A sudden, fearful death (17 page)

Mr. Barrymore smiled, but was too
filled with emotion to speak.

Mrs. Barrymore looked at Monk with
faint surprise, as if his praise for Prudence puzzled her.

"You speak of Mr. Taunton in
the past tense, Mrs. Barrymore," he continued. "Is he no longer
alive?"

Now she looked thoroughly startled.
"Oh yes. Yes indeed, Mr. Monk. Poor Geoffrey is very much alive. But it
is too late for Prudence, poor girl. Now, no doubt, Geoffrey will marry that
Nanette Cuthbertson. She has certainly been pursuing him for long enough."
For a moment her face changed and an expression came on it not unlike spite.
"But as long as Prudence was alive, Geoffrey would never look at her. He
was 'round here only last weekend, asking after Prudence, how she was doing in
London and when we expected her home again."

"He never understood
her," Mr. Barrymore said sadly. "He always believed it was only a
matter of waiting and she would come 'round to his way of thinking, that she'd
forget nursing and come home and settle down."

"And so she would," Mrs.
Barrymore said hastily. "Only she might have left it too late. There are
only so many years when a young woman is attractive to a man who wishes to
marry and have a family." Her voice rose in exasperation. "Prudence
did not seem to appreciate that, though goodness knows how often I told her.
Time will not wait for you, I said. One day you will realize that." Again
her eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

Mr. Barrymore was embarrassed. He
had already argued with his wife once on this issue in front of Monk, and there
seemed nothing more to say.

"Where would I find Mr.
Taunton?" Monk asked. "If he saw Miss Barrymore quite often, he may
even know of someone who was causing her anxiety or distress."

Mrs. Barrymore looked back at him,
jerked out of her grief momentarily by a question which she found extraordinary.

"Geoffrey? Geoffrey would not
know anyone likely to—to commit murder, Mr. Monk! He is a most excellent young
man, as respectable as one could wish. His father was a professor of
mathematics." She invested the last word with great importance. "Mr.
Barrymore knew him, before he died about four years ago. He left Geoffrey very
well provided for." She nodded. "I am only surprised he has not
married before now. Usually it is a financial restriction that prevents young
men from marrying. Prudence did not know how fortunate she was that he was
prepared to wait for her to change her mind."

Monk could offer no opinion on
that.

"Where does he live,
ma'am?" he asked.

"Geoffrey?" Her eyebrows
rose. "Little Ealing. If you go down Boston Lane and turn right, then
follow the road about a mile and a quarter or so, then on your left you will
find the Ride. Geoffrey lives along there. After that, you will have to ask. I
think that is simpler than my trying to describe the house, although it is most
attractive; but then they all are along there. It is a most desirable
area."

"Thank you, Mrs. Barrymore,
that is very clear. And how about Miss Cuthbertson, who apparently fancied herself
Miss Barrymore's rival? Where might I find her?"

"Nanette Cuthbertson?"
Again the look of dislike marred her expression. "Oh, she lives on Wyke
Farm, right at the other side of the railway line, on the edge of Osterley
Park." She smiled again, but with her lips only.

"Very agreeable really,
especially for a girl who is fond of horses and that type of thing. I don't
know how you will get there. It is a long way 'round, by Boston Lane. Unless
you can hire a vehicle of some sort, you will have to walk over the
fields." She waved her mittened hand in the air in a curiously graceful
gesture. "If you begin westwards as you are level with Boston Farm, that
should bring you to about the right place. Of course I always go by pony cart,
but I think my judgment is correct."

"Thank you, Mrs.
Barrymore." He rose to his feet, inclining his head courteously. "I
apologize for intruding, and am most grateful for your help."

Barrymore looked at him quickly.
"If you learn anything, would it be within the ethics of your profession
to let us know?"

"I shall report to Lady
Callandra, but I have no doubt she will tell you," Monk answered. He would
have no compunction whatever in telling this quiet, grieving man anything
that would help him, but he thought Barrymore would find it easier from
Callandra, and it would be a way to avoid telling him anything that might be
true but merely painful, and of no consequence in pursuing or convicting
whoever murdered Prudence Barrymore. He thanked them again, and again expressed
his condolences. Mr. Barrymore accompanied him to the door, and he took his
leave.

It was a very pleasant day, and he
enjoyed the half hour it took him to walk from Green Lane to Little Ealing and
find the home of Geoffrey Taunton. And the time gave him the opportunity to
formulate in his mind what he would say. He did not expect it to be easy.
Geoffrey Taunton might even refuse to see him. People react differently to
grief. With some, the anger comes first, long before the simple acceptance of
pain. And of course it was perfectly possible that Geoffrey Taunton might have
been the one who killed her. Perhaps he was not as willing to wait as he had
been in the past, and his frustration had finally boiled over? Or maybe it was
passion of a different sort which had run out of control, and then he regretted
it and wished to marry this Nanette Cuthbertson instead. He must remember to
ask Evan precisely what the medical examiner's report had said. For example,
had Prudence Barrymore been with child? From her father's account of her, that
seemed unlikely, but then fathers are frequently ignorant of that aspect of
their daughters' lives, from preference or by design.

It really was a splendid day. The
fields stretched out on either side of the lane, light wind rippling through
the wheat, already turning gold. In another couple of months the reapers would
be out, backs bent in the heat and the grain dust, the smell of hot straw
everywhere, and the wagon somewhere behind them with cider and loaves of
bread. In his imagination he could hear the rhythmic swishing of the scythe,
feel the sweat on his bare skin, and the breeze, and then the shelter of the
wagon, the thirst, and the cool sweet cider, still smelling of apples.

When had he ever done farm
laboring? He searched his mind and nothing came. Was it here in the south, or
at home in Northumberland, before he had come to London to learn commerce, make
money, and becoming something of a gendeman?

