A Sudden, Fearful Death

Chapter 5

John Evan was not happy with the case of Prudence Barrymore. He hated the thought of a young woman with such passion and vitality having been killed, and in this particular instance all the other circumstances also confused and troubled him. He did not like the hospital. The very smell of it caught in his throat even without his awareness of the pain and the fear that must reside here. He saw the bloodstained clothes of the surgeons as they hurried about the corridors, and the piles of soiled dressings and bandages, and every now and again he both saw and smelled the buckets of waste that were carried away by the nurses.

But deeper than all these was a matter disturbing him more because it was personal, something about which he not only could, but was morally bound to, do something. It was the way in which the investigation was being conducted. He had been angry and bitter when Monk had been maneuvered into resigning by events in the Moidore case and Runcorn's stand on the issue. But he had grown accustomed to working with Jeavis now, and while he did not either like or admire him, as he did Monk, he knew that he was a competent and honorable man.

But in this case Jeavis was out of his depth, or at least Evan thought so. The medical evidence was fairly clear. Prudence Barrymore had been attacked from the front and strangled to death manually; no ligature had been used. The marks of such a thing would have been plain enough, and indeed the bruises on her throat corresponded to the fingers of a powerful person of average enough size; it could have been any of dozens of people who had access to the hospital. And it was easy enough to enter from the street. There were so many doctors, nurses, and assistants of one sort or another coming and going, an extra person would be unnoticed. For that matter, even someone drenched in blood would cause no alarm.

At first Jeavis had thought of other nurses. It had crossed Evan's mind that he had done so because it was easier for him than approaching the doctors and surgeons, who were of a superior education and social background, and Jeavis was nervous of them. However, when a large number of the individual nurses could account for their whereabouts, in each others' company or in the company of a patient from the time Prudence Barrymore was last seen alive until the skivvy found her in the laundry chute, he was obliged to cast his net wider. He looked to the treasurer, a pompous man with a high winged collar that seemed to be too tight for him. He constantly eased his neck and stretched his chin forward as if to be free of it. However, he had not been on the premises early enough, and could prove himself to have been still at his home, or in a hansom on his way up the Gray's Inn Road, at the appropriate time.

Jeavis's face had tightened. "Well, Mr. Evan, we shall have to look to the patients at the time. And if we do not find our murderer among them, then to the doctors." His expression relaxed a little. "Or of course there is always the possibility that some outsider may have come in, perhaps someone she knew. We shall have to look more closely into her character…"

"She wasn't a domestic servant," Evan said tartly.

"Indeed not," Jeavis agreed. "The reputation of nurses being what it is, I daresay most ladies that have servants wouldn't employ them." His face registered a very faint suggestion of a smile.

"The women who went out to nurse with Miss Nightingale were ladies!" Evan was outraged, not only for Prudence Barrymore but also for Hester and (he was surprised to find) for Florence Nightingale too. Part of his mind was worldly, experienced, and only mildly tolerant of such foibles as hero worship, but there was a surprisingly large part of him that felt an uprush of pride and fierce defense when he thought of "the lady with the lamp" and all she had meant to agonized and dying men far from home in a nightmare place. He was angry with Jeavis for his indirect slight. A flash of amusement lit him also and he knew what Monk would say, he could hear his beautiful, sarcastic voice in his head: "A true child of the vicarage, Evan. Believe any pretty story told you, and make your own angels to walk the streets. You should have taken the cloth like your father!"

"Daydreaming?" Jeavis said, cutting into his thoughts. "Why the smile, may I ask? Do you know something that I don't?”

"No sir!" Evan pulled himself together. "What about the Board of Governors? We might find some of them were here, and knew her, one way or another."

Jeavis's face sharpened. "What do you mean, 'one way or another'? Men like (he governors of hospitals don't have affairs with nurses, man!" His mouth registered his distaste for the very idea and his disapproval of Evan for having put words to it.

Evan had been going to explain himself, that he had meant either socially or professionally, but now he felt obstructive and chose to make it literal.

"By all accounts she was a handsome woman, and full of intelligence and spirit," he argued. "And men of any sort will always be attracted to women like that."

"Rubbish!" Jeavis treasured an image of certain classes of gentleman, just as did Runcorn. Their relationship had become a mutually agreeable one, and both were finding it increasingly to their advantage. It was one of the few things in Jeavis which truly irritated Evan more than he could brush aside.

"If Mr. Gladstone could give assistance to prostitutes off the street," Evan said decisively, looking Jeavis straight in the eye, "I'm quite sure a hospital governor could cherish a fancy for a fine woman like Prudence Barrymore."

Jeavis was too much of a policeman to let his social pretensions deny his professionalism.

"Possibly," he said grudgingly, pushing out his lip and scowling. "Possibly. Now get about your job, and don't stand around wasting time." He poked his finger at the air. "Want to know if anyone saw strangers here that morning. Speak to everyone, mind, don't miss a soul. And then find out where all the doctors and surgeons were-exacdy. I'll see about the governors."

"Yes sir. And the chaplain?"

A mixture of emotions crossed Jeavis's face: outrage at the idea a chaplain could be guilty of such an act, anger that Evan should have said it, sadness that in fact it was not impossible, and a flash of amusement and suspicion that Evan, a son of the clergy himself, was aware of ail the irony of it.

"You might as well," he said at last. "But you be sure of your facts. No 'he said' and 'she said.' I want eyewitnesses, you understand me?" He fixed Evan fiercely with his pale-lashed eyes.

"Yes sir," Evan agreed. "I'll get precise evidence, sir. Good enough for a jury."

But three days later when Evan and Jeavis stood in front of Runcorn's desk in his'bffice, the precise evidence amounted to very little indeed.

