by Anne Perry
“I suppose not,” she agreed, glancing behind her to make sure the horse was still following obediently. “But it made her very different. She was always … if I say headstrong, please do not think I wish to speak ill of her, it is simply that she had such fierce desires and intentions.” She paused for a moment, ordering her thoughts. “Her dreams were different from other people’s. But after she came home from Scutari she was …” She frowned, searching for the word. “Harder—harder inside.” Then she glanced up at Monk with a brilliant smile. “I’m sorry. Does that sound very unkind? I did not mean to be.”
Monk looked at the warm brown eyes and the delicate cheeks and thought that was exactly what she meant to be, but the last thing she wished anyone to think of her. He felt part of himself respond to her and he hated his own gullibility. She reminded him of Hermione, and God knew how many other women in the past, whose total femininity had appealed to him and deluded him. Why had he been such a fool? He despised fools.
There was a large part of him which was skeptical, even cynical. If Mrs. Barrymore were right, then this charming woman with her soft eyes and smiling mouth had wanted Geoffrey Taunton for herself for a long time, and must have bitterly resented his devotion to Prudence. How old had Prudence been? Callandra had said something about late twenties. Geoffrey Taunton was certainly that and more. Was Nanette Cuthbertson contemporary, or only a little younger? If so, then she was old for marriage, time was running out for her. She would soon be considered an old maid, if not already, and definitely old for bearing her first child. Might she feel more than jealousy, a sense of desperation, panic as the years passed and still Geoffrey Taunton waited for Prudence and she refused him for her career?
“Did you not,” he said noncommittally. “I daresay it is true, and I am asking for truth, hard or not. A polite lie will serve no good now; in fact, it will obscure facts we need to know.” His voice had been cold, but she saw justification in it. She kept the horse close behind her with a heavy pressure on the reins.
“Thank you, Mr. Monk, you set my mind at rest. It is unpleasant to speak ill of people, even slightly.”
“I find many people enjoy it,” he said with a slow smile. “In fact, it is one of their greatest pleasures, particularly if they can feel superior at the time.”
She was taken aback. It was not the sort of thing one acknowledged. “Er—do you think so?”
He had nearly spoiled his own case. “Some people,” he said, knocking the head off a long stalk of wheat that had grown across the path. “But I regret I have to ask you to tell me something more of Prudence Barrymore, even if it is distasteful to you, because I do not know who else to ask, who will be frank. Eulogies are no help to me.”
This time she kept her eyes straight ahead. They were almost to the farm gate and he opened it for her, waited while the horse followed her through, then went through himself and closed it carefully. An elderly man in a faded smock and trousers tied around the ankles with string smiled shyly, then took the animal. Nanette thanked him and led Monk across the yard toward the kitchen garden, and he opened the door of the farmhouse. It was not into the kitchen as he had expected, but a side entrance to a wide hallway.
“May I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Monk?” Nanette said with a smile. She was of more than average height and slender, a tiny waist and slight bosom. She moved with skill to maneuver the skirts of her riding habit so they seemed part of her and not an encumbrance, as they were to some women.
“Thank you,” he accepted. He did not know if he could learn anything useful from her, but he might not have another opportunity. He should use this one.
She laid her hat and crop on the hall table, then rang for a maid, requested tea, and conducted him to a pretty sitting room full of flowered chintz. They made trivial conversation till the tea was brought and they were alone again and could remain uninterrupted.
“You wish to know about poor Prudence,” she said immediately, passing him his cup.
“If you please.” He accepted it.
She met his eyes. “Please understand that I am speaking so frankly only because I am aware that kindness is of no use in finding out who killed her, poor soul.”
“I have asked you to be frank, Miss Cuthbertson,” he encouraged her.
She settled back in her chair and began to speak, her gaze unflinching.
“I have known Prudence since we were both girls. She always had a curiosity much greater than most people’s, and a dedication to learn all she could. Her mother, who is a dear creature, most sensible, tried to dissuade her, but to no avail. Have you met her sister, Faith?”
