William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

use. I mean either personal or professional, a doctor, chaplain, treasurer, governor, relation of a patient, or anyone with whom she had dealings in the course of her duties,” Monk tried to explain.
    Taunton’s face cleared. “Oh yes, I see.”
    “Well, did she? Of whom did she speak?”
    Taunton considered for a moment, his eyes on the elms in the distance, their great green bowers bright in the sun. “I am afraid we did not often discuss her work.” His lips tightened, but it was not possible to say if it was in anger or pain. “I did not approve of it. But she did mention her high regard for the chief surgeon, Sir Herbert Stanhope, a man more of her own social class, of course. She had the greatest regard for his professional ability. But I gained no impression that her feelings were personal.” He scowled at Monk. “I hope that is not what you are suggesting?”
    “I am not suggesting anything,” Monk said impatiently, his voice rising. “I am trying to learn something about her, and who may have wished her harm for whatever reason: jealousy, fear, ambition, revenge, greed, anything at all. Did she have any admirers that you know of? I believe she was a most attractive person.”
    “Yes she was, for all her stubbornness. She was quite lovely.” For a moment he turned away from Monk and endeavored to mask his distress.
    Monk thought of apologizing, then felt it would only embarrassTaunton further. He had never learned the right thing to say. Probably there was no right thing.
    “No,” Taunton said after several minutes. “She never spoke of anyone. Although it is possible she would not have told me, knowing how I felt. But she was transparently honest. I think if there had been anyone, her own candor would have compelled her to tell me.” His face creased with total incomprehension. “She always spoke as if medicine were her sole love and she had no time for ordinary womanly pursuits and instincts. If anything, I should say she was increasingly devoted lately.” He looked at Monk earnestly. “You did not know her before she went to the Crimea, Mr. Monk. She was different then, quite different. She had not the …” He stopped, struggling for a word to describe what he meant. “She was … softer, yes that is it, softer, far more truly womanly.”
    Monk did not argue, although the words were on the edge of his tongue. Were women really soft? The best women he knew, the ones that leaped to his mind, were anything but. Convention demanded their outer manners were yielding, but inside was a core of steel that would put many a man to shame, and a strength of will and endurance that knew no master. Hester Latterly had had courage to fight on for his vindication when he himself had given up. She had bullied, cajoled, and abused him into hope, and then into struggle, regardless of her own welfare.
    And he would have sworn Callandra would do as much, if occasion demanded. And there were others. Perhaps Prudence Barrymore had been one like these, passionate, brave, and single-minded to her convictions. Difficult for a man like Geoffrey Taunton to accept, still less to understand. Perhaps difficult for anyone to associate with. Lord knew, Hester could be abrasive, willful, obstructive, and thoroughly sharp-tongued—and always opinionated.
    In fact, Monk’s irritation with Taunton lessened considerably as he thought about it. If he had been in love with Prudence Barrymore, he probably had had a great deal to endure.
    “Yes, yes I see,” he said aloud with a ghost of a smile. “It must have been most trying for you. When was the last time you saw Miss Barrymore?”
    “I saw her the morning she died—was killed,” Taunton replied, his face pale. “Probably very shortly before.”
    Monk was puzzled. “But she was killed very early in the morning, between six o’clock and half past seven.”
    Taunton blushed. “Yes, it was early; in fact, it was no more than seven o’clock at the most. I had spent the night in town and went in to the hospital to see her before catching the train home.”
    “It must have been something of great importance to you to take you there at that hour.”
    “It was.” Taunton offered nothing further. His face was set, his expression closed.
    “If you prefer not to tell me, you leave it to my imagination,” Monk challenged with a hard smile. “I shall assume you quarreled over your disapproval of her occupation.”
    “You may assume what you wish,” Taunton