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Another junior nurse who had admired Prudence came in at about ten o’clock in the evening, when it was growing dark, a hot mug of tea in her hand and a thick mutton sandwich. She closed the door behind her swiftly and held them out.
“You must be gasping for something,” she said, her eyes bright.
“I’m ravenous,” Hester agreed gratefully. “Thank you very much.”
“How is he?” the nurse asked. She was about twenty, brown-haired with an eager, gentle face.
“In a lot of pain,” Hester answered, her mouth full. “But his pulse is still good, so I’m hoping he isn’t losing any blood.”
“Poor soul. But Sir Herbert’s a marvelous surgeon, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Hester meant it. “Yes, he’s brilliant.” She took a long drink at the tea, even though it was too hot.
“Were you in the Crimea too?” the nurse resumed, her face lit with enthusiasm. “Did you know poor Nurse Barrymore? Did you know Miss Nightingale?” Her voice dropped a fraction in awe at the great name.
“Yes,” Hester said with very slight amusement. “I knew them both. And Mary Seacole.”
The girl was mystified. “Who’s Mary Seacole?”
“One of the finest women I ever met,” Hester replied, knowing her answer was borne of perversity as well as truth. Profound as was her admiration for Florence Nightingale, and for all the women who had served in the Crimea, she had heard so much praise for most of them but nothing for the black Jamaican woman who had served with equal selflessness and diligence, running a boardinghouse which was a refuge for the sick, injured, and terrified, administering her own fever cures, learned in the yellow fever areas of her native West Indies.
The girl’s face quickened with curiosity. “Oh? I never heard mention of her. Why not? Why don’t people know?”
“Probably because she is Jamaican,” Hester replied, sipping at the tea. “We are very parochial whom we honor.” She thought of the still rigidly absurd social hierarchy even among the ladies who picnicked on the heights overlooking the battle, or rode their fine horses on parade the mornings before—and after, and the tea parties amid the carnage. Then with a jolt she recalled herself to the present. “Yes, I knew Prudence. She was a brave and unselfish woman—then.”
“Then!” The girl was horrified. “What do you mean? She was marvelous. She knew so much. Far more than some of the doctors, I used to think—Oh!” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Don’t tell anyone I said that! Of course she was only a nurse …”
“But she was very knowledgeable?” A new and ugly thought entered Hester’s mind, spoiling her pleasure in the sandwich, hurrying as she was.
“Oh, yes!” the girl said vehemently. “I suppose it came with all her experience. Not that she talked about it very much. I used to wish she would say more…. It was wonderful to listen to her.” She smiled a little shyly. “I suppose you could tell the same sort of thing, seeing as you were there too?”
“I could,” Hester agreed. “But sometimes it is hard to find words to convey something that is so dreadfully different. How can you describe the smell, and the taste of it, or being so tired—or feeling such horror and anger and pity? I wish I could make you see it through my eyes for a moment, but I can’t. And sometimes when you can’t do a thing properly, it is better not to belittle it by doing it badly.”
“I understand.” Suddenly there was a new brightness in her eyes and a tiny smile as something unexplainable at last made sense.
Hester took a deep breath, finished the tea, then asked the questions that crowded her mind. “Do you think Prudence knew enough that she might have been aware if someone else had made a mistake—a serious one?”
“Oh …” The girl looked thoughtful, turning the possibility over in her mind. Then with a thrill of horror she realized what Hester meant. Her hand came up sharply, her eyes wide and dark. “Oh no! Oh dear Heaven! You mean did she see someone make a real mistake, a dreadful one, and he murdered her to keep her quiet? But who would do such a wicked thing?”
“Someone who was frightened his reputation would be ruined,” Hester answered. “If the mistake was fatal …”
“Oh—I see.” The girl continued to stare at her aghast.
“Whom did she work with recently?” Hester pursued. She was aware that she was treading into a dangerous area, dangerous for herself if this innocent, almost naive-seeming girl were to repeat the conversation, but her curiosity overpowered her sense of self-preservation. The danger was only possible, and some time in the future. The knowledge was now. “Who had been caring for someone who died unexpectedly?”
The girl’s eyes were fixed on Hester’s face. “She worked very close with Sir Herbert until just before she died. And she worked with Dr. Beck too.” Her voice dropped unhappily. “And Dr. Beck’s patient died that night—and that was unexpected. We all thought he’d live. And Prudence and him had a quarrel…. Everyone knows that, but I reckon as if he had done anything like that, she’d have told. She was as straight as they come. She wouldn’t’ve hidden it to save anyone. Not her.”
“So if it were that, then it happened probably the day before she was killed, or even that night?”
“Yes.”
“But Dr. Beck’s patient died that night,” Hester pointed out.
“Yes,” the girl conceded, the light brightening in her eyes again and her voice lifting.
“So whom did she work with that night?” Hester asked. “Who was even here that night?”
The girl hesitated for several moments, thinking so she remembered exactly. The patient in the bed turned restlessly, throwing the sheet off himself. Hester rearranged it more comfortably. There was little else she could do.
