores of her skin and the separate short black eyelashes.

"O' course you were," Dora hissed softly. "Just 'cos I ain't bin to school don't mean I'm stupid! 'Oo did yer see? An' why do you care? You weren't even 'ere when that bitch were done. What's it to you? That's wot I wanna know." She looked her up and down. "You just a nosy cow, 'r yer got some reason?"

Hester had a strong belief that merely being nosy would not excuse her in Dora's eyes. And a reason would be more believable.

"A-a reason," she gasped.

"Yeah? So what is it then?"

They were only a foot from the banister now, and the drop down the stairwell. A quick turn of those great shoulders and Hester would be over.

What would she believe? And what would she not hate her for? At this point truth was irrelevant.

"I-I want to make sure they don't blame Dr. Beck just because he's foreign," she gasped.

"Why?" Dora's eyes narrowed. "Wot's it ter you if they do?" she demanded. "You only just got here. Why do you care if they 'ang 'im?"

"I knew him before." Hester was warming to the lie now. It sounded good.

"Did yer, now? And where was that then? 'E didn't work in your 'ospital in the war! 'E were 'ere."

"I know that," Hester answered. "The war only lasted two years."

"Got a thing for 'im, 'ave yer?" Dora's grip relaxed a little. "Won't do yer no good. 'E's married. Cold bitch with a face like a dead 'addock and a body to match. Still, that's your trouble, not mine. I daresay as yer wouldn't be the first fine lady to take 'er pleasures wrong side of the blanket." She squinted at Hester narrowly, a new expression in her face, not entirely unkind. "Mind, you be careful as yer don't get yerself inter no trouble." Her grasp loosened even more. "Wot you learn, then?"

Hester took a deep breath.

"That hardly anyone comes along there, and those who do aren't looking right or left, and probably wouldn't recognize anyone in the shadows even if they noticed them. There's plenty of time to kill someone and stuff them into me chute."

Dora grinned suddenly and startlingly, showing several blackened teeth.

"That's right. So you watch yourself, miss! Or you could end up the same." And without warning she let go, pushing Hester away with a little shove, and turned on her heel to march away.

Hester's knees were so weak they nearly buckled underneath her and she sank to the floor, feeling it hard and cold below her, her back to the wall. She must look ridiculous. Then, on second thought, everyone passing would only think she was drunk-not collapsed with relief. She sat there for several more moments before climbing up, holding the railing and swallowing hard before setting out again along the passage.

* * * * *

Monk exploded with anger when he heard about it in his lodgings. His face was white and his eyes narrow and lips drawn back.

"You stupid creature," he said in a hard low voice. "You fatuous, dangerous, sheep-brained idiot! Callandra said you were tired, but she didn't say you'd taken leave of what little sense you have." He glared at her. "There's no point in asking you what you thought you were doing! Quite obviously you didn't think! Now I've got to go and look after you as if you were a child-a little child, not even a sensible one."

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 Cuth-bertson 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 questions, 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 shallpursue 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 herself 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.

Three times she tried to persuade him that her gardener was quite skilled in the art, but his enthusiasm overrode all she could do, and it was a quarter of an hour later when she finally extricated herself and found herself face to face with young Arthur Stanhope, Sir Herbert's eldest son. He was a slender young man with a pale complexion and smooth brown hair. He was about nineteen and very obviously doing his duty at his mother's party. It would have been heartless to dismiss him. The only decent thing was to answer all his polite questions and try to keep her mind on the totally meaningless conversation.

She was saying yes and no at what she hoped were appropriate junctures when she became aware of a girl of about seventeen hovering a few yards away. She was very thin and seemed to stand almost lopsidedly, as if she might walk with a limp. Her dress was a pretty blush pink, and very well cut, but all the dressmaker's skill could not hide the drawn look on her face nor the smudges of tiredness under her eyes. Callandra had seen too many invalids not to recognize the signs of pain when she saw them so clearly, or the attitude of one who finds standing tiring.

"Excuse me," she said, interrupting Arthur without a thought.

"Eh?" He looked startled. "Yes?"

"I think the young lady is waiting for you." She indicated the girl in pink.

He turned around to follow her gaze. A mixture of emotions filled his face-discomfort, defensiveness, irritation, and tenderness.

"Oh-yes, Victoria, do come and meet Lady Callandra Daviot."