"So what have you?" Runcorn leaned back in his chair, his long face somber and critical. "Come on, Jeavis! A nurse gets strangled in a hospital. It's not as if anyone could walk in unnoticed. The girl must have friends, enemies, people she'd quarreled with." He tapped his finger on the desk. "Who are they? Where were they when she was killed? Who saw her last before she was found? What about this Dr. Beck? A foreigner, you said? What's he like?"

Jeavis stood up to attention, hands at his side.

"Quiet sort o' chap," he answered, his features carefully composed into lines of respect. "Smug, bit of a foreign accent, but speaks English well enough, in fact too well, if you know what I mean, sir? Seems good at his job, but Sir Herbert Stanhope, the chief surgeon, doesn't seem to like him a lot." He blinked. "At least that's what I sense, although of course he didn't exactly say so."

"Never mind Sir Herbert." Runcorn dismissed it with a brush of his hand. "What about the dead woman? Did she get on with this Dr. Beck?" Again his finger tapped the table. "Could there be an affair there? Was she nice-looking? What were her morals? Loose? I hear nurses are pretty easy."

Evan opened his mouth to object and Jeavis kicked him sharply below the level of the desktop where Runcorn would not see him.

Evan gasped.

Runcorn turned to him, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes? Come on, man. Don't just stand there!"

"No sir. No one spoke ill of Miss Barrymore's morals, sir. On the contrary, they said she seemed uninterested in such things."

"Not normal, eh?" Runcorn pulled his long face into an expression of distaste. "Can't say that surprises me a great deal. What normal woman would want to go off to a foreign battlefield and take up such an occupation?"

It flashed into Evan's mind that if she had shown interest in men, Runcorn would have said she was loose principled and immoral. Monk would have pointed that out, and asked what Runcorn would have considered right. He stared at Jeavis beside him, then across at Runcorn's thoughtful face, his brows drawn down above his long narrow nose.

"What should we take for normal, sir?" Evan let the words out before his better judgment prevailed, almost as if it were someone else speaking.

Runcorn's head jerked up. "What?"

Evan stood firm, his jaw tightening. "I was thinking, sir, that if she didn't show any interest in men, she was not normal, and if she did she was of loose morals. What, to your mind, would be right-sir?"

"What is right, Evan," Runcorn said between his teeth, the blood rising up his cheeks, "is for a young woman to conduct herself like a lady: seemly, modest, and gentle, not to chase after a man, but to let him know in a subtle and genteel way that she admires him and might not find his attentions unwelcome. That is what is normal, Mr. Evan, and what is right. You are a vicar's son. How is it that I should have to tell you that?"

"Perhaps if anybody's attentions had been welcome, she'd have let him know it," Evan suggested, ignoring the last question and keeping his eyes wide open, his expression innocent.

Runcorn was thrown off balance. He had never known exactly what to make of Evan. He looked so mild and inoffensive with his long nose and hazel eyes, but seemed always to be on the brink of amusement, and Runcorn was never comfortable with it, because he did not know what was funny.

"Do you know something, Sergeant, that you haven't told us?" he said tartly.

"No sir!" Evan replied, standing even more upright.

Jeavis shifted his weight to the other foot. "She did have a visitor that morning, sir, a Mr. Taunton."

"Did she?" Runcorn's eyebrows rose and he jerked forward in his chair. "Well, man! What do we know about this Mr. Taunton? Why didn't you tell me about this in the first place, Jeavis?'

"Because he is a very respectable gentleman," Jeavis defended himself, keeping his temper with difficulty. "And he came and went again inside ten minutes or so, an' at least one of the other nurses thinks she saw Barrymore alive after Mr. Taunton left."

"Oh." Runcorn's face fell. "Well, make sure of it. He might have come back again. Hospitals are big places. You can get in and out of them easy enough. Just walk in off the street, seems to me," he said, contradicting his earlier statement. Then his expression sharpened. "Haven't you got anything, Jeavis? What've you been doing with your time? There's two of you. You must have learned something!"

Jeavis was aggrieved. "We have learned something, sir," he said coldly. "Barrymore was a very bossy, ambitious sort of a person, always giving orders to other people, but very good at her job. Even them that liked her least gave her that. Seems she used to work a lot with Dr. Beck-'that's the foreign doctor-then she switched to working mostly with Sir Herbert Stanhope. He's the head of the place and a very fine doctor. Has a spotless reputation both as a surgeon and as a man."

Runcorn's face twitched. "Of course he has. I've heard of him. What about this Beck fellow? She worked with him, you say?"

"Yes sir," Jeavis replied, his smooth features taking on a satisfied look. "He is a different matter altogether. Mrs. Flaherty-she's the matron, a superior sort of person, I judged-she overheard Beck and Barrymore quarreling only a few days ago."

"Did she indeed?" Runcorn looked better pleased. "Can't you be more exact, Jeavis? What do you mean a 'few days'?"

"She wasn't sure, or I'd 'ave said," Jeavis responded sourly. "Two or three. Seems days and nights all melt into one another in a hospital."

"So what did they quarrel about?"

Evan was growing more and more uncomfortable, but he could think of no reasonable protest to make, nothing they would listen to.

"Not certain," Jeavis replied. "But she said it was definitely a powerful difference." He hurried on, seeing Runcorn's impatience growing. "Beck said ‘It won't get you anywhere,' or something to that effect And she said that if there was no other course open to her she'd have to go to the authorities. And he said 'Please don't do that! I am quite sure it will gain you nothing, in fact it will harm you if anything.' " He ignored the smile on Evan's face at the "he said" and "she said," but his neck grew pinker. "And she said again as she was determined, and nothing would put her off, and he begged her again, and then got angry and said she was a foolish and destructive woman, that she risked ruining a fine medical career through her waywardness, but she just shouted something at him and stormed out, slamming the door." Jeavis finished his account and looked squarely at Runcom, waiting to see the effect his revelation had had upon him. He totally ignored Evan, who was keeping sober-faced with an effort.

He should have been well pleased. Runcorn sat bolt upright, his face glowing.

