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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 gentleman?
He had no idea. It was gone, like so much else. And perhaps it was as well. 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 man 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.