Victoria hesitated; now that attention was drawn to her, she was self-conscious.

Callandra knew what life lay ahead for a girl who could not ever hope to marry. She would be permanently dependent upon her father for financial support, and upon her mother for companionship and affection. She would never have a home of her own, unless she were an only child of wealthy parents, which Victoria was not. Arthur would naturally inherit the estate, apart from a suitable dowry for his marriageable sisters. His brothers would make their own way, having been given appropriate education and a handsome start.

For Victoria, by far the most consistently painful thing would be the pity, the well-meaning and desperately cruel remarks, the unthinking questions, the young men who paid her court-until they knew.

With an ache inside her that was almost intolerable, Callandra smiled at the girl.

"How do you do, Miss Stanhope," she said with all the charm she could muster, which was far more than she realized.

"How do you do, Lady Callandra," Victoria said with a hesitant smile in answer.

"What a delightful garden you have," Callandra went on. Not only was she considerably the elder, and therefore it was incumbent upon her to lead the conversation, it was quite apparent that Victoria found it hard to accomplish what duty required, and did not enjoy it. Social awkwardness was a pinprick compared with the mortal wound that had already been dealt her, but at that moment Callandra would have spared her even the thought of pain, much less its reality. "I see you have several fine pinks as well. I love the perfume of them, don't you?" She saw Victoria's answering smile. "A gentleman with an eyeglass was just explaining to me how they are propagated to cross one strain with another."

"Oh yes-Colonel Strother," Victoria said quickly, taking a step closer. "I'm afraid he does tend to elaborate on the subject rather."

"Just a little," Callandra conceded. "Still, it is a pleasant enough thing to discuss, and I daresay he meant it kindly."

"I had rather listen to Colonel Strother on pinks than Mrs. Warburton on immorality in garrison towns." Victoria smiled a little. "Or Mrs. Peabody on her health, or Mrs. Kilbride on the state of the cotton industry in the plantations of America, or Major Drissell on the Indian mutiny." Her enthusiasm grew with a sense of ease with Callandra. "We get the massacre at Amritsar every time he calls. I have even had it served up with fish at dinner, and again with the sorbet."

"Some people have very little sense of proportion," Callandra agreed with answering candor. "On their favorite subject, they tend to bolt like a horse with a bit between its teeth."

Victoria laughed; it seemed the analogy amused her.

"Excuse me." A nice-looking young man of perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two came up apologetically, a small lace handkerchief in his hand. He looked at Victoria, almost ignoring Callandra and apparently not having seen Arthur at all. He held up the scrap of lawn and lace. "I think you may have dropped this, ma'am. Excuse my familiarity in returning it." He smiled. "But it gives me the opportunity of presenting myself. My name is Robert Oliver."

Victoria's cheeks paled, then flushed deep red. A dozen emotions chased themselves across her face: pleasure, a wild hope, and then the bitterness of memory and realization.

"Thank you," she said in a small tight voice. "But I regret, it is not mine. It must belong to some other-some other lady."

He stared at her, searching her eyes to see whether it was really the dismissal it sounded.

Callandra longed to intervene, but she knew she would only be prolonging the pain. Robert Oliver had been drawn to something in Victoria's face, an intelligence, an imagination, a vulnerability. Perhaps he even glimpsed what she would have been. He could not know the wound to the body which meant she could never give him what he would so naturally seek.

Without willing it, Callandra found herself speaking.

"How considerate of you, Mr. Oliver. I am sure Miss Stanhope is obliged, but so will be the handkerchief's true owner, I have no doubt" She was also quite convinced that Robert Oliver had no intention of seeking anyone further. He had found the scrap of fabric and used it as an excuse, a gracious and simple one. It had no further purpose.

He looked at her fully for the first time, trying to judge who she was and how much her view mattered. He caught something of the grief in her, and knew it was real, although of course he could not know the cause of it. His thin, earnest young face was full of confusion.

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

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

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

Robert Oliver was still staring at her.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Barker?" he inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped and faced him.

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

"Yes."

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

"Do you know something Mrs. Barker?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

Dear Faith,

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

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

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

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

Your loving sister.

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

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

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

He read three more, his attention increasingly waning.

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

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

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

Prudence.

