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“Because you may well end up dead yourself, you fool,” he snapped back. “For Heaven’s sake, use your wits! One outspoken, self-opinionated young woman has already been murdered there. We don’t need a second to prove the point.”
“Thank you for your concern.” She swung around and stared out of the window, her back to him. “I shall be discreet. I did not say so because I had assumed that you would take it for granted, but apparently you did not. I have no desire to be murdered, or even to be dismissed for inquisitiveness. I am perfectly capable of asking questions in such a way that no one realizes my interest is more than casual and quite natural.”
“Are you,” he said with heavy disbelief. “Well, I shall not permit you to go unless you give me your word that you will si
mply observe. Just watch and listen, no more. Do you understand me?”
“Of course I understand you. You are practically speaking in words of one syllable,” she said scathingly. “I simply do not agree, that is all. And what makes you imagine you can give me orders, I have no idea. I shall do as I think fit. If it pleases you that is good. If it does not, as far as I am concerned that is just as good.”
“Then don’t come screaming to me for help if you’re attacked,” he said. “And if you are murdered I shall be very sorry, but not very surprised!”
“You will have the satisfaction, at my funeral, of being able to say that you told me so,” she replied, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Very little satisfaction,” he retorted, “if you are not there to hear me.”
She swung away from the window and walked across the room.
“Oh do stop being so ill-tempered and pessimistic about it. It is I who have to go back and work in the hospital, and obey all the rules and endure their suffocating incompetence and their old-fashioned ideas. All you have to do is listen to what I report and work out who killed Prudence, and of course why.”
“And prove it,” he added.
“Oh yes.” She flashed him a sudden brilliant smile. “That at least will be good, won’t it?”
“It would, it would be very good indeed,” he admitted frankly. It was another of those rare moments of perfect understanding between them, and he savored it with a unique satisfaction.
4
MONK BEGAN his investigation not in the hospital—where he knew they would still be highly suspicious and defensive, and he might even jeopardize Hester’s opportunities—but by taking the train on the Great Western line to Hanwell, where Prudence Barrymore’s family lived. It was a bright day with a gentle breeze, and it would have been a delightful walk from the station through the fields into the village and along Green Lane toward the point where the river Brent met the Grand Junction Canal, had he not been going to see people whose daughter had just been strangled to death.
The Barrymore house was the last on the right, with the water rushing around the very end of the garden. At first, in the sunlight, with the windowpanes reflecting the image of the climbing roses and the air full of birdsong and the sound of the river, it was easy to overlook the drawn blinds and the unnatural stillness of the house. It was only when he was actually at the door, seeing the black crepe on the knocker, that the presence of death was intrusive.
“Yes sir?” a red-eyed maid said somberly.
Monk had had several hours to think of what he would say, how to introduce himself so they would not find him prying and meddlesome in a tragedy that was none of his business. He had no official standing now, which still stung him. It would be foolish to resent Jeavis, but his dislike of Runcorn was seated deep in the past, and even though he still remembered only patches of it, their mutual antagonism was one thing of which he had no doubt. It was in everything Runcorn said, in his gestures, in the very bearing of his body, and Monk felt it in himself as instinctive as flinching when something passed too close to his face.
“Good morning,” he said respectfully, offering her his card. “My name is William Monk. Lady Callandra Daviot, a governor of the Royal Free Hospital and a friend of Miss Barrymore’s, asked me if I would call on Mr. and Mrs. Barrymore, to see if I could be of assistance. Would you ask them if they would be kind enough to spare me a little time? I realize the moment is inopportune, but there are matters which unfortunately will not wait.”
“Oh—well.” She looked doubtful. “I’ll ask, sir, but I can’t say as I think they will. We just had a bereavement in the family, as I suppose you know, from what you say.”
“If you would?” Monk smiled slightly.
The maid looked a trifle confused, but she acceded to his request, leaving him in the hallway while she went to inform her mistress of his presence. Presumably the house did not boast a morning room or other unoccupied reception room where unexpected callers might wait.
He looked around curiously as he always did. One could learn much from the observation of people’s homes, not merely their financial situations but their tastes, a guess at their educations, whether they had traveled or not, sometimes even their beliefs and prejudices and what they wished others to think of them. In the case of family homes of more than one generation, one could also learn something of parents, and thus of upbringing.
The Barrymores’ hallway did not offer a great deal. The house was quite large, but of a cottage style, low-windowed, low-ceilinged, with oak beams across. It had apparently been designed for the comfort of a large family, rather than to entertain guests or to impress. The hall was wooden-floored, pleasant; two or three chintz-covered chairs sat against the walls, but there were no bookcases, no portraits or samplers from which to judge the taste of the occupants, and the single hat stand was not of particular character and boasted no walking stick, and only one rather well worn umbrella.
The maid returned, still looking very subdued.
“If you will come this way, sir, Mr. Barrymore will see you in the study.”
Obediently he followed her across the hall and down a narrow passage toward the rear of the house, where a surprisingly pleasant room opened onto the back garden. Through French doors he saw a closely clipped lawn shaded at the end by willows leaning over the water. There were few flowers, but instead delicate shrubs with a wonderful variety of foliage.
Mr. Barrymore was a tall, lean man with a mobile face full of imagination. Monk could see that the man in front of him had lost not only a child, but some part of himself. Monk felt guilty for intruding. What did law, or even justice, matter in the face of this grief? No solution, no due process or punishment, would bring her back or alter what had happened. What on earth use was revenge?
“Good morning, sir,” Barrymore said soberly. The marks of distress were plain in his face, and he did not apologize for them or make useless attempts at disguise. He looked at Monk uncertainly. “My maid said you had called with regard to our daughter’s death. She did not mention the police, but do I assume that that is who you are? She mentioned a Lady Daviot, but that must have been a misunderstanding. We know no one of that name.”
Monk wished he had some art or gift to soften what must be said, but he knew of none. Perhaps simple truth was the best. Prevarication would lengthen it to no purpose.
