AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Monk smiled, the amusement going all the way to his eyes. “In the Royal Free Hospital.”
“What?” Rathbone was incredulous. “In a hospital? But I thought she …” He stopped. It was none of Monk’s business that Hester had been dismissed before, although of course he knew it. The thoughts, the amusement, the anger, and the instinct to defend, in spite of himself, were all there in his eyes as Rathbone stared at him.
There were times when Rathbone felt uniquely close to Monk, and both liked and disliked him intensely with two warring parts of his nature.
“I see,” he said aloud. “Well, I suppose it could prove useful. Please keep me informed.”
“Of course,” Monk agreed soberly. “Good day.”
Rathbone never doubted that he would also go to see Hester. He argued with himself, debating the reasons for and against such a move, but he did it with his brain, even while his feet were carrying him toward the hospital. It would be difficult to find her; she would be busy working. Quite possibly she knew nothing helpful about the murder anyway. But she had known Prudence Barrymore. Perhaps she also knew Sir Herbert. He could not afford to ignore her opinion. He could hardly afford to ignore anything!
He disliked the hospital. The very smell of the place offended his senses, and his consciousness of the pain and the distress colored all his thoughts. The place was in less than its normal state of busy, rather haphazard order since Sir Herbert’s arrest. People were confused, intensely partisan over the issue of his innocence or guilt.
He asked to see Hester, explaining who he was and his purpose, and he was shown into a small, tidy room and requested to wait. He was there, growing increasingly impatient and short-tempered, for some twenty minutes before the door opened and Hester came in.
It was over three months since he had last seen her, and although he had thought his memory vivid, he was still taken aback by her presence. She looked tired, a little pale, and there was a splash of blood on her very plain gray dress. He found the sudden feeling of familiarity both pleasant and disturbing.
“Good afternoon, Oliver,” she said rather formally. “I am told you are defending Sir Herbert and wish to speak to me on the matter. I doubt I can help. I was not here at the time of the murder, but of course I shall do all I can.” Her eyes met his directly with none of the decorum he was used to in women.
In that instant he was powerfully aware that she had known and liked Prudence Barrymore, and that her emotions would crowd her actions in the matter. It both pleased and displeased him. It would be a nuisance professionally. He needed clarity of observation. Personally, he found indifference to death a greater tragedy than the death itself, and sometimes a more offensive sin than many of the other lies, evasions, and betrayals that so often accompanied a trial.
“Monk tells me you knew Prudence Barrymore,” he said bluntly.
Her face tightened. “Yes.”
“Are you aware of the content of the letters she wrote to her sister?”
“Yes. Monk told me.” Her expression was guarded, unhappy. He wondered whether it was at the intrusion into privacy or at the subject matter of the letters themselves.
“Did it surprise you?” he asked.
She was still standing in front of him. There were no chairs in the room. Apparently it was used simply to store materials of one sort and another, and had been offered him because it afforded privacy.
“Yes,” she said unequivocally. “I accept that is what she wrote, because I have to. But it sounds most unlike the woman I knew.”
He did not wish to offend her, but he must not fall short of the truth either.
“And did you know her other than in the Crimea?”
It was a perceptive question, and she saw the meaning behind it immediately.
“No, I didn’t know her here in England,” she replied. “And I left the Crimea before she did because of my parents’ death, nor have I seen her since then. But all the same, this is nothing like the woman I worked with.” She frowned, trying to order her thoughts and find words for them. “She was—more sufficient in herself….” It was half a question, to see if he understood. “She never allowed her happiness to rest in other people,” she tried again. “She was a leader, not a follower. Am I explaining myself?” She regarded him anxiously, conscious of inadequacy.
“No,” he said simply, with a faint smile. “Are you saying she was incapable of falling in love?”
She hesitated for so long he thought she was not going to answer. He wished he had not broached the subject, but it was too late to retreat.
“Hester?”
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “Of loving, certainly, but falling in love … I am not sure. Falling implies some loss of balance. It is a good word to use. I am not at all sure Prudence was capable of falling. And Sir Herbert doesn’t seem …” She stopped.
“Doesn’t seem?” he prompted.
She pulled a very slight face. “The sort of man to inspire an overwhelming passion.” She made it almost a question, watching his face.
“Then what can she have meant in her letters?” he asked.
She shook her head fractionally. “I cannot see any other explanation. I just find it so hard to believe. I suppose she must have changed more than I would have thought possible.” Her expression hardened. “There must have been something between them that we have not even guessed at, some tenderness, something shared which was uniquely precious to her, so dear she could not give it up, even at the cost of demeaning herself to use threats.”
