A sudden, fearful death (19 page)

"She was murdered," he
replied, his words violent, his voice gende.

"Oh." She paled visibly,
but whether it was the news or his manner of delivering it, he could not tell.
"How dreadful! I am sorry. I didn't realize ..." She looked at him
with puckered brows. "Mr. Taunton said that hospitals were not good places
at all, but he did not say more than that. I had no idea they were so
dangerous. Illness, of course I understand. One expects it. But not
murder."

"The place of it may have been
coincidental, Miss Cuthbertson. People are murdered in houses also; we do not
say that houses are therefore dangerous places."

An orange-and-black butterfly flew
erratically between them and disappeared.

"I don't understand...."
And her expression made it quite obvious that she did not.

"Did you know Miss Barrymore
well?"

She began to walk very slowly back
toward the farm buildings. There was room on the hard track for him to walk
beside her, the horse trailing behind, head low.

"I used to," she replied
thoughtfully. "When we were much younger, growing up. Since she went to
the Crimea I don't think any of us would say we knew her anymore. She changed,
you see." She looked around at him to make sure he understood.

"I imagine it is an experience
which would change anyone," he agreed. "How could one see the devastation
and the suffering without being altered by it?"

"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.