“No.”
“A very nice person,” she said with approval. “She married and went to live in York. But Prudence was always her father’s favorite, and I regret the necessity to say so, but I think he indulged her when it might have been in her greater interest to have exercised a little more discipline.” She shrugged, looking at Monk with a smile. “Anyway, the result was that when we here in England began to learn a little of how serious the war in the Crimea had become, Prudence decided to go out there and nurse our soldiers, and nothing on earth would deter her.”
Monk forbore from interruption with difficulty. He wanted to tell this equally determined, rather complacent, pretty woman who was discreetly flirting with him something of the horror of the battlefield and the hospital as he had learned it from Hester. He forced himself to keep silent, merely looking at her to continue.
She did not need prompting.
“Of course we all assumed that when she came home she would have had enough of it,” she said quickly. “She had served her country and we were all proud of her. But not at all. She then insisted on continuing with nursing and took up a post in the hospital in London.” She was watching Monk’s face closely, all the time biting her lip as if uncertain what to say, although he knew from the strength in her voice that that was anything but the case. “She became very—very forceful,” she continued. “Very outspoken in her opinions and extremely critical of the medical authorities. I am afraid she had ambitions that were totally impossible and quite unsuitable anyway, and she was bitter about it.” She searched Monk’s eyes, trying to judge his thoughts. “I can only assume that some of her experiences in the Crimea were so fearful that they affected her mind and destroyed her judgment to some extent. It is really very tragic.” As she said it her face was very sober.
“Very,” Monk agreed tersely. “It is also tragic that someone should have killed her. Did she ever say anything to you about anyone who might have threatened her or wished her ill?” It was an ingenuous question, but there was always the remote chance she might give a surprising answer.
Nanette shrugged very slightly, a delicate, very feminine gesture of her shoulders.
“Well, she was very forthright, and she could be highly critical,” she said reluctantly. “I fear it is not impossible that she offended someone sufficiently that he became violent, which is a fearful thought. But some men do have ungovernable tempers. Perhaps her insult was very serious, threatening his professional reputation. She did not spare people, you know.”
“Did she mention anyone by name, Miss Cuthbertson?”
“Oh not to me. But then their names would mean nothing to me even if I heard them.”
“I see. What about admirers? Were there any men, do you know, who might have felt rejected by her, or jealous?”
The blush on her cheek was very slight, and she smiled as if the question were of no consequence to her.
“She did not confide that sort of thing to me, but I gathered the impression that she had no time for such emotions.” She smiled at the absurdity of such a nature. “Perhaps you had better ask someone who knew her from day to day.”
“I shall. Thank you for your candor, Miss Cuthbertson. If everyone else is as frank with me, I shall be very fortunate.”
She leaned forward in her chair a little. “Will you find out who killed her, Mr. Monk?”
“Yes.” He was quite unequivocal, not because he had any conviction, still less any knowledge, but he would not admit the possibility of defeat.
“I am so glad. It is most comforting to know that in spite of tragedy, there are people who will see that at least justice is done.” Again she smiled at him, and he wondered why on earth Geoffrey Taunton had not wooed this woman, who seemed so excellently suited to his life and his personality, but had chosen instead to waste his time and his emotion on Prudence Barrymore. She could never have made either him or herself happy in such an alliance, which to him would have been fraught with tension and uncertainty, and to her would have been at once barren and suffocating.
But then he had imagined himself so in love with Hermione Ward, who would have hurt and disappointed him at every turn and left him in the bitterest loneliness. Perhaps in the end he would even have hated her.
He finished his tea and excused himself. Thanking her again, he took his leave.
The return journey to London was hot and the train crowded. He was suddenly very tired and closed his eyes, leaning back against the seat. The rattle and sway of the carriage was curiously soothing.
He woke up with a start to find a small boy staring at him with intense curiosity. A fair-haired woman pulled at the child’s jacket and ordered him to mind his manners and not to be so rude to the gentleman. Then she smiled shyly at Monk and apologized.