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

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

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

Sir Herbert has betrayed me totally! At first I could hardly believe it. I went to him, full of hope-and, fool that I was, of confidence. He laughed at me and told me it was totally impossible and always would be.

I realized, like a hard slap in the face, that he had been using me, and what I could give him. He never intended to keep his word.

But I have a way of keeping him to it. I will not permit him the choice. I hate force-I abhor it. But what else is left me? I will not give up-I will not! I have the weapons, and I will use them!

Was that what had happened? She had gone to him with her threat and he had retaliated with his own weapon- murder?

Faith Barker was right. The letters were enough to bring Sir Herbert Stanhope to trial-and very possibly enough to hang him.

In the morning he would take them to Runcorn.

* * * * *

It was barely eight o'clock when Monk put the letters into his pocket and rode in a hansom to the police station. He alighted, paid the driver, and went up the steps savoring every moment, the bright air already warm. The sounds of shouting, the clatter of hooves, and the rattle of cart wheels over the stones, even the smells of vegetables, fish, rubbish, and old horse manure were inoffensive te him today.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully to the desk sergeant, and saw the man's look of surprise, and then alarm.

"Mornin' sir," he said warily, his eyes narrowing. "What can we do for you, Mr. Monk?"

Monk smiled, showing his teeth. "I should like to see Mr. Runcorn, if you please? I have important evidence in connection with the murder of Prudence Barrymore."

"Yes sir. And what would that be?"

"That would be confidential, Sergeant, and concerns a very important person. Will you tell Mr. Runcorn, please?"

The sergeant thought about it for a moment, regarding Monk's face. A flood of memories came back to him, transparent in his expression, and all the old fears of a quick and savage tongue. He decided he was still more afraid of Monk than he was of Runcorn.

"Yes, Mr. Monk. I'll go and ask him." Then he remembered that Monk no longer had any status. He smiled tentatively. "But I can't say as he'll see you."

"Tell him it's enough for an arrest," Monk added with acute satisfaction. "I'll take it elsewhere if he'd rather?"

"No-no sir. I'll ask him." And carefully, so as not to show any deferential haste, still less anything that could be taken for obedience, he left the desk and walked across the floor to the stairs.

He was gone for several minutes, and returned with an almost expressionless face.

"Yes sir, if you like to go up, Mr. Runcorn will see you now."

"Thank you," Monk said with elaborate graciousness. Then he went up the stairs and knocked on Runcorn's door. Now there were a host of memories crowding him too, countless times he had stood here with all manner of news, or none at all.

He wondered what Runcorn was thinking, if there was a flicker of nervousness in him, recollection of their past clashes, victories and defeats. Or was he now so sure of himself, with Monk out of office, that he could win any confrontation?

"Come." Runcorn's voice was strong and full of anticipation.

Monk opened the door and strode in, smiling.

Runcorn leaned a little back in his chair and gazed at Monk with bland confidence.

"Good morning," Monk said casually, hands in his pockets, his fingers closing over Prudence's letters.

For several seconds they stared at each other. Slowly Runcorn's smile faded a little. His eyes narrowed.

"Well?" he said testily. "Don't stand there grinning. Have you got something to give the police, or not?"

Monk felt all the old confidence rushing back to him, the knowledge of his superiority over Runcorn, his quicker mind, his harder tongue, and above all the power of his will. He could not recall specific victories, but he knew the flavor of them as surely as if it were a heat in the room, indefinable, but immediate.

"Yes, I have something," he replied. He pulled the letters out and held them where Runcorn could see them.

Runcorn waited, refusing to ask what they were. He stared at Monk, but the certainty was ebbing away. Old recollections were overpowering.

"Letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister," Monk explained. "I think when you have read them you will have sufficient evidence to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope." He said it because he knew it would rattle Runcorn, who was terrified of offending socially or politically important people, and even more of making a mistake from which he could not retreat, or blame anyone else. Already a flush of anger was creeping up his cheeks and a tightness around his mouth.

"Letters from Nurse Barrymore to her sister?" Runcorn repeated, struggling to gain time to order his thoughts. "Hardly proof of much, Monk. Word of a dead woman- unsubstantiated. Don't think we would be arresting anyone on that. Never get a conviction." He smiled, but it was a sickly gesture, and his eyes reflected nothing of it.

