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“How are you, my dear?” she asked with a sudden gentleness in her voice. “You look very tired.” She herself looked exhausted. Her skin was pale and her hair wilder than ever, as if she had run her fingers through it distractedly.
Hester entirely dismissed her own feelings. There was obviously some deep trouble in Callandra and her whole concern was how to help. She was uncertain as to whether she should even acknowledge that she was aware of it, much less ask what
it was. Something in Callandra’s manner made her feel it was private, and in all possibility that was part of its burden.
She made herself assume a casual expression.
“I’m tired at the moment,” she acknowledged. There was no point in a lie; it would be unbearably patronizing. “But the work is most rewarding. Sir Herbert really is a brilliant surgeon. He has not only skill but courage.”
“Yes indeed,” Callandra agreed with a flash of enthusiasm. “I hear he is high in line for appointment as medical adviser to someone in the Royal household—I forget whom.”
“No wonder he is looking pleased with himself,” Hester said immediately. “But I daresay it is well deserved. Still, it is a great honor.”
“Indeed.” Callandra’s face darkened again. “Hester, have you seen William lately? Do you know how he is doing—if he has learned anything … pertinent?” There was an edge to her voice and she looked at Hester with a nervousness she failed to conceal.
“I haven’t seen him for a day or two,” Hester replied, wishing she knew what better to say. What troubled Callandra so much? Usually she was a woman of deep sensitivity, of empathy and a great will to fight, but for all that, there was an inner calm in her, a certainty that no outside forces could alter. Suddenly that peace at the core of her was gone. Whatever it was she feared had struck at the root of her being.
And it concerned Kristian Beck. Hester was almost sure of that. Had she heard the rumors of his quarrel with Prudence and feared he was guilty? Even so, why would that cause her anything but the same grief it would bring everyone else? Why should it disturb her in this quite fundamental way?
The answer was obvious. There was only one possibility in Hester’s mind, one reason such a thing would have disturbed her. Her mind flew back to a bitter night during the siege of Sebastopol. The snow had been deep, muffling the hills in white, deadening sound, laying a biting cold upon everything. The wind had got up so it bit through the thin blankets the men huddled in, shuddering with cold. Everyone was hungry. Even now she could not bear to think of the horses.
She had thought herself in love with one of the surgeons—although what was the difference between being in love and thinking yourself so? Surely an emotion is the same whether it lasts or not—like pain. If you believe you hurt, you feel it just the same.
It was that night that she had realized he had been so terrified on the battlefield that he had left wounded men to die. She could still remember the agony of that discovery now, years after she had ceased to feel anything for him except compassion.
Callandra was in love with Kristian Beck. Of course. Now that she realized it, she wondered how she had ever failed to see it. And she was terrified that he was guilty. Was that merely because of Jeavis’s suspicions over the half-heard quarrel? Or had she learned something further herself?
She looked at Callandra’s pale, tired face and knew that she would tell her nothing, not that Hester would have asked. In her place, Hester would have told no one. She would have gone on believing there must be some reason, some explanation that cast a different light. She remembered the murder of Joscelin Grey, and all the doubt and pain that had cost, and knew that to be true.
“I had better find him and tell him my progress, though,” she said aloud, jerking Callandra’s attention back. “Little as it is.”
“Yes—yes of course,” Callandra agreed. “Then I shall not detain you longer. But do get some sleep, my dear. Everyone has to rest some time, or they cannot have the strength to be useful.”
Hester smiled briefly, as if in agreement, and excused herself.
Before she found Monk again she wanted to have another look at the corridor near the laundry chute at seven in the morning, roughly the time at which Prudence had been killed. She took steps to see that she was awake at half past six, and by seven she was alone beside the chute. It was broad daylight, and it had been for nearly three hours, but the stretch of the passage was dim because there were no windows, and at this time of the year the gas was not lit.
She stood against the wall and waited. In thirty-five minutes one dresser passed her carrying a bundle of bandages, looking neither to right nor left. He appeared tired, and Hester thought that quite possibly he did not even see her. If he had, she doubted very much he could have said afterwards who she was.
One nurse passed, going in the opposite direction. She swore at Hester in a general impersonal anger without looking at her. She was probably tired, hungry, and saw nothing ahead of her but endless days and nights the same. Hester had no heart to swear back.
After another quarter hour, having seen no one, she was about to leave. She had learned all she wished to. Maybe Monk already knew it, but if he did, it was by other evidence. She knew it for herself. Anyone would have had time to kill Prudence and put her in the laundry chute without fear of being observed, or even if they were, of being recognized by a witness who would testify against them.
She turned and walked toward the stairs down—and almost bumped into the huge form of Dora Parsons, standing with her arms folded.
“Oh!” Hester stopped abruptly, a sudden chill of fear running through her.
Dora grasped hold of her like an immovable clamp. Struggle would have been pointless.
“And what were you doing standing there in the shadows by the laundry chute, miss?” Dora said very quietly, her voice no more than a husky whisper.
Hester’s mind went numb. It was instinctive to deny the truth, but Dora’s bright odd eyes were watching her intently, and there was nothing gullible in her—in fact, she looked hideously knowing.
“I—” Hester began, chill turning to hot panic. There was no one else within hearing. The deep stairwell was only two feet away. A quick lift by those huge shoulders and she would be over it, to fall twenty or thirty feet down onto the stone floor of the laundry room. Was that how it had been for Prudence? A few moments of throat-closing terror and then death? Was the whole answer as simple as this—a huge, ugly, stolid nurse with a personal hatred of women who were a threat to her livelihood with their new ideas and standards?
“Yeah?” Dora demanded. “What? Cat got your tongue? Not so smart now, are we?” She shook Hester roughly, like a rat. “What were you doing there? What were you waiting for, eh?”
There was no believable lie. She might as well die, if she were going to, telling the truth. It did occur to her to scream, but that might well panic Dora into killing her instantly.
