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Eventually she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, most inelegantly, and stopped laughing. She sniffed.
“I shall be careful,” she promised. “Thank you for your concern.”
He drew breath to say something sharp, then changed his mind.
“We never looked very carefully into Kristian Beck. I still don’t know what Prudence was going to tell the authorities when he begged her not to.” A new thought occurred to him, which he should have seen before. “I wonder what particular authority she had in mind? The governors—or Sir Herbert? Rathbone could ask Sir Herbert.”
Hester said nothing. Again the look of weariness crossed her face.
“Go back to sleep,” he said gently, instinctively putting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go and see Rathbone. I expect we’ve got a few days yet. We may find something.”
She smiled doubtfully, but there was a warmth in it, a sharing of all the understanding and the emotions that needed no words, past experiences that had marked them with the same pains and the same fears for the present. She reached out and touched his face momentarily with her fingertips, then turned and walked back into the dormitory.
He had very little hope Sir Herbert would know anything about Kristian Beck, or he would surely have said so before now. It was conceivable he might tell them which authority something ought to be reported to, the chairman of the Board of Governors, perhaps? Altogether the case looked grim. It would rest in Rathbone’s skill and the jury’s mood and temper. Hester had been little help. And yet he felt a curious sense of happiness inside, as if he had never been less alone in his life.
At the earliest opportunity the following day Hester changed her duties with another nurse and went to see Edith Sobell and Major Tiplady. They greeted her with great pleasure and some excitement.
“We were going to send a message to you,” the major said earnestly, assisting her to a chintz-covered chair as if she had been an elderly invalid. “We have news for you.”
“I am afraid it is not going to please you,” Edith added, sitting in the chair opposite, her face earnest. “I’m so sorry.”
Hester was confused. “You found nothing?” That was hardly news sufficient to send a message.
“We found something.” Now the major also looked confused, but his questioning look was directed at Edith. Hester only peripherally noticed the depth of affection in it.
“I know that is what she asked,” Edith said patiently. “But she likes Dr. Beck.” She turned back to Hester. “You will not wish to know that twice in the past he has been accused of mishandling cases of young women who died. Both times the parents were sure there was nothing very wrong with them, and Dr. Beck performed operations which were quite unnecessary, and so badly that they bled to death. The fathers both sued, but neither won. The proof was not sufficient.”
Hester felt sick. “Where? Where did this happen? Surely not since he’s been with the Royal Free Hospital?”
“No,” Edith agreed, her curious face with its aquiline nose and wry, gentle mouth full of sadness. “The first was in the north, in Alnwick, right up near the Scottish border; the second was in Somerset. I wish I had something better to tell you.”
“Are you sure it was he?” It was a foolish question, but she was fighting for any rescue at all. Callandra filled her mind.
“Can there be two surgeons from Bohemia named Kristian Beck?” Edith said quietly.
The major was looking at Hester with anxiety. He did not know why it hurt her so much, but he was painfully aware that it did.
“How did you find out?” Hester asked. It did not affect the reality of it, but even to question it somehow put off the finality of acceptance.
“I have become friends with the librarian at one of the newspaper offices,” Edith replied. “It is her task to care for all the back copies. She has been most helpful with checking some of the details of events referred to in the major’s memoirs, so I asked her in this as well.”
“I see.” There seemed nothing else she could pursue. That was the missing element, the thing Prudence was going to tell the authorities—only Beck had killed her before she could.
Then another thought occurred to her, even uglier. Was it possible Callandra already knew? Was that why she had looked so haggard lately? She was racked with fear—and her own guilt in concealing it.
Edith and the major were both looking at her, their faces crumpled with concern. Her thoughts must be so transparent. But there was nothing she could say without betraying Callandra.
“How are the memoirs going?” she asked, forcing a smile and a look of interest which would have been genuine at any other time.
“Ah, we are nearly finished,” Edith replied, her face filled with light again. “We have written all his experiences in India, and such things in Africa you wouldn’t dream of. It was quite the most exciting thing I have ever heard in my life. You must read them when we have finished….” Then something of the light drained away as the inevitable conclusion occurred to all of them. Edith had been unable to leave the home which stifled her, the parents who felt her early widowhood meant that she should spend the rest of her life as if she were a single woman, dependent upon her father’s bounty financially, and socially upon her mother’s whim. She had had one chance at marriage, and that was all any woman was entitled to. Her family had done its duty in obtaining one husband for her; her misfortune that he had died young was one she shared with a great many others. She should accept it gracefully. The tragedy of her brother’s death had opened up ugliness from the past which was far from healed yet, and perhaps never would be. The thought of returning to live in Carlyon House again was one which darkened even the brilliance of this summer day.
“I shall look forward to it,” Hester said quietly. She turned to the major. “When do you expect to publish?”
He looked so deep in anxiety and concentration she was surprised when he answered her.
“Oh—I think …” Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly. His face was very pin
k. “I was going to say there is much work to be done, but that is not true. Edith has been so efficient there is really very little. But I am not sure if I can find a publisher willing to take it, or if I may have to pay to have it done.” He stopped abruptly.