Memory came flashing back of that earlier time when they were so much younger, of Runcorn being equally timid then, afraid of offending a powerful man, even when it seemed obvious he was hiding information. Monk could feel the power of his contempt then as acutely as if they were both still young, raw to their profession and their own abilities. He knew his face registered it just as clearly now as it had then. And he saw Runcom's recognition of it, and the hatred fire in his eyes.

"I'll take the letters and make my own decision as to what they're worth." Runcorn's voice was harsh and his lips curled, but his breathing was harder and his hand, thrust out to grasp the papers, was rigid. "You've done the right thing bringing them to the police." He added the last word with satisfaction and now his eyes met Monk's.

But time had telescoped, at least for Monk, and he thought in some sense for Runcom too; the past was always there between them, with all its wounds and angers, resentments, failures, and petty revenges.

"I hope I have." Monk raised his eyebrows. "I'm beginning to think perhaps I should have taken them to someone with the courage to use them openly and let the court decide what they prove."

Runcorn blinked, his eyes hot, full of confusion. That defensive look was just the same as it had been when he and Monk had quarreled over the case years ago. Only Runcorn had been younger, his face unlined. Now the innocence had gone, he knew Monk and had tasted defeat, and final victory had not wiped it out.

What had that case been about? Had they solved it in the end?

"Not your place," Runcorn was saying. "You'd be withholding evidence, and that's a crime. Don't think I wouldn't prosecute you, because I would." Then a deep pleasure came into his eyes. "But I know you, Monk. You'll give them to me because you wouldn't miss the chance of showing up someone important. You can't abide success, people who have made it to the top, because you haven't yourself. Envious, that's what you are. Oh, you'll give me those letters. You know it, and I know it."

"Of course you know it," Monk said. "That's what terrifies you. You'll have to use them. You'll have to be the one to go and question Sir Herbert, and when he can't answer, you are going to have to press him, drive him into a corner, and in the end arrest him. And the thought of it scares you bloodless. It'll ruin your social aspirations. You'll always be remembered as the man who ruined the best surgeon in London!"

Runcorn was white to the lips, sweat beads on his skin. But he did not back down.

"I'll-" He swallowed. "I'll be remembered as the man who solved the Prudence Barrymore murder," he said huskily. "And that's more than you will, Monk! You'll be forgotten!"

That stung, because it was probably true.

"You won't forget me, Runcorn," Monk said viciously. "Because you'll always know I brought you the letters. You didn't find them yourself. And you'll remember that every time someone tells you how clever you are, what a brilliant detective-you'll know it is really me they are talking about. Only you haven't the courage or the honor to say so. You'll just sit there and smile, and thank them. But you'll know."

"Maybe!" Runcorn rose in his seat, his face red. "But you damn well won't, because it will be in the clubs, and halls and dining rooms where you'll not be invited."

"Neither will you-you fool," Monk said with stinging scorn. "You are not a gentleman, and you never will be. You don't stand like one, you don't dress like one, you don't speak like one-and above all you haven't the nerve, because you know you aren't one. You are a policeman with ambitions above yourself. Especially for the policeman who is going to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope-and that's how you'll be remembered!"

Runconrs shoulders hunched as if he intended hitting Monk. For seconds they stared at each other, both poised to lash out.

Then gradually Runcorn relaxed. He sat back in his chair again and looked up at Monk, a very slight sneer curling his lips.

"You'll be remembered too, Monk, not among the great and famous, not among gentlemen-but here in the police station. You'll be remembered with fear-by the ordinary P.C.s you bullied and made miserable, by the men whose reputations you destroyed because they weren't as ruthless as you or as quick as you thought they should be. You ever read your Bible, Monk? 'How are the mighty fallen?' Remember that?" His smile widened. "Oh, they'll talk about you in the public houses and on the street corners, they'll say how good it is now you're gone. They'll tell the new recruits who complain that they don't know they're born. They should see what a real hard man is-a real bully." The smile was all the way to his eyes. "Give me the letters, Monk, and go and get on with your prying and following and whatever it is you do now."

"What I do now is what I have always done," Monk said between his teeth, his voice choking. "Tidy up the cases you can't manage and clean up behind you!" He thrust the letters out and slammed them on the desk. "I'm not the only one who knows about them, so don't think you can hide them and blame some other poor sod who is as innocent as that poor bloody footman you hanged." And with that he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Runcorn white-faced, his hands shaking.