A sudden, fearful death (30 page)

"Some of them worshiped
her," she said swiftly, her chin held high, her step more determined.
"Others, fairly naturally, were jealous. You cannot succeed without
running into risk of jealousy. You should know that!"

"Jealous enough to call it
hatred?' He was being logical, unaware of any feelings.

"Possibly," she said,
equally reasonably. "There is a very strong large woman called Dora
Parsons who certainly loathed her. Whether it was enough to have killed her, I
have no idea. Seems extreme—unless there was some specific issue."

"Had Prudence the power to
have this woman dismissed if she were incompetent, or drunk—or if she
stole?" He looked at her hopefully.

"I imagine so." She
picked up her skirts delicately as they passed a patch of long grass by the
path. "Prudence worked closely with Sir Herbert. He spoke very highly of
her to me. I imagine he would take her word for such a thing." She let her
skirts fall again. "Certainly Dora Parsons is the sort of woman who could
be very easily replaced. There are thousands like her in London."

"And very few indeed like
Prudence Barrymore," he finished the thought. "And presumably
several more like Dora Parsons even within the Royal Free Hospital. So that
thought is hardly conclusive."

They walked in silence for a while,
absorbed in then-own thoughts. They passed a man with a dog, and two small
boys, one with a hoop, the other with a spinning top on a string, looking for a
level place in the path to pull it. A young woman looked Monk up and down
admiringly; her escort sulked. At length it was Hester who spoke.

"Have you learned
anything?"

"What?"

"Have you learned
anything?" she repeated. "You must have been doing something over the
last week. What is the result?"

Suddenly he grinned broadly, as if
the interrogation amused him.

"I suppose you have as much
right to know as I," he conceded. "I have been looking into Mr.
Geoffrey Taunton and Miss Nanette Cuthbertson. She is a more determined young
woman than I first supposed. And she seems to have had the most powerful motive
of all for wishing to be rid of Prudence. Prudence stood between her and love,
respectability, and the family status she wishes for more than anything else.
Time is growing short for her—very short." They had momentarily stopped
under the trees and he put his hands in his pockets. "She is twenty-eight,
even though she is still remarkably pretty. I imagine panic may be rising
inside her—enough to do violence. If only I could work out how she achieved
it," he said thoughtfully. "She is not as tall as Prudence by some
two inches, and of slight build. And even with her head in the academic clouds,
Prudence cannot surely have been so insensitive as to have been unaware of
Nanette's emotions."

Hester wanted to snap back that
twenty-eight was hardly ancient—and of course she was still pretty. And might
well remain so for another twenty years—or more. But she felt a ridiculous
tightening in her throat, and found the words remained unspoken. It hardly
mattered if twenty-eight were old or not—if it seemed old to him. You cannot
argue someone out of such a view.

"Hester?" He frowned at
her.

Hester stared straight ahead and
began walking again.

"She might have been,"
she replied briskly. "Perhaps she valued people for their worth—their
humor, or courage, integrity, their intelligence, compassion, good
companionship, imagination, honor, any of a dozen things that don't suddenly
cease the day you turn thirty."

"For Heaven's sake, don't be
so idiotic," he said in amazement, striding along beside her. "We're
not talking about worth. We're talking about Nanette Cuthbertson being in love
and wanting to marry Geoffrey Taunton and have a family. That's got nothing to
do with intelligence or courage or humor. What's the matter with you? Stop walking
so fast or you'll fall over something! She wants children—not a halo. She's a
perfectly ordinary woman. I would have thought Prudence would have had
sufficient wit to see that. But talking to you—perhaps she wouldn't. You don't
seem to have."

Hester opened her mouth to argue,
but there was no logical answer, and she found herself at a loss for words.

He strode on in silence, still
swiping occasionally at the odd stone on the path.

"Is that all you've
done?" she said finally.

"What?"

"Discover that Nanette had a
good motive, but no means, so far as you can find out."

"No of course it isn't."
He hit another stone. "I've looked into Prudence's past, her nursing
skills, her war record, anything I can think of. It's all very interesting, very
admirable, but none of it suggests a specific motive for murdering her—or
anyone who might have wished to. I am somewhat hampered by not having any
authority."

"Well whose fault is
that?" she said sharply, then immediately wished she had not, but was
damned if she was going to apologize.

They walked for a further hundred
yards in silence until they were back at Doughty Street, where she excused herself,
pointing out that she'd had very little sleep and would be required to sit up
all night with Mr. Prendergast again. They parted coolly, she back to the
hospital, he she knew not where.

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.