"Now there you have something, Jeavis," he said enthusiastically. "Get on with it, man! Go and see this Beck. Pin him down. I expect an arrest within days, with all the evidence we need for a conviction. Just don't spoil it by acting precipitately."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Jeavis's black eyes. "No sir. It would be precipitate, sir." Evan felt a twinge of sympathy for Jeavis. He was almost certain he did not know the meaning of the word. "We have no idea what the quarrel was about-" Jeavis went on.

"Blackmail," Runcorn said sharply. "It's obvious, man. She knew something about him which could ruin his career, and if he didn't cough up, she was going to tell the authorities. Nasty piece of work, all right." He snorted. "Can't say I grieve much when a blackmailer gets killed. All the same, can't let it happen and get away with it, not here in London! You go and find out what the blackmail was about" His finger jabbed the desk once more. "Look to the man's history, his patients, his qualifications, anything you can. See if he owes money, plays fast and loose with women."

His long nose wrinkled. "Or boys-or whatever. I want to know more about the man man he knows himself, do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Evan said grimly.

"Yes sir," Jeavis agreed.

"Well, get on with it then." Runcorn leaned back in his chair, smiling. "Get to work!"

"Now then, Dr. Beck." Jeavis rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. "A few questions, if you please."

Beck looked at him curiously. He had exceptionally fine eyes, well shaped and very dark. It was a face at once sensuous and refined, but there was something different in the shape of the bones, something indefinably foreign.

"Yes, Inspector?" he said politely.

Jeavis was full of confidence, perhaps remembering Runcorn's satisfaction.

"You worked with the deceased Nurse Barrymore, didn't you, Doctor." It was more of a statement than an inquiry. He knew the answer and his knowledge sat on him like armor.

"I imagine she worked with all the doctors in the hospital," Beck replied. "Although lately, I believe she assisted Sir Herbert most often. She was extremely capable, far more so than the average nurse." A flicker of amusement touched with anger curled his mouth.

"Are you saying that the deceased was different from other nurses, sir?" Jeavis asked quickly.

"Of course I am." Beck was surprised at Jeavis's stupidity. "She was one of Miss Nightingale's nurses from the Crimea! Most of the others are simply female employees who clean up here rather than in some domestic establishment. Frequently because to work in a domestic establishment of any quality you have to have references as to character, morals, sobriety, and honesty, which many of these women could not obtain. Miss Barrymore was a lady who chose nursing in order to serve. She probably had no need to earn her living at all."

Jeavis was thrown off balance.

"Be that as it may," he said dubiously. "I have a witness who overheard you quarreling with Barrymore a couple of days before she was murdered. What do you say to that, Doctor?"

Beck looked startled and his face tightened minutely.

"I say that your witness is mistaken, Inspector," he replied levelly. "I had no quarrel with Miss Barrymore. I had a great respect for her, both personally and professionally."

"Well you wouldn't say different now, sir, would you, seeing as how she's been murdered!"

"Then why did you ask me, Inspector?" Again the flash of humor crossed Beck's face, then vanished, leaving him graver than before. "Your witness is either malicious, frightened for himself, or else overheard part of a conversation and misunderstood. I have no idea which."

Jeavis pinched his lip doubtfully. "Well that could be the case, but it was a very reputable person, and I still want a better explanation than that, sir, because from what was overheard, it looks very like Miss Barrymore was blackmailing you and threatening to go to the hospital authorities and tell them something, and you begged with her not to. Would you care to explain that, sir?"

Beck looked paler.

"I can't explain it," he confessed. "It's complete nonsense."

Jeavis grunted. "I don't think so, sir. I don't think so at all. But we'll leave that for now." He looked at Beck sharply. "Just don't take it into your head to go for a trip back to France, or wherever it is you come from. Or I'll have to come after you!"

"I have no desire whatever to go to France, Inspector," Beck said dryly. "I shall be here, I assure you. Now if there is nothing further, I must return to my patients." And without waiting to see if Jeavis agreed, he walked past the two policemen and out of the room.

"Suspicious," Jeavis said darkly. "Marie my words, Evan, that's our man."

"Maybe." Evan did not agree, not because he knew anything, or suspected anyone else, but out of contrariness. "And maybe not."

Callandra became increasingly aware of Jeavis's presence in the hospital, and then, with a sick fear, of his suspicion of Kristian Beck. She did not believe for an instant that he was guilty, but she had seen enough miscarriage of justice to know that innocence was not always sufficient to save one even from the gallows, let alone from the damage of suspicion, the ruin to reputation, the fear and the loss of friends and fortune.

As she walked down the wide corridor of the hospital she felt a peculiar breathlessness and something not unlike a dizziness as she turned the corner, and almost bumped into Berenice Ross Gilbert.

"Oh! Good afternoon," she said with a gasp, regaining her balance somewhat ungracefully.

"Good afternoon, Callandra," Berenice said with her elegant eyebrows raised. "You look a trifle flustered, my dear. Is there something wrong?"

"Of course something is wrong," Callandra replied testily. "Nurse Barrymore has been murdered. Isn't that as wrong as anything can be?"

"It is fearful, naturally," Berenice answered, adjusting the drape of her fichu. "But to judge from your expression, I thought there must be something new. I'm relieved there is not." She was dressed in a rich shade of brown with gold lace. "The whole place is at sixes and sevens. Mrs. Flaherty cannot get sense out of any of the nurses. Stupid women seem to think there is a lunatic about and they are all in danger." Her rather long-nosed face with its ironic amusement was full of contempt as she stared at Callandra. "Which is ridiculous. It's obviously a personal crime- some rejected lover, as like as not."

"Rejected suitor, perhaps," Callandra corrected. "Not lover. Prudence was not of that nature."

"Oh really, my dear." Berenice laughed outright, her face full of scornful amusement. "She may have been gauche, but of course she was of that nature. Do you suppose she spent all that time out in the Crimea with all those soldiers out of a religious vocation to help the sick?"

