by Anne Perry
“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 him?” 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.
“Oh—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, not 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 comes 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 the 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.”