William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

said equally tersely. “It was a private conversation which I should not have reported had nothing untoward happened. And now that poor Prudence is dead, I certainly shall not.” He looked at Monk with defiance. “It was not to her credit, that is all you need to know. The poor creature was in a high temper when I left, most unbecoming, but she was in excellent health.”
    Monk let that go by without comment. Apparently Taunton had not yet even thought of himself as suspect. “And she at no time indicated to you that she was afraid of anyone?” Monk asked. “Or that anyone had been unpleasant or threatening toward her?”
    “Of course not, or I should have informed you. You would not have needed to ask.”
    “I see. Thank you, you have been most cooperative. I am sure Lady Callandra will be grateful to you.” Monk knew he should add his condolences, but the words stuck in hismouth. He had contained his temper, that was sufficient. He stood up. “Now I will not take any more of your time.”
    “It does not seem you have progressed very far.” Taunton rose also, unconsciously smoothing his clothes and regarding Monk critically. “I cannot see how you can hope to catch whoever it was by such methods.”
    “I daresay I could not do your job either, sir,” Monk said with a tight smile. “Perhaps that is just as well. Thank you again. Good day, Mr. Taunton.”
    It was a hot walk back along the Ride, over Boston Lane and through the fields to Wyke Farm, but Monk enjoyed it enormously. It was exquisite to feel the earth beneath his feet instead of pavement, to smell the wind across open land, heavy with honeysuckle, and hear nothing but the ripening ears of wheat rustling and the occasional distant bark of a dog. London and its troubles seemed another country, not just a few miles away on the railway line. For a moment he forgot Prudence Barrymore and allowed peace to settle in his mind and old memory to creep in: the wide hills of Northumberland and the clean wind off the sea, the gulls wheeling in the sky. It was all he had of childhood: impressions, a sound, a smell that brought back emotions, a glimpse of a face, gone before he could see it clearly.
    His pleasure was snapped and he was returned to the present by a woman on horseback looming suddenly a few yards away. Of course she must have come over the fields, but he had been too preoccupied to notice her until she was almost on top of him. She rode with the total ease of someone to whom it is as natural as walking. She was all grace and femininity, her back straight, her head high, her hands light on the reins.
    “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said with surprise. “I apologize for not having seen you earlier.”
    She smiled. Her mouth was wide, her face soft with dark eyes, perhaps a little deep set. Her brown hair was drawn back under her riding hat but the heavy curl softened it. She was pretty, almost beautiful.
    “Are you lost?” she said with amusement, looking down at his smart clothes and dark boots. “There is nothing here along this track except Wyke Farm.” She held her horse in tight control, standing only a yard in front of him, her hands strong, skilled, and tight.
    “Then I am not lost,” he answered, meeting her gaze. “I am looking for Miss Nanette Cuthbertson.”
    “You need go no farther. I am she.” Her surprise was good-natured and welcoming. “What may I do for you, sir?”
    “How do you do, Miss Cuthbertson. My name is William Monk. I am assisting Lady Callandra Daviot, who is a member of the Board of Governors of the Royal Free Hospital. She is eager to clear up the matter of Miss Barrymore’s death. You were acquainted with her, I believe?”
    The smile disappeared from her face, but there was no curiosity in her, simply a decent acknowledgment of tragedy. To have remained looking so cheerful would have been indelicate.
    “Yes, of course I was. But I have no idea how I can help you.” Gracefully she dismounted, without asking his help and before he could give it. She held the reins loosely, all but leaving the horse to follow her of itself. “I know nothing about it, except what Mr. Taunton has told me, which was simply that poor Prudence had met with a sudden and fearful death.” She looked at him with soft innocent eyes.
    “She was murdered,” he replied, his words violent, his voice gentle.
    “Oh.” She paled visibly, but whether it was the news or his manner of delivering it, he could not tell. “How