"No. I think she went out of a sense of frustration at home," Callandra snapped back. "Adventure to travel and see other places and people, do something useful, and above all to learn about medicine, which had been her passion since she was a girl."

Berenice tossed her head in laughter, a rich gurgling sound. "You are naive, my dear! But by all means think what you will." She moved a little closer to Callandra, as if to impart a confidence, and Callandra caught a breath of rich musky perfume. "Have you seen that fearful little policeman? What an oily creature, like a beetle. Have you noticed he has hardly any eyebrows, and those black eyes like stones." She shuddered. "I swear they look just like the prune stones I used to count to know my future. You know, tinker, tailor, and so on. I am quite sure he thinks Dr. Beck did it."

Callandra tried to speak and had to swallow an obstruction in her throat.

"Dr. Beck?" She should not have been surprised. It was only her fear spoken aloud. "Why? Why on earth should Dr. Beck have-have-killed her?"

Berenice shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps he pursued her and she rejected him, and he was furious and lost his temper and strangled her?"

"Pursued her?" Callandra stared, turmoil in her mind and a hot, sick feeling of horror rippling through her body.

"For Heaven's sake, Callandra, stop repeating everything I say as if you were half-witted!" Berenice said tartly. "Why not? He is a man in the prime of life, and married to a woman who at best is quite indifferent to him, and at worst, if I were unkind, refuses to fulfill her conjugal duties…"

Callandra cringed inside. It was inexpressibly offensive to hear Berenice speaking in such terms of Kristian and his most personal life. It hurt more than she could have foreseen.

Berenice continued, apparently with total unawareness of the horror she was causing.

"And Prudence Barrymore was quite a handsome woman, in her own fashion, one has to grant that. Not really a demure face, or traditionally pretty, but I imagine some men may have found it interesting, and poor Dr. Beck may have been in a desperate state. Working side by side can prove peculiarly powerful." She shrugged her elegant shoulders. "Still, it is hardly anything we can affect, and I have too much to do to spend more time on it. I have to find the chaplain, then I.am invited to take tea with Lady Washbourne. Do you know her?"

"No," Callandra replied abruptly. "But I know someone probably more interesting, whom I must see. Good day to you." And with that she walked off smartly before Berenice could be the one to depart first.

She had had Monk in mind when she spoke, but actually the next person she saw was Kristian Beck himself. He came out of one of the wards into the corridor just as she was passing. He looked preoccupied and anxious, but he smiled when he recognized her and the candor of it sent a warmth through her, which only sharpened her fear. She was forced to admit she cared for him more profoundly than anyone else she could recall. She had loved her husband, but it was a friendship, a companionship of long familiarity and a number of shared ideals over the years, not the sharp, strange vulnerability she felt over Kristian Beck, and not the swift elation and the painful excitement, the inner sweetness, in spite of the pain.

He was smiling and she had no idea what he had said. She blushed at her stupidity.

"I beg your pardon?" she stammered.

He was surprised. "I said 'Good morning,' " he repeated. "Are you well?" He looked at her more closely. "Has that wretched policeman been bothering you?"

"No." She smiled in sudden relief. It was ridiculous. She could have dealt with Jeavis without a hesitation in her stride. Good heavens, she was a match for Monk, let alone one of Runcorn's junior minions appointed in his stead. "No," she said again. "Not at all. But I am concerned about his efficiency. I fear he may not be as capable of the skill as this unhappy case requires."

Kristian gave a twisted smile. "He is certainly diligent enough. He has already questioned me three times, and to judge from his expression, believed nothing I said." He gave a sad little laugh. "I think he suspects me."

She caught the edge of fear in his voice, and pretended she had not, then changed her mind and met his eyes. She longed to be able to touch him, but she did not know how much he felt, or knew. And this was hardly the time.

"He will be eager to prove himself by solving the case as quickly and satisfactorily as possible," she said with an effort at composure. "And he has a superior with social ambitions and a keen sense of what is politically judicious." She saw his face tighten as he appreciated exactly what she meant, and the consequent danger to himself as a foreigner and a man with no social connections in England. "But I have a friend, a private inquiry agent," she went on hastily, aching to reassure him. "I have engaged him to look into the case. He is quite brilliant. He will find the truth."

"You say that with great confidence," he observed quietly, halfway between amusement and a desperate need to believe her.

"I have known him for some time and seen him solve cases the police could not." She searched his face, the anxiety in his eyes, the smile on his lips belying it. "He is a hard man, ruthless, and sometimes arrogant," she went on intently. "But he has imagination and brilliance, and he has absolute integrity. If anyone can find the truth, it will be Monk." She thought of the past cases through which she had known him and felt a surge of hope. She made herself smile and saw an answering flicker in Kristian's eyes.

"If he has your confidence to that degree, then I must rest my trust in him also," he replied.

She wanted to say something further, but nothing came to her mind that was not forced. Rather than appear foolish, she excused herself and walked away to look for Mrs. Flaherty, to discuss some charitable business.

Hester found returning to hospital duty after private nursing a severe strain on her temper. She had grown accustomed to being her own mistress since her dismissal roughly a year ago. The restrictions of English medical practice were almost beyond bearing after the urgency and freedom of the Crimea, where there had frequently been so few army surgeons that nurses such as herself had had to take matters into their own hands, and there had been little complaint. Back at home again it seemed that every pettifogging little rule was invoked, more to safeguard dignity than to ease pain or preserve life, and that reputation was more precious than discovery.

She had known Prudence Barrymore and she felt a sharply personal sense of both anger and loss at her death. She was determined to give Monk any assistance she could in learning who had killed her. Therefore she would govern her temper, however difficult that might prove; refrain from expressing her opinions, no matter how severely tempted; and not at any time exercise her own medical judgment.

