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“Of course not,” she agreed, aching to hit him, to feel the release of physical action and reaction, to contact him more immediately than with words, however stinging the sarcasm. But self-preservation restrained her hand. “You always play very safe, no risk at all,” she went on. “No danger to yourself. To hell with the results. How unfortunate if the wrong man is hanged—at least we are all safe. I have noticed that is your philosophy.”
In a cooler temper he would not have responded to that, but his anger was still boiling.
“I take risks when it is necessary. Not when it is merely stupid. And I think what I’m doing first!”
This time she did laugh, loudly, uproariously, and in a most undignified and unladylike fashion. It felt wonderful. All the tensions and fears fled out of her, the fury and the loneliness, and she laughed even harder. She could not have stopped even if she had tried and she did not try.
“Stupid woman,” he said between his teeth, his face coloring. “God preserve me from the half-witted!” He turned away because he was about to laugh as well, and she knew it as surely as if he had.
Eventually, with tears streaming down her face, she regained control of herself and fished for a handkerchief to blow her nose.
“If you have composed yourself?” he said, still trying to maintain a frigid expression. “Then perhaps you will tell me if you have learned anything useful, either in this operation or in any other?”
“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “That is what I came for.” She had already decided, without even having to consider it, that she would not tell him about Callandra’s feelings for Kristian Beck. It was a totally private matter. To mention it would be a kind of betrayal. “The corridor is almost deserted at that time of day, and the few who do pass along it are either rushed or too tired to remark anything, or both. They didn’t notice me, and I don’t think they would have noticed anyone else either.”
“Not even a man?” he pressed, his attention fully back on the case again. “In trousers and jacket, rather than a dresser’s clothes?”
“It’s very dim. I don’t think they would have,” she said thoughtfully. “One would simply have to have turned one’s back and pretended to be putting something down the chute. At that time in the morning people have been on duty all night and are too exhausted to mind anyone else’s business. Their own is more than enough. They are thinking of lying down somewhere and going to sleep. That’s about all that matters.”
He looked at her more closely.
“You look tired,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “In fact, you look awful.”
“You don’t,” she rejoined instantly. “You look very well. But then I daresay I have been working a great deal harder than you have.”
He took her totally by surprise by agreeing with her.
“I know.” He smiled suddenly. “Let us hope the sick are suitably grateful. I expect Callandra will be, and you can buy a new dress. You certainly need one. What else did you discover if anything?”
The remark about the dress stung. She was always aware of how very smart he was. She would never have let him know—he was more than vain enough—but she admired it. She also knew quite well that she was seldom fashionable herself, and never really feminine. It was an art which eluded her, and she had stopped trying. She would love to be as beautiful as Imogen, as graceful and romantic.
He was staring at her, waiting for a reply.
“Sir Herbert is very likely to be offered a position as medical adviser to a member of the Royal household,” she said hastily. “I don’t know who.”
“Doesn’t seem to be relevant.” He shrugged, dismissing it. “But I suppose it may be. What else?”
“Sir John Robertson, one of the governors, has financial troubles,” she recounted in a businesslike tone. “The chaplain drinks; not wildly, but more than is good for his judgment at times, and his balance. And the treasurer has wandering eyes, and hands, where the better-looking nurses are concerned. But he favors fair hair and generous bosoms.”
Monk glanced at her but forbore from comment.
“Not likely to have bothered Prudence, then,” he observed.
She felt as if his remark had been personal and included her.
“I think she could have dealt with him very adequately if he had,” she answered fiercely. “I certainly could.”
He grinned broadly, on the edge of laughter, but he said nothing aloud.
“And did you discover anything?” she inquired with raised eyebrows. “Or have you simply been waiting to see what I would learn?”
“Of course I discovered things. Are you requiring me to report to you?” He sounded surprised.
“Certainly I am.”
“Very well. Both Geoffrey Taunton and Nanette Cuthbertson had excellent opportunity,” he recounted, standing a little more upright, like a soldier reporting, but he was still smiling. “He was in the hospital that morning to see Prudence, and by his own admission he quarreled with her.”
“She was seen alive after the quarrel,” she interrupted.
