William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

buckets of cold water?” She tried not to laugh but her voice was shaking, not so much with amusement as with nervousness. “I cannot even persuade her to open the windows in the sunlight let alone at night!”
    “I know,” he said quickly. “I know, but we are making new discoveries every year.” He grasped the chair between them and turned it so it was convenient for her to sit, but she ignored it. “I’ve just been reading a paper by Carl Vierordt on counting human blood corpuscles.” He moved closer to her in his keenness. “He has devised a way, can you imagine that?” He held up the paper as he said it, his eyes alight. “With this kind of precision, think what we might learn!” He offered her the paper as if he would share with her his pleasure.
    She took it, smiling in spite of herself and meeting his gaze.
    “Look,” he commanded.
    Obediently she looked down at the paper. It was in German. He saw her confusion, “Oh, I’m sorry.” A faint pink flushed up his cheeks. “I find I speak with you so easily, I forget you do not read German. Shall I tell you what itsays?” He so obviously wanted to that it was impossible to deny him, even had she thought of it.
    “Please do,” she encouraged. “It sounds a most desirable treatment.”
    He looked surprised. “Do you think so? I should hate to be drenched with buckets of cold water.”
    She smiled broadly. “Not from the patient’s view perhaps. I was thinking of ours. Cold water is cheap and readily available almost everywhere, and requires no skill to administer, nor can the dosage be mistaken. A bucketful too much or too little will make no difference.”
    His face relaxed into sudden, delightful laughter. “Oh, of course. I fear you are far more practical than I. I find women often are.” Then as quickly his expression became grim again, brows drawn down. “That is why I wish we could draw more intelligent and confident women into the treatment of the sick. We have one or two nurses here who are excellent, but there is little future for them unless beliefs change a great deal.” He regarded her earnestly. “There is one in particular, a Miss Barrymore, who was with Miss Nightingale in the Crimea. She is remarkable in her perception, but I regret not everyone admires her as they might.” He sighed, smiling at her with sudden total candor, an intimacy that sent a warmth racing through her. “I seem to have caught your zeal for reform.”
    He was saying it as if joking, but she knew he meant it with the utmost seriousness, and that he intended her to know it.
    She was about to reply when there was a shout of anger in the passage outside, a woman’s voice raised in furious temper. Instinctively both of them turned toward the door, listening.
    Another angry shout followed a moment later, then a shriek as of pain and rage.
    Kristian went to the door and opened it. Callandra followed and looked outside. There were no windows, and no gas lit during the day. A few yards along in the dim light two women were struggling together, the long hair of oneof them hanging loose and untidy, and even as they watched, her opponent made another lunge to snatch at it and pull.
    “Stop it!” Callandra shouted as she passed Kristian and advanced on the women. “What is it? What’s the matter with you?”
    They stopped for a moment, largely out of sheer surprise. One of them was in her late twenties, plain-faced, but not unappealing. The other was at least ten years older and already looking worn and aged by hard living and too many drunken nights.
    “What is it?” Callandra demanded again. “What are you fighting about?”
    “The laundry chute,” the younger said sullenly. “She blocked it by putting the linen in it all in a bundle.” She glared at the older woman. “Now nothing will go through and we’ll all have to carry everything right down to the boilers ourselves. As if there weren’t enough to do without going up and down them stairs every time there is a sheet to change.”
    For the first time, Callandra noticed the bundle of soiled sheets on the floor by the wall.
    “I didn’t,” the older woman said defiantly. “I put one sheet down. How can you block it with one sheet?” Her voice rose in indignation. “You’ve got to be a real clever bitch to put down less than one at a time. What do you want? I should tear it in ’alf, then sew it back together when it’s clean again?” She stared belligerently at her foe.
    “Let us