So far she had succeeded, but Mrs. Flaherty tried her sorely. The woman was set in her ways. She refused to listen to anyone's instructions about opening windows, even on the warmest, mildest days. Twice she had told the nurses to put a cloth over buckets of slops as they were carrying them out, but when they had forgotten on all subsequent occasions she had said nothing further. Hester, as a disciple of Florence Nightingale, was passionately keen on fresh air to cleanse the atmosphere and carry away harmful effluvia and unpleasant odor. Mrs. Flaherty was terrified of chills and preferred to rely on fumigation. It was with the greatest of difficulty that Hester kept her own counsel.

Instinctively she liked Kristian Beck. There seemed to be both compassion and imagination in his face. His modesty and dry humor appealed to her and she felt he was greatly skilled at his profession. Sir Herbert Stanhope she liked less, but was obliged to concede he was a brilliant surgeon. He performed operations lesser men might not have dared, and he was not so careful of his reputation as to fear novelty or innovation. She admired him and felt she should have liked him better than she did. She thought she detected in him a dislike of nurses who had been in the Crimea. Perhaps she was reaping a legacy of Prudence Barrymore's abrasiveness and ambition.

The first death to occur after her arrival was that of a thin little woman, whom she judged to be about fifty and who had a growth in the breast. In spite of all that Sir Herbert could do, she died on the operating table.

It was late in the evening. They had been working all day and they had tried everything they knew to save her. It had all been futile. She had slipped away even as they struggled. Sir Herbert stood with his bloodstained hands in the air. Behind him were the bare walls of the theater, to the left the table with instruments and swabs and bandages, to the right the cylinders of anesthetic gases. A nurse stood by with a mop, brushing the hair out of her eyes with one hand.

There was no one in the gallery, only two students assisting.

Sir Herbert looked up, his face pale, skin drawn tight across his cheekbones.

"She's gone," he said flatly. "Poor creature. No strength left."

"Had she been ill long?" one of the two student doctors asked.

"Long?" Sir Herbert said with an abrupt jerky laugh. "Depends how you think of it. She's had fourteen children, and God knows how many miscarriages. Her body was exhausted."

"She must have stopped bearing some time ago," the younger one said with a squint down at her scrawny body. It was already looking bloodless, as if death had been hours since. "She must be at least fifty."

"Thirty-seven," Sir Herbert replied with a rasp to his voice as though he were angry and held this young man to blame, his ignorance causing the situation, not resulting from it.

The young man drew breath as if to speak, then looked more closely at Sir Herbert's tired face and changed his mind.

"All right, Miss Latterly," Sir Herbert said to Hester. "Inform the mortuary and have her taken there. I'll tell the husband."

Without thinking Hester spoke. "I'll tell him, if you wish, sir?"

He looked at her more closely, surprise wiping away the weariness for a moment.

"That's very good of you, but it is my job. I am used to it. God knows how many women I've seen die either in childbirth or after bearing one after another until they were exhausted, and prey to the first fever that came along."

"Why do they do it?" the young doctor asked, his confusion getting the better of his tact. "Surely they can see what it will do to them? Eight or ten children should be enough for anyone."

"Because they don't know any differently, of course!" Sir Herbert snapped at him. "Half of them have no idea how conception takes place, or why, let alone how to prevent it." He reached for a cloth and wiped his hands. "Most women come to marriage without the faintest idea what it will involve, and a good many never learn the connection between conjugal relations and innumerable pregnancies." He held out the soiled cloth. Hester took it and replaced it with a clean one. "They are taught it is their duty, and the will of God," he continued. "They believe in a God who has neither mercy nor common sense." His face was growing darker as he spoke and his narrow eyes were hard with anger.

"Do you tell them?" the young doctor asked.

'Tell them what?" he said between his teeth. 'Tell them to deny their husbands one of the few pleasures the poor devils have? And then what? Watch them leave and take someone else?"

"No of course not," the young man said irritably. "Tell them some way of…" He stopped, realizing the futility of what he said. He was speaking about women of whom the great majority could neither read nor count. The church sanctioned no means of birth control whatever. It was God's will that all women should bear as many children as nature would permit, and the pain, fear, and loss of life were all part of Eve's punishment, and should be borne with fortitude, and in silence.

"Don't stand there, woman!" Sir Herbert said, turning on Hester sharply. "Have the poor creature's remains taken to the mortuary."

Two days later, Hester was in Sir Herbert's office, having brought some papers for him from Mrs. Flaherty.

There was a knock at the door, and Sir Herbert gave permission for the person to enter. Hester was at the back of the room in a small alcove, and her first thought was that he had forgotten she was still present. Then as the two young women came in, she realized that perhaps he wished her to remain.

The first was approximately thirty, fair-haired, her face very pale, with high cheekbones and curiously narrow and very beautiful hazel eyes. The second was much younger, perhaps no more than eighteen. Although there was a slight resemblance of feature, her coloring was dark, her eyebrows very clearly marked over deep blue eyes, and her hair grew from her brow in a perfect widow's peak. She also had a beauty spot high on her cheekbone. It was most attractive. However now she looked tired and very pale.

"Good afternoon, Sir Herbert." The elder spoke with a catch of nervousness in her voice, but with her chin high and her eyes direct.

He rose very slightly from his seat, only a gesture. "Good afternoon, ma'am."

"Mrs. Penrose," she said in answer to the unspoken question. "Julia Penrose. This is my sister, Miss Marianne Gillespie." She indicated the younger woman a little behind her.

"Miss Gillespie." Sir Herbert acknowledged her with a nod of his head. "How can I help you, Mrs. Penrose? Or is your sister the patient?"

She looked a little startled, as if she had not expected him to be so perceptive. Neither of them could see Hester in the alcove, motionless, her hand in the air half raised to put a book away, peering through the space where it should have sat on the shelf. The names ran like an electric charge in her mind.

Julia was talking, answering Sir Herbert.

"Yes. Yes, it is my sister who requires your help."

