William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

more sharply than he had intended.
    “Possibly,” Kristian conceded. “But have you anything whatever to indicate that that is what happened? I thought he was arrested because of the letters?” He shook his head slightly. “And a woman in love does not show up a man’s mistakes to the world. Just the opposite. Every woman I ever met defended a man to the end if she loved him, even if perhaps she should not have. No, Mr. Monk, that is not a viable theory. Anyway, from your initial remarks I gathered you were hired by Sir Herbert’s barrister in order to help find evidence to acquit him. Did I misunderstand you?”
    It was a polite way of asking if Monk had lied.
    “No, Dr. Beck, you are perfectly correct,” Monk answered, knowing he would understand the meaning behind the words as well. “I am testing the strength of the prosecution’s case in order to be able to defend against it.”
    “How can I help you do that?” Kristian asked gravely. “I have naturally thought over the matter again and again, asI imagine we all have. But I can think of nothing which will help or hurt him. Of course I shall testify to his excellent personal reputation and his high professional standing, if you wish it.”
    “I expect we shall,” Monk accepted. “If I ask you here in private, Dr. Beck, will you tell me candidly if you believe him guilty?”
    Kristian looked vaguely surprised.
    “I will answer you equally candidly, sir. I believe it extremely unlikely. Nothing I have ever seen or heard of the man gives me to believe he would behave in such a violent, unself-disciplined, and overemotional manner.”
    “How long have you known him?”
    “I have worked with him just a little less than eleven years.”
    “And you will swear to that?”
    “I will.”
    Monk had to think about what the prosecution could draw out by skillful and devious questions. Now was the time to discover, not on the stand when it was too late. He pursued every idea he could think of, but all Kristian’s answers were measured and uncritical. He rose half an hour later, thanked Kristian for his time and frankness, and took his leave.
    It had been a curiously unsatisfactory interview. He should have been pleased. Kristian Beck had confirmed every aspect of Sir Herbert’s character he had wished, and he was more than willing to testify. Why should Monk not be pleased?
    If it were not Sir Herbert, then surely the other most obvious suspects were Geoffrey Taunton and Beck himself. Was he the charming, intelligent, only very faintly foreign man he seemed? Or was there something closed about him, something infinitely darker behind the exterior which even Monk found so pleasing?
    He had no idea. His usual sense of judgment had left him.
    *  *  *
    Monk spoke to as many of Prudence’s friends and colleagues as he could, but they were reluctant to see him and full of resentment. Young nurses glared at him defensively and answered with monosyllables when he asked if Prudence were romantic.
    “No.” It was as blunt as that.
    “Did she ever speak of marriage?”
    “No. I never heard her.”
    “Of leaving nursing and settling into a domestic life?” he pressed.
    “Oh no—never. Not ever. She loved her job.”
    “Did you ever see her excited, flushed, extremely happy or sad for no reason you knew of?”
    “No. She was always in control. She wasn’t like you say at all.” The answer was given with a flat stare, defiant and resentful.
    “Did she ever exaggerate?” he said desperately. “Paint her achievements as more than they were, or glamorize the war in the Crimea?”
    At last he provoked emotion, but it was not what he wanted.
    “No she did not.” The young woman’s face flushed hot with anger. “It’s downright wicked of you to say that! She always told the truth. And she never spoke about the Crimea at all, except to tell us about Miss Nightingale’s ideas. She never praised herself at all. And I’ll not listen to you say different! Not to defend that man who killed her, or anything else, I’ll swear to that.”
    It was no help to him at all, and yet perversely he was pleased. He had had a long fruitless week, and had heard very little that was of use, and only precisely what he had foreseen. But no one had destroyed his picture of Prudence. He had found nothing that drew her as the emotional, blackmailing woman her letters suggested.
    But what was the truth?
    The last person he saw was Lady Stanhope. It was an emotionally