He had no idea. It was gone, like
so much else. And perhaps it was as weD. It might belong to some personal memory,
like the one of Hermione, which still cut so deep into his emotions. It was not
losing her, that was nothing. It was his own humiliation, his misjudgment, the
stupidity of having loved so much a woman who had not in her the capacity to
love in return. And she had been honest enough to admit that she did not even
wish to. Love was dangerous. It could hurt. She did not want hostages to
fortune and she said so.

No, definitely any memories he
chased from now on would be professional ones. There at least he was safe. He
was brilliant. Even his bitterest enemy, and so far that was Runcorn, had never
denied his skill, his intelligence, or his intuition, and the dedication which
harnessed them all and had made him the best detective in the force. He strode
briskly. There was no sound but his own steps and the wind across the fields,
faint and warm. In the early morning there could have been larks, but now it
was too late.

And there was another reason, apart
from the gratification of pride, why he should remember all he could. He
needed to make his living by detection now, and without the memory of his past
contacts with the criminal underworld, the minutiae of his craft, the names
and faces of those who owed him debts or who feared him, those who had
knowledge he would find useful, those who had secrets to hide. Without all this
he was handicapped, starting again as a beginner. He needed to know more fully
who his friends and his enemies were. Blindfolded by forgetting, he was at their
mercy.

The warm sweet scent of honeysuckle
was thick around him. Here and there long briers of wild rose trailed pink or
white sprays of bloom.

He turned right into the Ride and
after a hundred yards found an old carter leading his horse along the lane. He
inquired after Geoffrey Taunton, and, after a few minutes' suspicious
hesitation, was directed.

The house was gracious from the
outside, and the plaster showed signs of having been fairly recently
embellished with new pargetting in rich designs. The half timbering was
immaculate. Presumably that was all done when Geoffrey Taunton came into his
father's money.

Monk walked up the neat gravel
drive, which was weed-less and recently raked, and knocked at the front door.
It was now early afternoon and he would be fortunate to find the master of the
house at home; but if he were out, then he would endeavor to make an
appointment for a later time.

The maid who answered the door was
young and bright-eyed, full of curiosity when she saw a smartly dressed stranger
on the step.

"Yes sir?" she said
pleasantly, looking up at him.

"Good afternoon. I have no
appointment, but I should like to see Mr. Taunton, if he is at home. If I am
too early, perhaps you would tell me when would be a more convenient
time?"

"Oh not at all, sir, this is
an excellent time." Then she stopped and hesitated, realizing she had
defied the social convention of pretending her employer was not in until she
had ascertained whether the visitor was to be received or not. "Oh, I mean
..."

Monk smiled in spite of himself.
"I understand," he said dryly. "You had better go and ask if he
will see me." He handed her his card, which showed his name and his residence,
but not his occupation. "You may tell him it is in connection with one of
the Board of Governors of the Royal Free Hospital in Gray's Inn, a Lady
Callandra Daviot." That sounded impressive, not too personal, and it was
true, in fact if not in essence.

"Yes sir," she said with
a lift of interest in her voice. "And if you'll excuse me, I'll go and
ask, sir." With a swish of skirts, she turned and was gone after having
left Monk in the morning room in the sun.

Geoffrey Taunton himself came less
than five minutes later. He was a pleasant-looking mart in his early thirties,
tall and well built, now dressed in the fashionless black of mourning. He was
of medium coloring and good features, regular and well proportioned. His
expression was mild, and at the moment marred by grief.

"Mr. Monk? Good afternoon.
What may I do to be of service to you and the Board of Governors?" He held
out his hand.

Monk took it with a twinge of guilt
for his misrepresentation, but it was easily dismissed. There were greater priorities.

"Thank you for sparing me the
time, sir, and excusing my calling without notice," he apologized.
"But I heard of you only through Mr. Barrymore when I called upon him this
morning. As you may have assumed, it is in connection with the death of Miss
Prudence Barrymore that I have been consulted."

"Consulted?" Taunton
frowned. "Surely it is a police matter?" His expression was one of
sharp disapproval. "If the Board of Governors are concerned about scandal,
there is nothing whatever I can do to assist them. If they employ young women
in such a calling, then there are all sorts of unfortunate circumstances which
may arise, as I frequently tried to impress upon Miss Barrymore, but without
success.

"Hospitals are not salubrious
places," he continued with asperity. "Either physically or morally.
It is bad enough to have to visit them if one should require surgery which cannot
be performed in one's own home, but a woman who seeks employment there runs
horrible risks. Most especially if the woman concerned is of gentle birth and
has no need whatever to earn her living." His face darkened with pain at
the uselessness of it, and he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He looked
stubborn, bewildered, and acutely vulnerable.

Evan would have been sorry for him;
Runcorn would have agreed. Monk could only feel angry at his blindness. They
were still standing in the morning room facing each other across the green
carpet, neither willing to sit.

"I imagine she served out of
compassion for the sick rather than for the financial reward," Monk said
dryly. "From what I have heard said of her, she was a woman of remarkable
gifts and great dedication. That she did not work from necessity can only be to
her credit."

"It cost her her life,"
Taunton said bitterly, his wide eyes full of fury. "That is a tragedy and
a crime. Nothing can bring her back, but I want to see whoever did this
hanged."

"If we catch him, I daresay
that will be your privilege, sir," Monk replied harshly. "Although
watching a hanging is a vile affair, in my opinion. I have only seen two, but
they were both experiences I would prefer to forget."

Taunton looked startled and his
mouth went slack, then he winced with displeasure. "I did not mean it
literally, Mr. Monk. That is, as you say, a vile thought. I simply meant that I
desire it to be done."