Sir Herbert looked at Marianne inquiringly, but also with an appraising eye, regarding her color, her build, the anxiety with which she wound her fingers together in front of her, the bright frightened look in her eyes.

"Please sit down, ladies," he invited, indicating the chairs on (he other side of the desk. "I assume you wish to remain during the consultation, Mrs. Penrose?"

Julia lifted her chin a little in anticipation of an attempt to dismiss her. "I do. I can verify everything my sister says."

Sir Herbert's eyebrows rose. "Am I likely to doubt her, ma'am?"

Julia bit her lip. "I do not know, but it is an eventuality I wish to guard against. The situation is distressing enough as it is. I refuse to have any more anguish added to it." She shifted in her seat as if to rearrange her skirts. There was nothing comfortable in her bearing. Then suddenly she plunged on. "My sister is with child…"

Sir Herbert's face tightened. Apparently he had noted that she had been introduced as an unmarried woman.

"I am sorry," he said briefly, his disapproval unmistakable.

Marianne flushed hotly and Julia's eyes glittered with fury.

"She was raped." She used the word deliberately, with all its violence and crudeness, refusing any euphemism. "She is with child as a result of it." She stopped, her breath choking in her throat.

"Indeed," Sir Herbert said with neither skepticism nor pity in his face. He gave no indication whether he believed her or not.

Julia took his lack of horror or sympathy as disbelief.

"If you need proof of it, Sir Herbert," she said icily, "I shall call upon the private inquiry agent who conducted the investigation, and he will confirm what I say."

"You did not report the matter to the police?" Again Sir Herbert's fine pale eyebrows rose. "It is a very serious crime, Mrs. Penrose. One of the most heinous."

Julia's face was ashen. "I am aware of that. It is also one in which the victim may be as seriously punished as the offender, both by public opinion and by having to relive the experience for the courts and for the judiciary, to be stared at and speculated over by everyone with the price of a newspaper in his pocket!" She drew in her breath; her hands, in front of her, were shaking. "Would you subject your wife or daughter to such an ordeal, sir? And do not tell me they would not find themselves in such a position. My sister was in her own garden, painting in the summer-house, quite alone, when she was molested by someone she had every cause to trust."

"The more so is it a crime, my dear lady," Sir Herbert replied gravely. "To abuse trust is more despicable than simply to enact a violence upon a stranger."

Julia was white. Standing in the alcove, Hester was afraid she was going to faint. She moved to intervene, to offer a glass of water, or even some physical support, and suddenly Sir Herbert glanced at her and motioned her to remain where she was.

"I am aware of the enormity of it, Sir Herbert," she said so quietly that he leaned forward, screwing up his eyes, in his concentration. "It is my husband who committed the offense. You must surely appreciate why I do not wish to bring the police into the matter. And my sister is sensible of my feelings, for which I am profoundly grateful. She is also aware that it would do no good. He would naturally deny it. But even if it could be proved, which it cannot, we are both dependent upon him. We should all be ruined, to no purpose."

"You have my sympathies, ma'am," he said with more gentleness. "It is a truly tragic situation. But I fail to see how I can be of any assistance to you. To be with child is not an illness. Your regular physician will give you all the aid that you require, and a midwife will attend you during your confinement."

Marianne spoke for the first time, her voice low and clear. "I do not wish to bear the child, Sir Herbert. It is conceived as a result of an event which I shall spend the rest of my life trying to forget. And its birth would ruin us all."

"I well understand your situation, Miss Gillespie." He sat back in his chair, looking at her gravely. "But I am afraid that it is not a matter in which you have a choice. Once a child is conceived, there is no other course except to await its birth." The ghost of a smile touched his neat mouth. "I sympathize with you profoundly, but all I can suggest is that you counsel with your parson and gain what comfort you may from him."

Marianne blinked, her face painfully hot, her eyes downcast.

"Of course there is an alternative," Julia said hastily. "There is abortion."

"My dear lady, your sister appears to be a healthy young woman. There is no question of her life being in jeopardy, and indeed no reason to suppose she will not deliver a fine child in due course." He folded his fine sensitive hands- "I could not possibly perform an abortion. It would be a criminal act, as perhaps you are not aware?"

"The rape was a criminal act!" Julia protested desperately, leaning far forward, her hands, white-knuckled, on the edge of his desk.

"You have already explained very clearly why you have brought no charge regarding that," Sir Herbert said patiently. "But it has no bearing upon my situation with regard to performing an abortion." He shook his head. "I am sorry, but it is not something I can do. You are asking me to commit a crime. I can recommend an excellent and discreet physician, and will be happy to do so. He is in Bath, so you may stay away from London and your acquaintances for the next few months. He will also find a place for the child, should you wish to have it adopted, which no doubt you will. Unless…?" He turned to Julia. "Could you make room for it in your family, Mrs. Penrose? Or would the cause of its conception be a permanent distress to you?"

Julia swallowed hard and opened her mouth, but before she could reply, Marianne cut across her.

"I do not wish to bear the child," she said, her voice rising sharply in something like panic. "I don't care how discreet the physician is, or how easily he could place it afterwards. Can't you understand? The whole event was a nightmare! I want to forget it, not live with it as a constant reminder every day!"

"I wish I could offer you a way of escape," Sir Herbert said again, his expression pained. "But I cannot. How long ago did this happen?"

"Three weeks and five days," Marianne answered immediately.

"Three weeks?" Sir Herbert said incredulously, his eyebrows high. "But my dear girl, you cannot possibly know that you are with child! There will be no quickening for another three or four months at the very earliest. I should go home and cease to worry."

"I am with child!" Marianne said with hard, very suppressed fury. "The midwife said so, and she is never wrong. She can tell merely by looking at a woman's face, without any of the other signs." Her own expression set in anger and pain, and she stared at him defiantly.

