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Monk took it with a twinge of guilt for his misrepresentation, but it was easily dismissed. There were greater priorities.
“Thank you for sparing me the time, sir, and excusing my calling without notice,” he apologized. “But I heard of you only through Mr. Barrymore when I called upon him this morning. As you may have assumed, it is in connection with the death of Miss Prudence Barrymore that I have been consulted.”
“Consulted?” Taunton frowned. “Surely it is a police matter?” His expression was one of sharp disapproval. “If the Board of Governors are concerned about scandal, there is nothing whatever I can do to assist them. If they employ young women in such a calling, then there are all sorts of unfortunate circumstances which may arise, as I frequently tried to impress upon Miss Barrymore, but without success.
“Hospitals are not salubrious places,” he continued with asperity. “Either physically or morally. It is bad enough to have to visit them if one should require surgery which cannot be performed in one’s own home, but a woman who seeks employment there runs horrible risks. Most especially if the woman concerned is of gentle birth and has no need whatever to earn her living.” His face darkened with pain at the uselessness of it, and he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He looked stubborn, bewildered, and acutely vulnerable.
Evan would have been sorry for him; Runcorn would have agreed. Monk could only feel angry at his blindness. They were still standing in the morning room facing each other across the green carpet, neither willing to sit.
“I imagine she served out of compassion for the sick rather than for the financial reward,” Monk said dryly. “From what I have heard said of her, she was a woman of remarkable gifts and great dedication. That she did not work from necessity can only be to her credit.”
“It cost her her life,” Taunton said bitterly, his wide eyes full of fury. “That is a tragedy and a crime. Nothing can bring her back, but I want to see whoever did this hanged.”
“If we catch him, I daresay that will be your privilege, sir,” Monk replied harshly. “Although watching a hanging is a vile affair, in my opinion. I have only seen two, but they were both experiences I would prefer to forget.”
Taunton looked startled and his mouth went slack, then he winced with displeasure. “I did not mean it literally, Mr. Monk. That is, as you say, a vile thought. I simply meant that I desire it to be done.”
“Oh I see. Yes, that is different, and a quite common sentiment.” His voice carried all his contempt for those who visit others to perform the unpleasant deeds so they do not suffer the distress of their reality and can sleep without nightmare and the horror of guilt, doubt, and pity. Then with an effort he recollected his purpose for having come. He forced himself to meet Taunton’s eyes with something like courtesy. “And I assure you that anything that falls within my power to see that that is accomplished I shall do with all purpose and diligence at my command, you may be assured.”
Taunton was mollified. He too forgot his sense of offense and returned his mind to Prudence and her death.
“Why have you come to see me, Mr. Monk? What can I do to assist you? I am aware of nothing whatever to account for what happened, except the very nature of hospitals and the people who inhabit them, the type of women employed there, of which you must be aware yourself.”
Monk evaded the question slightly. “Can you think of any reason why another nurse should wish Miss Barrymore harm?” he asked.
Taunton looked thoughtful. “Many possibilities come to mind. Would you care to come through to my study, where we may discuss it in more comfortable surroundings?”
“Thank you,” Monk accepted, following him back through the hallway and into a charming room much larger than he had expected, facing a rose garden with open fields beyond. A fine stand of elms rose two hundred yards away. “What a splendid view,” he said involuntarily.
“Thank you,” Taunton acknowledged with a tight smile. He waved at one of the large chairs, inviting Monk to sit, and then occupied another opposite it. “You asked about the nurses,” he said, addressing the subject again. “Since you are consulted by the Board of Governors, I assume you are familiar with the kind of women who become nurses? They have little or no education and the morals one would expect from such people.” He regarded Monk gravely. “It would hardly be surprising if they resented a woman such as Miss Barrymore, who had what must have seemed to them to be wealth, and who worked not from necessity but because she wished to. Quite obviously she had education, gentle birth, and all the blessings of life they would have asked for themselves.” He looked at Monk to make sure he understood the nuances of what he was saying.
“A quarrel?” Monk asked with surprise. “It would have taken a very vicious woman, and one of considerable physical strength, to have attacked Miss Barrymore and strangled her without drawing the attention of other people. The corridors are often empty for periods of time, but the wards are not far. A scream would have brought people running.”
Taunton frowned. “I do not see the burden of your remark, Mr. Monk. Are you trying to say that Miss Barrymore was not killed in the hospital?” His expression hardened into contempt. “Is that what the Board of Governors wants, to disclaim responsibility and say the hospital is not involved?”
“Certainly not.” Monk might have been amused had he not been so angry. He despised pomposity; coupled with foolishness, as it usually was, it was intolerable. “I am trying to point out that a quarrel between two women is unlikely to have ended by one of them being strangled,” he said impatiently. “A quarrel would have been heard; indeed, it was two women quarreling which brought Dr. Beck and Lady Callandra to the scene and resulted in their finding Miss Barrymore.”
“Oh.” Taunton looked suddenly pale as the argument receded and they both remembered it was Prudence’s death they were discussing, not some academic exercise. “Yes, I see. Then you are saying it must have been premeditated, done in a manner of cold blood, without warning.” He looked away, his face filled with emotion. “Good God, how appalling! Poor Prudence.” He swallowed with some difficulty. “Is it—is it possible she knew little of it, Mr. Monk?”
Monk had no idea. “Yes, I should think so,” he lied. “It may have been very quick, especially if the attacker were strong.”
Taunton blinked hastily
.
“A man. Yes, that does seem far more likely.” He seemed satisfied with the answer.
“Did Miss Barrymore mention any man to you who had been causing her anxiety and with whom she might have had an unsatisfactory acquaintance?” Monk asked.
Taunton frowned, looking at Monk uncertainly. “I am not quite sure what you mean by that.”
“I do not know what other phrase to use. I mean either personal or professional, a doctor, chaplain, treasurer, governor, relation of a patient, or anyone with whom she had dealings in the course of her duties,” Monk tried to explain.
Taunton’s face cleared. “Oh yes, I see.”
“Well, did she? Of whom did she speak?”
Taunton considered for a moment, his eyes on the elms in the distance, their great green bowers bright in the sun. “I am afraid we did not often discuss her work.” His lips tightened, but it was not possible to say if it was in anger or pain. “I did not approve of it. But she did mention her high regard for the chief surgeon, Sir Herbert Stanhope, a man more of her own social class, of course. She had the greatest regard for his professional ability. But I gained no impression that her feelings were personal.” He scowled at Monk. “I hope that is not what you are suggesting?”