“There is no harm in it, ma’am,” he replied quietly, but his mind was suddenly jolted by a vivid fragment of memory. It was a sensation he had felt many times since his accident, and more and more frequently in the last few months, but it never ceased to bring with it a frisson of fear. So much of what he learned of himself showed him only actions, not reasons, and he did not always like the man he discovered.
This memory was sharp and bright, and yet distant. He was not the man of today, but very much of yesterday. The picture in his mind was full of sunlight, and for all its clarity there was a sense of distance. He was younger, far younger, new at his job with all the eagerness and the need to learn that comes with being a novice. His immediate senior was Samuel Runcorn, that was perfectly clear. He knew it as one knows things in dreams; there is no visible evidence, and yet the certainty is unquestionable. He could picture Runcorn as sharply as the young woman on the seat opposite him in the clanking train as it rushed past the houses toward the city. Runcorn, with his narrow face and deep-set eyes. He had been handsome then: bony nose, good brow, broad mouth. Even now it was only his expression, the mixture of temper and apology in his eyes, which marred him.
What had happened in the intervening years? How much of it had been Monk’s doing? That was a thought which returned to him again and again. And yet that was foolish. Monk was not to blame. Whatever Runcorn was, it was his own doing, his own choice.
Why had that memory returned? Just a snatch, a journey in a train with Runcorn. Runcorn had been an inspector, and Monk a constable working on a case under his direction.
They were coming into the outskirts of Bayswater, not far to go to the Euston Road and home. It would be good to get out of this noisy, jiggling, confined space and walk in the fresh air. Not that Fitzroy Street would be like Boston Lane with the wind over the wheat fields.
He was aware of a sharp inner sense of frustration, of questions and answers that led nowhere, of knowing that someone was lying, but not who. They had been days on the case and learned nothing that made sense, no string of evidence that began to form a story.
Except that this was the first day. Prudence Barrymore had died only yesterday. The emotion came from the past, whatever he and Runcorn had been doing however many years ago—was it ten, fifteen? Runcorn had been different. He had had more confidence, less arrogance, less need to exert his authority, less need to show he was right. Something had happened to him in the years between which had destroyed an element of belief in himself, injuring some inner part so that now it was maimed.
Did Monk know what it was? At least had he known before the accident? Was Runcorn’s hatred of him born of that: his vulnerability, and Monk’s use of it?
The train was going through Paddington now. Not long till he was home. He ached to be able to stand up.
He closed his eyes again. The heat in the carriage and the rhythmic swinging to and fro, the incessant clatter as the wheels passed over the joins in the rails, were hypnotic.
There had been another constable on the case as well, a slight young man with dark hair that stood up from the brow. The memory of him was vivid and acutely uncomfortable, but Monk had no idea why. He racked his brain but nothing came. Had he died? Why was there this unhappiness in his mind when he pictured him?
Runcorn was different; for him he felt anger and a swift harsh contempt. It was not that he was stupid. He was not: his questions were perceptive enough, well phrased, well judged, and he obviously weighed the answers. He was not gullible. So why did Monk find himself unconsciously curling his lip?
What had the case been? He could not remember that either! But it had mattered, of that he had no doubt at all. It was serious. The superintendent had been asking them every day for progress. The press had been demanding someone be caught and hanged. But for what?
Had they succeeded?
He sat up with a jolt. They were at Euston Road and it was time he got off or he would be carried past his stop. Hastily, apologizing for treading on people’s feet, he scrambled out of his seat and made his way out onto the platform.
He must stop dwelling in the past and think what next to do in the murder of Prudence Barrymore. There was nothing to report to Callandra yet, but she might have something to tell him, although it was a trifle early. Better to leave it a day or two, then he might have something to say himself.
He strode along the platform, threading his way among the people, bumping into a porter and nearly tripping over a bale of papers.