He sighed. "Possibly. But it does not alter the case. The law is very plain. There used to be a distinction between aborting a fetus before it had quickened and after, but that has now been done away with. It is all the same." He sounded weary, as if he had said all this before. "And of course it used to be a hanging offense. Now it is merely a matter of ruin and imprisonment But whatever the punishment, Miss Gillespie, it is a crime I am not prepared to commit, however tragic the circumstances. I am truly sorry."

Julia remained sitting. "We should naturally expect to pay-handsomely."

A small muscle flickered in Sir Herbert's cheeks.

"I had not assumed you were asking it as a gift. But the matter of payment is irrelevant. I have tried to explain to you why I cannot do it." He looked from one to the other of them. "Please believe me, my decision is absolute. I am not unsympathetic, indeed I am not. I grieve for you. But I cannot help."

Marianne rose to her feet and put her hand on Julia's shoulder.

"Come. We shall achieve nothing further here. We shall have to seek help elsewhere." She turned to Sir Herbert. "Thank you for your time. Good day."

Julia climbed to her feet very slowly, still half lingering, as if there were some hope.

"Elsewhere?" Sir Herbert said with a frown. "I assure you, Miss Gillespie, no reputable surgeon will perform such an operation for you." He drew in his breath sharply, and suddenly his face took on a curiously pinched look, quite different from the slight complacence before. This had a sharp note of reality. "And I beg you, please do not go to the back-street practitioners," he urged. "They will assuredly do it for you, and very possibly ruin you for life; at worst bungle it so badly you become infected and either bleed to death or die in agony of septicemia."

Both women froze, staring at him, eyes wide.

He leaned forward, his hands white-knuckled on the desk.

"Believe me, Miss Gillespie, I am not trying to distress you unnecessarily. I know what I am speaking about. My own daughter was the victim of such a man! She too was molested, as you were. She was only sixteen…" His voice caught for a moment, and he had to force himself to continue. Only his inner anger overcame his grief. "We never found who the man was. She told us nothing about it. She was too frightened, too shocked and ashamed. She went to a private abortionist who was so clumsy he cut her inside. Now she will never bear a child."

His eyes were narrowed slits in a face almost bloodless. "She will never even be able to have a normal union with a man. She will be single all her life, and in pain-in constant pain. For God's sake don't go to a back-street abortionist!" His voice dropped again, curiously husky. "Have your child, Miss Gillespie. Whatever you think now, it is the better part than what you face if you go to someone else for the help I cannot give you."

"I…" Marianne gulped. "I wasn't thinking of anything so-I mean-I hadn't…"

"We hadn't thought of going to such a person," Julia said in a tight brittle voice. "Neither of us would know how to find one, or whom to approach. I had only thought of a reputable surgeon. I-I hadn't realized it was against the law, not when the woman was a victim-of rape."

"I am afraid the law makes no distinction. The child's life is the same."

"I am not concerned with the child's life," Julia said in little more than a whisper. "I am thinking of Marianne."

"She is a healthy young woman. She will probably be perfectly all right. And in time she will recover from the fear and the grief. There is nothing I can do. I am sorry."

"So you have said. I apologize for having taken up your time. Good day, Sir Herbert."

"Good day, Mrs. Penrose-Miss Gillespie." As soon as they were gone, Sir Herbert closed the door and returned to his desk. He sat motionless for several seconds, then apparently dismissed the matter and reached for a pile of notes.

Hester came out of the alcove, hesitated, then crossed the floor.

Sir Herbert's head jerked up, his eyes momentarily wide with surprise.

"Oh-Miss Latterly." Then he recollected himself. "Yes-the body's away. Thank you. That's all for the moment. Thank you."

It was dismissal.

"Yes, Sir Herbert."

Hester found the encounter deeply distressing. She could not clear it from her mind, and at the first opportunity she recounted the entire interview to Callandra. It was late evening, and they were sitting outside in Callandra's garden. The scent of roses was heavy in the air and the low sunlight slanting on the poplar leaves was deep golden, almost an apricot shade. There was no motion except the sunset wind in the leaves. The wall muffled the passing of hooves and made inaudible the hiss of carriage wheels.

"It was like the worst kind of dream," Hester said, staring at the poplars and the golden blue sky beyond. "I was aware what was going to happen before it did. And of course I knew every word she said was true, and yet I was helpless to do anything at all about it." She turned to Callandra. "I suppose Sir Herbert is right, and it is a crime to abort, even when the child is a result of rape. It is not anything I have ever had to know. I have nursed entirely soldiers or people suffering from injury or fevers. I have no experience of midwifery at all. I have not even cared for a child, much less a mother and infant. It seems so wrong."

She slapped her hand on the arm of the wicker garden chair. "I am seeing women suffer in a way I never knew before. I suppose I hadn't thought about it. But do you know how many women have come into that hospital in even the few days I've been there, who are worn out and ill as a result of bearing child after child?" She leaned a little farther to face Callandra. "And how many are there we don't see? How many just live lives in silent despair and terror of the next pregnancy?" She banged the chair arm again. "There's such ignorance. Such blind tragic ignorance."

"I am not sure what good knowledge would do," Callandra replied, looking not at Hester but at the rose bed and a late butterfly drifting from one bloom to another. "Forms of prevention have been around since Roman days, but they are not available to most people." She pulled a face. "And they are very often weird contraptions that the ordinary man would not use. A woman has no right in civil or religious law to deny her husband, and even if she had, common sense and the need to survive on something like equable terms would make it impractical."

"At least knowledge would take away some of the shock," Hester argued hotly. "We had one young woman in hospital who was so mortified when she discovered what marriage required of her she went into hysterics, and then tried to kill herself." Her voice rose with outrage. "No one had given her the slightest idea, and she simply could not endure it. She had been brought up with the strictest teachings of purity and it overwhelmed her. She was married by her parents to a man thirty years older than herself and with little patience or gentleness. She came into the hospital with broken arms and legs and ribs where she had jumped out of a window in an attempt to kill herself." She took a deep breath and made a vain attempt to lower her tone.

