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Runcorn was different; for him he felt anger and a swift harsh contempt. It was not that he was stupid. He was not: his questions were perceptive enough, well phrased, well judged, and he obviously weighed the answers. He was not gullible. So why did Monk find himself unconsciously curling his lip?
What had the case been? He could not remember that either! But it had mattered, of that he had no doubt at all. It was serious. The superintendent had been asking them every day for progress. The press had been demanding someone be caught and hanged. But for what?
Had they succeeded?
He sat up with a jolt. They were at Euston Road and it was time he got off or he would be carried past his stop. Hastily, apologizing for treading on people’s feet, he scrambled out of his seat and made his way out onto the platform.
He must stop dwelling in the past and think what next to do in the murder of Prudence Barrymore. There was nothing to report to Callandra yet, but she might have something to tell him, although it was a trifle early. Better to leave it a day or two, then he might have something to say himself.
He strode along the platform, threading his way among the people, bumping into a porter and nearly tripping over a bale of papers.
What had Prudence Barrymore been like as a nurse? Better to begin at the beginning. He had met her parents, her suitor, albeit unsuccessful, and her rival. In time he would ask her superiors, but they were, or might be, suspects. The best judge of the next stage in her career would be someone who had known her in the Crimea, apart from Hester. He dodged around two men and a woman struggling with a hat box.
What about Florence Nightingale herself? She would know something about all her nurses, surely? But would she see Monk? She was now fêted and admired all over the city, second in public affection only to the Queen.
It was worth trying.
Tomorrow he would do that. She was immeasurably more famous, more important, but she could not be more opinionated or more acid-tongued than Hester.
Unconsciously he quickened his step. It was a good decision. He smiled at an elderly lady who glared back at him.
Florence Nightingale was smaller than he had expected, slight of build and with brown hair and regular features, at a glance quite unremarkable. It was only the intensity of her eyes under the level brows which held him, and the way she seemed to look right into his mind, not with interest, simply a demand that he meet her honesty with equal candor. He imagined no one dared to waste her time.
She had received him in some sort of office, sparsely furnished and strictly functional. He had gained admittance only with difficulty, and after explaining his precise purpose. It was apparent she was deeply engaged in some cause and had set it aside only for the duration of the interview.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk,” she said in a strong clear voice. “I believe you have come in connection with the death of one of my nurses. I am extremely sorry to hear of it. What is it you wish of me?”
He would not have dared prevaricate, even if it had been his intention.
“She was murdered, ma’am, while serving in the Royal Free Hospital. Her name was Prudence Barrymore.” He saw the shadow of pain pass over Florence Nightingale’s calm features, and liked her the better for it. “I am inquiring into her murder,” he went on. “Not with the police but
at the wish of one of her friends.”
“I am deeply sorry. Please be seated, Mr. Monk.” She indicated a hard-backed chair and sat in one opposite, holding her hands in her lap and staring at him.
He obeyed. “Can you tell me something of her nature and her abilities, ma’am?” he asked. “I have already heard that she was dedicated to medicine to the exclusion of all else, that she had refused a man who had admired her for many years, and that she held her opinions with great conviction.”
A flicker of amusement touched Florence Nightingale’s mouth. “And expressed them,” she agreed. “Yes, she was a fine woman, with a passion to learn. Nothing deterred her from seeking the truth and acknowledging it.”
“And telling it to others?” he asked.
“Of course. If you know the truth, it takes a gentler and perhaps a wiser woman than Prudence Barrymore not to speak it aloud. She did not understand the arts of diplomacy. I fear that perhaps I do not either. The sick cannot wait for flattery and coercion to do their work.”
He did not flatter her with agreement. She was not a woman who would have valued the obvious.
“Might Miss Barrymore have made enemies profound enough to have killed her?” he asked. “I mean, was her zeal to reform or her medical knowledge sufficient for that?”
For several moments Florence Nightingale sat silent, but Monk knew perfectly well that she had understood him and that she was considering the question before answering.
“I find it unlikely, Mr. Monk,” she said at last. “Prudence was more interested in medicine itself than in ideas of reforming such as I have. I desire above all things to see the simple changes that would save so many lives and cost little, such as proper ventilation of hospital wards.” She looked at him with brilliant eyes, burning with the intensity of her feeling. Already the timbre of her voice had altered and there was a new quality of urgency in it. “Have you any idea, Mr. Monk, how stuffy most wards are, how stale the air and full of noxious vapors and fumes? Clean air will do as much to heal people as half the medicines they are given.” She leaned forward a fraction. “Of course our hospitals here are nothing like the hospitals in Scutari, but still they are places where as many people die of infections caught there as of the original complaints that brought them! There is so much to do, so much suffering and death which could be avoided.” She spoke quietly, and yet Monk, listening to her, felt a quiver of excitement inside himself. There was a passion in her eyes which lit them from within. No longer could Monk possibly say she was ordinary. She possessed a fierceness, a solitary fire, and yet a vulnerability which made her unique. He caught a glimpse of what it was that had inspired an army to love her and the nation to revere her, and yet leave her with such a core of inner loneliness.
“I have a friend”—he used the word without thinking—“who nursed with you in the Crimea, a Miss Hester Latterly …”
Her face softened with instant pleasure. “You know Hester? How is she? She had to return home early because of the death of both of her parents. Have you seen her recently? Is she well?”
“I saw her two days ago,” he answered readily. “She is in excellent health. She will be most pleased to know you asked after her.” He felt slightly proprietorial. “She is largely nursing privately at present. I am afraid her outspokenness cost her her first hospital post.” He found himself smiling, although at the time he had been both angry and critical. “She knew more of fever medicine than the doctor, and acted upon it. He never forgave her.”
Florence smiled, a peaceful inward amusement, and he thought a certain pride. “I am not surprised,” she admitted. “Hester never suffered fools easily, especially military ones, and there are a great many of those. She used to get so angry at the waste and told them how stupid they were and what they should have done.” She shook her head. “I think had she been a man, Hester might have made a good soldier. She had all the zeal to fight and a good instinct for strategy, at least of a physical sort.”