What had Prudence Barrymore been like as a nurse? Better to begin at the beginning. He had met her parents, her suitor, albeit unsuccessful, and her rival. In time he would ask her superiors, but they were, or might be, suspects. The best judge of the next stage in her career would be someone who had known her in the Crimea, apart from Hester. He dodged around two men and a woman struggling with a hat box.
What about Florence Nightingale herself? She would know something about all her nurses, surely? But would she see Monk? She was now fêted and admired all over the city, second in public affection only to the Queen.
It was worth trying.
Tomorrow he would do that. She was immeasurably more famous, more important, but she could not be more opinionated or more acid-tongued than Hester.
Unconsciously he quickened his step. It was a good decision. He smiled at an elderly lady who glared back at him.
Florence Nightingale was smaller than he had expected, slight of build and with brown hair and regular features, at a glance quite unremarkable. It was only the intensity of her eyes under the level brows which held him, and the way she seemed to look right into his mind, not with interest, simply a demand that he meet her honesty with equal candor. He imagined no one dared to waste her time.
She had received him in some sort of office, sparsely furnished and strictly functional. He had gained admittance only with difficulty, and after explaining his precise purpose. It was apparent she was deeply engaged in some cause and had set it aside only for the duration of the interview.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk,” she said in a strong clear voice. “I believe you have come in connection with the death of one of my nurses. I am extremely sorry to hear of it. What is it you wish of me?”
He would not have dared prevaricate, even if it had been his intention.
“She was murdered, ma’am, while serving in the Royal Free Hospital. Her name was Prudence Barrymore.” He saw the shadow of pain pass over Florence Nightingale’s calm features, and liked her the better for it. “I am inquiring into her murder,” he went on. “Not with the police but
at the wish of one of her friends.”
“I am deeply sorry. Please be seated, Mr. Monk.” She indicated a hard-backed chair and sat in one opposite, holding her hands in her lap and staring at him.
He obeyed. “Can you tell me something of her nature and her abilities, ma’am?” he asked. “I have already heard that she was dedicated to medicine to the exclusion of all else, that she had refused a man who had admired her for many years, and that she held her opinions with great conviction.”
A flicker of amusement touched Florence Nightingale’s mouth. “And expressed them,” she agreed. “Yes, she was a fine woman, with a passion to learn. Nothing deterred her from seeking the truth and acknowledging it.”
“And telling it to others?” he asked.
“Of course. If you know the truth, it takes a gentler and perhaps a wiser woman than Prudence Barrymore not to speak it aloud. She did not understand the arts of diplomacy. I fear that perhaps I do not either. The sick cannot wait for flattery and coercion to do their work.”
He did not flatter her with agreement. She was not a woman who would have valued the obvious.
“Might Miss Barrymore have made enemies profound enough to have killed her?” he asked. “I mean, was her zeal to reform or her medical knowledge sufficient for that?”
For several moments Florence Nightingale sat silent, but Monk knew perfectly well that she had understood him and that she was considering the question before answering.
“I find it unlikely, Mr. Monk,” she said at last. “Prudence was more interested in medicine itself than in ideas of reforming such as I have. I desire above all things to see the simple changes that would save so many lives and cost little, such as proper ventilation of hospital wards.” She looked at him with brilliant eyes, burning with the intensity of her feeling. Already the timbre of her voice had altered and there was a new quality of urgency in it. “Have you any idea, Mr. Monk, how stuffy most wards are, how stale the air and full of noxious vapors and fumes? Clean air will do as much to heal people as half the medicines they are given.” She leaned forward a fraction. “Of course our hospitals here are nothing like the hospitals in Scutari, but still they are places where as many people die of infections caught there as of the original complaints that brought them! There is so much to do, so much suffering and death which could be avoided.” She spoke quietly, and yet Monk, listening to her, felt a quiver of excitement inside himself. There was a passion in her eyes which lit them from within. No longer could Monk possibly say she was ordinary. She possessed a fierceness, a solitary fire, and yet a vulnerability which made her unique. He caught a glimpse of what it was that had inspired an army to love her and the nation to revere her, and yet leave her with such a core of inner loneliness.