"Now, unless Dr. Beck can persuade the police and the Church that it was an accident, they will charge her with attempted suicide and either imprison her or hang her." She banged her fist down on the chair arm yet again. "And that monumental fool, Jeavis, is trying to say Dr. Beck killed Prudence Barrymore." She did not notice Callandra stiffen in her seat or her face grow paler. "That is because that would be the easy answer, and save him from having to question the other surgeons and the chaplain and the members of the Board of Governors."

Callandra started to speak, and then stopped again.

"Is there nothing we can do to help Marianne Gillespie?" Hester persisted, her fists clenched, leaning forward in the chair. She glanced at the roses. "Is there nobody to which one could appeal? Do you know Sir Herbert said his own daughter had been assaulted and had become with child as a result?" She swung around to Callandra again. "And she went to a private abortionist in some back street who maimed her so badly she can now never marry, let alone bear children. And she is in constant pain. For Heaven's sake, there must be something we can do!"

"If I knew of anything I should not be sitting her listening to you," Callandra replied with a sad smile. "I should have told you what it was, and we should be on our way to do it. Please be careful, or you are going to put your arm right through my best garden chair."

"Oh! I'm sorry. It's just that I get so furious!"

Callandra smiled, and said nothing.

The following two days were hot and sultry. Tempers became short. Jeavis seemed to be everywhere in the hospital, getting in the way, asking questions which most people found irritating and pointless. The treasurer swore at him. A gentleman on the Board of Governors made a complaint to his member of Parliament. Mrs. Flaherty lectured him on abstinence, decorum, and probity, which was more than even he could take. After that he left her strictly alone.

But gradually the hospital was getting back to its normal routine and even in the laundry room they spoke less of the murder and more of their usual concerns: husbands, money, the latest music hall jokes, and general gossip.

Monk was concentrating his attention on learning the past and present circumstances of all the doctors, especially the students, and of the treasurer, chaplain, and various governors.

It was late in the evening and still oppressively warm when Callandra went to look for Kristian Beck. She had no real reason to speak to him; she had to manufacture one. What she wished was to see how he was bearing up under Jeavis's interrogations and less-than-subtle implication that Beck had had some shameful secret which he had begged Prudence Barrymore not to reveal to the authorities.

She had still no firm idea what she was going to say as she walked along the corridor toward his room, her heart pounding, nervousness making her mouth dry. In the heat after the long afternoon sun on the windows and roof, the air smelled stale. She could almost distinguish the cloying smell of blood from bandages and the acridness of waste. Two flies buzzed and banged blindly against the glass of a window.

She could ask him if Monk had spoken to Mm, and yet again assure him of Monk's brilliance and his past successes. It was not a good reason, but she could not bear the inaction any longer. She had to see him and do what she could to allay the fear he must feel. Over and over she had imagined his thoughts as Jeavis made his insinuations, as he saw Jeavis's black eyes watching him. It was impossible to argue or defend oneself against prejudice, the irrational suspicion of anything or anyone who was different.

She was at his door. She knocked. There was a sound, a voice, but she could not distinguish the words. She turned the handle and pushed the door wide.

The scene that met her burned itself into her brain. The large table which served as his desk was in the center of the room and lying on it was a woman, part of her body covered with a white sheet, but her abdomen and upper thighs clearly exposed. There were swabs bright with blood, and a bloodstained towel. There was a bucket on the floor, but with a cloth over it so she could not see what it contained. She had seen enough operations before to recognize the tanks and flasks that held ether and the other materials used to anesthetize a patient.

Kristian had his back to her. She would recognize him anywhere, the line of his shoulder, the way his hair grew on his neck, the curve of his high cheekbone.

And she knew the woman also. Her hair was black with a deep widow's peak. Her brows were dark and unusually clearly marked, and there was a small neat mole on her cheek level with the corner of her eye. Marianne Gillespie! There was only one conclusion: Sir Herbert had denied her-but Kristian had not. He was performing the illegal abortion.

For seconds Callandra stood frozen, her tongue stiff, her mouth dry. She did not even see the figure of the nurse beyond.

Kristian was concentrating so intently upon what he was doing, his hands moving quickly, delicately, his eyes checking again and again to see the color of Marianne's face, to make sure she was breathing evenly. He had not heard Callandra's voice, nor the door opening.

At last she moved. She backed out and pulled the door after her, closing it without sound. Her heart was beating so violently her body shook, and she could not catch her breath. For a moment she was afraid she was going to choke.

A nurse passed by, staggering a little from fatigue, and Callandra felt just as dizzy, just as incapable of balance. Hester's words came back into her mind like hammer blows. Sir Herbert's daughter had gone to a secret abortionist and he had maimed her, operated so clumsily she would never be a normal woman again, and never be free from pain.

Had Kristian done that too? Was he the one she had gone to? As Marianne had? Funny, gentle, wise Kristian, with whom she had shared so many moments of understanding, to whom she did not need to explain the pain or the laughter of thoughts-Kristian, whose face she could see every time she closed her eyes, whom she longed to touch, though she knew she must never yield to the temptation. It would break the delicate unspoken barrier between a love that was acceptable and one that was not. To bring shame to him would be unbearable.

Shame! Could the man she knew possibly be the same man who would do what she had seen? And perhaps worse-far worse? The thought was sickening, but she could not cast it out of her mind. The picture was there in front of her every time she closed her eyes.

And then a thought came which was immeasurably more hideous. Had Prudence Barrymore known? Was that what he had begged her not to tell the authorities? Not simply the Board of Governors of the hospital, but the police? And had he killed her to keep her silent?

She leaned against the wall, overwhelmed with misery. Her brain refused to work. There was no one she could turn to. She dared not even tell Monk. It was a burden she would have to carry silently, and alone. Without realizing the full enormity of it, she chose to bear his guilt with him.