William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

Faith answered. “But of course that is not possible.” She smiled at the memory. “She used to be so angry she was a woman. She wished she could have been a man so she could do all these things. But of course that is pointless, and Prudence never wasted time on pointless emotions or regrets. She accepted it.” She sniffed in an effort to retain her control. “I just—I just cannot see her jeopardizing all her ideals to try to force a man like Sir Herbert into marrying her. I mean—what could she gain by it, even if he agreed? It’s so stupid! What happened to her, Miss …” She stopped, her face full of pain and confusion.
    “Latterly,” Hester supplied. “I don’t know what happened to her—but I won’t rest until I do. Someone murdered her—and if it wasn’t Sir Herbert, then it was someone else.”
    “I want to know who,” Faith said very intently. “But more than that, I have to know why. This doesn’t make any sense….”
    “You mean the Prudence you knew would not have behaved as she seems to have?” Hester asked.
    “Exactly. That is exactly it. Do you understand?”
    “No—if only we had access to those letters. We could read them again and see if there is anything in them at all to explain when and why she changed so completely!”
    “Oh they don’t have them all,” Faith said quickly. “I only gave them the ones that referred most specifically to Sir Herbert and her feelings for him. There are plenty of others.”
    Hester clasped her arm, forgetting all propriety and the fact that they had known each other barely ten minutes.
    “You have them! With you in London?”
    “Certainly. They are not on my person, of course—but in my lodgings. Would you care to come with me and see them?”
    “Yes—yes I certainly would—if you would permit it?” Hester agreed so quickly there was no courtesy or decorum in it, but such things were utterly trivial now. “May I come immediately?”
    “Of course,” Faith agreed. “We shall require to take a hansom. It is some little distance away.”
    Hester turned on her heel and plunged toward the curb, pushing her way past men arguing and women exchanging news, and calling out at the top of her voice, “Hansom! Cabby? Over here, if you please!”
    Faith Barker’s lodgings were cramped and more than a trifle worn, but scrupulously clean, and the landlady seemed quite agreeable to serving two for supper.
    After the barest accommodation to civility, Faith fetched the rest of Prudence’s letters and Hester settled herself on the single overstuffed sofa and began to read.
    Most of the detail was interesting to her as a nurse. There were clinical notes on a variety of cases, and as she read them she was struck with the quality of Prudence’s medical knowledge. It was far more profound than her own, which until now she had considered rather good.
    The words were familiar, the patterns of speech reminded her of Prudence so sharply she could almost hear them spoken in her voice.
    She remembered the nurses lying in narrow cots by candlelight, huddled in gray blankets, talking to each other, sharing the emotions that were too terrible to bear alone. It was a time which had burned away her innocence and forged her into the woman she was—and Prudence had indelibly been part of that, and so part of her life ever afterwards.
    But as far as indication of a change in her ideals or her personality, Prudence’s letters offered nothing whatsoever.
    Reference to Sir Herbert Stanhope was of a very objective nature, entirely to do with his medical skills. Several times she praised him, but it was for his courage in adapting new techniques, for his diagnostic perception, or for the clarity with which he instructed his students. Then she praised his generosity in sharing his knowledge with her. Conceivably it might have sounded like praise for the man, and a warmer feeling than professional gratitude, but to Hester, who found the medical details both comprehensible and interesting, it was Prudence’s enthusiasm for the increase in her own knowledge that came through, and she would have felt the same for any surgeon who treated her so. The man himself was incidental.
    In every paragraph her love of medicine shone through, her excitement at its achievements, her boundless hope for its possibilities in the future. People were there to be helped; she cared about their pain and their fear—but always it was medicine itself which quickened her heart and lifted