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“I am not suggesting anything,” Monk said impatiently, his voice rising. “I am trying to learn something about her, and who may have wished her harm for whatever reason: jealousy, fear, ambition, revenge, greed, anything at all. Did she have any admirers that you know of? I believe she was a most attractive person.”
“Yes she was, for all her stubbornness. She was quite lovely.” For a moment he turned away from Monk and endeavored to mask his distress.
Monk thought of apologizing, then felt it would only embarrass Taunton further. He had never learned the right thing to say. Probably there was no right thing.
“No,” Taunton said after several minutes. “She never spoke of anyone. Although it is possible she would not have told me, knowing how I felt. But she was transparently honest. I think if there had been anyone, her own candor would have compelled her to tell me.” His face creased with total incomprehension. “She always spoke as if medicine were her sole love and she had no time for ordinary womanly pursuits and instincts. If anything, I should say she was increasingly devoted lately.” He looked at Monk earnestly. “You did not know her before she went to the Crimea, Mr. Monk. She was different then, quite different. She had not the …” He stopped, struggling for a word to describe what he meant. “She was … softer, yes that is it, softer, far more truly womanly.”
Monk did not argue, although the words were on the edge of his tongue. Were women really soft? The best women he knew, the ones that leaped to his mind, were anything but. Convention demanded their outer manners were yielding, but inside was a core of steel that would put many a man to shame, and a strength of will and endurance that knew no master. Hester Latterly had had courage to fight on for his vindication when he himself had given up. She had bullied, cajoled, and abused him into hope, and then into struggle, regardless of her own welfare.
And he would have sworn Callandra would do as much, if occasion demanded. And there were others. Perhaps Prudence Barrymore had been one like these, passionate, brave, and single-minded to her convictions. Difficult for a man like Geoffrey Taunton to accept, still less to understand. Perhaps difficult for anyone to associate with. Lord knew, Hester could be abrasive, willful, obstructive, and thoroughly sharp-tongued—and always opinionated.
In fact, Monk’s irritation with Taunton lessened considerably as he thought about it. If he had been in love with Prudence Barrymore, he probably had had a great deal to endure.
“Yes, yes I see,” he said aloud with a ghost of a smile. “It must have been most trying for you. When was the last time you saw Miss Barrymore?”
“I saw her the morning she died—was killed,” Taunton replied, his face pale. “Probably very shortly before.”
Monk was puzzled. “But she was killed very early in the morning, between six o’clock and half past seven.”
Taunton blushed. “Yes, it was early; in fact, it was no more than seven o’clock at the most. I had spent the night in town and went in to the hospital to see her before catching the train home.”
“It must have been something of great importance to you to take you there at that hour.”
“It was.” Taunton offered nothing further. His face was set, his expression closed.
“If you prefer not to tell me, you leave it to my imagination,” Monk challenged with a hard smile. “I shall assume you quarreled over your disapproval of her occupation.”
“You may assume what you wish,” Taunton said equally tersely. “It was a private conversation which I should not have reported had nothing untoward happened. And now that poor Prudence is dead, I certainly shall not.” He looked at Monk with defiance. “It was not to her credit, that is all you need to know. The poor creature was in a high temper when I left, most unbecoming, but she was in excellent health.”
Monk let that go by without comment. Apparently Taunton had not yet even thought of himself as suspect. “And she at no time indicated to you that she was afraid of anyone?” Monk asked. “Or that anyone had been unpleasant or threatening toward her?”
“Of course not, or I should have informed you. You would not have needed to ask.”
“I see. Thank you, you have been most cooperative. I am sure Lady Callandra will be grateful to you.” Monk knew he should add his condolences, but the words stuck in his mouth. He had contained his temper, that was sufficient. He stood up. “Now I will not take any more of your time.”
“It does not seem you have progressed very far.” Taunton rose also, unconsciously smoothing his clothes and regarding Monk critically. “I cannot see how you can hope to catch whoever it was by such methods.”
“I daresay I could not do your job either, sir,” Monk said with a tight smile. “Perhaps that is just as well. Thank you again. Good day, Mr. Taunton.”
It was a hot walk back along the Ride, over Boston Lane and through the fields to Wyke Farm, but Monk enjoyed it enormously. It was exquisite to feel the earth beneath his feet instead of pavement, to smell the wind across open land, heavy with honeysuckle, and hear nothing but the ripening ears of wheat rustling and the occasional distant bark of a dog. London and its troubles seemed another country, not just a few miles away on the railway line. For a moment he forgot Prudence Barrymore and allowed peace to settle in his mind and old memory to creep in: the wide hills of Northumberland and the clean wind off the sea, the gulls wheeling in the sky. It was all he had of childhood: impressions, a sound, a smell that brought back emotions, a glimpse of a face, gone before he could see it clearly.
His pleasure was snapped and he was returned to the present by a woman on horseback looming suddenly a few yards away. Of course she must have come over the fields, but he had been too preoccupied to notice her until she was almost on top of him. She rode with the total ease of someone to whom it is as natural as walking. She was all grace and femininity, her back straight, her head high, her hands light on the reins.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said with surprise. “I apologize for not having seen you earlier.”
She smiled. Her mouth was wide, her face soft with dark eyes, perhaps a little deep set. Her brown hair was drawn back under her riding hat but the heavy curl softened it. She was pretty, almost beautiful.
“Are you lost?” she said with amusement, looking down at his smart clothes and dark boots. “There is nothing here along this track except Wyke Farm.” She held her horse in tight control, standing only a yard in front of him, her hands strong, skilled, and tight.
“Then I am not lost,” he answered, meeting her gaze. “I am looking for Miss Nanette Cuthbertson.”
“You need go no farther. I am she.” Her surprise was good-natured and welcoming. “What may I do for you, sir?”
“How do you do, Miss Cuthbertson. My name is Willia
m Monk. I am assisting Lady Callandra Daviot, who is a member of the Board of Governors of the Royal Free Hospital. She is eager to clear up the matter of Miss Barrymore’s death. You were acquainted with her, I believe?”
The smile disappeared from her face, but there was no curiosity in her, simply a decent acknowledgment of tragedy. To have remained looking so cheerful would have been indelicate.
