AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes—yes I do. Prudence wrote to me every two or three days, regardless of how busy she was. They were not merely letters, they were more in the nature of diaries, and notes upon the cases she worked on that she felt to be interesting or medically instructive.” She was watching his face keenly. “I have them all here—at least all those from the last three months. I think that will be sufficient.”
“Sufficient for what, ma’am?” He could feel excitement bubbling up inside him, but he dared not be precipitate, in case it should prove to be an ill-founded suspicion, a matter of guesses rather than fact, a sister’s natural desire for revenge—or as she would see it, justice.
“To hang him,” she said unequivocally. Suddenly the charm fled from her eyes and left them bleak, angry, and full of grief.
He held out his hand. “I cannot say until I have read them. But if they are, I give you my word I shall not rest until it is done.”
“That is what I thought.” A smile flashed across her mouth and vanished. “You have a ruthless face, Mr. Monk. I should not care to have you pursuing me.” She fished in an unusually large black reticule and brought out a bundle of envelopes. “Here.” She offered them to him. “I hoped you would come to the service. Please take these and do what you must. Perhaps one day I may have them back—after they have served their purpose in evidence?”
“If it lies within my power,” he promised.
“Good. Now I must return to my father and be what comfort I can to him. Remember, you have given me your word! Good day, Mr. Monk.” And without adding anything further, she walked away, very upright, head held stiff and straight, until she mingled with a group of soldiers, some one-armed or one-legged, who parted awkwardly to allow her through.
He did not open the letters to read until he reached his home and could do so in comfort and without haste.
The first had been written some three months earlier, as Faith Barker had said. The handwriting was small, untidy, and obviously written at speed, but there was nothing cramped or mean about it, and it was easily legible.
Dear Faith,
Another long and most interesting case today. A woman came in with a tumor of the breast. The poor creature had been in pain for some considerable time, but too frightened to consult anyone in the matter. Sir Herbert examined her, and told her it must be removed as soon as possible, and he would do it himself. He reassured her until she was almost without anxiety, and she was duly admitted to the hospital.
Then followed a detailed and highly technical description of the operation itself, and Sir Herbert’s brilliance in its performance.
Afterwards I had a hasty meal with Sir Herbert (we had been working long without a break or refreshment of any sort). He explained to me many
ideas of his on further procedure which could cut down the shock to the patient in such operations. I think his ideas are quite excellent, and would love to see him obtain the position where he has the opportunity to exercise them. He is one of the great ornaments to both the study and the practice of medicine. I sometimes think his hands are the most beautiful part of any human being I have ever seen. Some speak of hands in prayer as exquisite. I think hands in healing can never be superseded by anything.
I went to bed so tired! And yet so very happy!
Your loving sister.
Monk set it aside. It was personal, perhaps mildly suggestive—certainly far from accusing, let alone damning.
He read the next one, and the next. They were essentially similar, a great deal of medical comment and detail, and again the reference to Sir Herbert and his skill.
It was ridiculous to feel so disappointed. What had he expected?
He read three more, his attention increasingly waning. Then quite suddenly he found his heart beating and his fingers stiff as he held the paper.
I spoke for over an hour with Sir Herbert last night. We did not finish until nearly midnight, and both of us were too overwrought by events to retire immediately. I have never admired a man’s skills more, and I told him so. He was very gentle and warm toward me. Faith, I really believe true happiness is possible for me, in a way I only dreamed as a girl. I am on the brink of all I have wanted for so long. And Herbert is the one who can bring it about for me.
I went to bed so happy—and excited. I hope—I dream—I even pray! And it all lies with Herbert. God be with him.
Prudence.
Frantically Monk leafed through more letters, and found other passages in the same vein, full of hope and excitement, full of reference to happiness in the future, dreams coming true, in among the medical details and case histories.
He has it in his power to make me the happiest woman in the world. I know it sounds absurd, impossible, and I do understand what you tell me, all the cautions and warnings, and that you have only my happiness in mind. But if it all comes true … And he could make it happen, Faith—he could! It is not impossible after all. I have searched and thought, but I know of no law which cannot be fought or circumvented. Pray for me, my dear sister. Pray for me!
And then the tone changed, quite suddenly, only a week before her death.
Sir Herbert has betrayed me totally! At first I could hardly believe it. I went to him, full of hope—and, fool that I was, of confidence. He laughed at me and told me it was totally impossible and always would be.
I realized, like a hard slap in the face, that he had been using me, and what I could give him. He never intended to keep his word.
But I have a way of keeping him to it. I will not permit him the choice. I hate force—I abhor it. But what else is left me? I will not give up—I will not! I have the weapons, and I will use them!
Was that what had happened? She had gone to him with her threat and he had retaliated with his own weapon—murder?
