William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

dreadful! I am sorry. I didn’t realize …” She looked at him with puckered brows. “Mr. Taunton said that hospitals were not good places at all, but he did not say more than that. I had no idea they were so dangerous. Illness, of course I understand. One expects it. But not murder.”
    “The place of it may have been coincidental, MissCuthbertson. People are murdered in houses also; we do not say that houses are therefore dangerous places.”
    An orange-and-black butterfly flew erratically between them and disappeared.
    “I don’t understand….” And her expression made it quite obvious that she did not.
    “Did you know Miss Barrymore well?”
    She began to walk very slowly back toward the farm buildings. There was room on the hard track for him to walk beside her, the horse trailing behind, head low.
    “I used to,” she replied thoughtfully. “When we were much younger, growing up. Since she went to the Crimea I don’t think any of us would say we knew her anymore. She changed, you see.” She looked around at him to make sure he understood.
    “I imagine it is an experience which would change anyone,” he agreed. “How could one see the devastation and the suffering without being altered by it?”
    “I suppose not,” she agreed, glancing behind her to make sure the horse was still following obediently. “But it made her very different. She was always … if I say headstrong, please do not think I wish to speak ill of her, it is simply that she had such fierce desires and intentions.” She paused for a moment, ordering her thoughts. “Her dreams were different from other people’s. But after she came home from Scutari she was …” She frowned, searching for the word. “Harder—harder inside.” Then she glanced up at Monk with a brilliant smile. “I’m sorry. Does that sound very unkind? I did not mean to be.”
    Monk looked at the warm brown eyes and the delicate cheeks and thought that was exactly what she meant to be, but the last thing she wished anyone to think of her. He felt part of himself respond to her and he hated his own gullibility. She reminded him of Hermione, and God knew how many other women in the past, whose total femininity had appealed to him and deluded him. Why had he been such a fool? He despised fools.
    There was a large part of him which was skeptical, evencynical. If Mrs. Barrymore were right, then this charming woman with her soft eyes and smiling mouth had wanted Geoffrey Taunton for herself for a long time, and must have bitterly resented his devotion to Prudence. How old had Prudence been? Callandra had said something about late twenties. Geoffrey Taunton was certainly that and more. Was Nanette Cuthbertson contemporary, or only a little younger? If so, then she was old for marriage, time was running out for her. She would soon be considered an old maid, if not already, and definitely old for bearing her first child. Might she feel more than jealousy, a sense of desperation, panic as the years passed and still Geoffrey Taunton waited for Prudence and she refused him for her career?
    “Did you not,” he said noncommittally. “I daresay it is true, and I am asking for truth, hard or not. A polite lie will serve no good now; in fact, it will obscure facts we need to know.” His voice had been cold, but she saw justification in it. She kept the horse close behind her with a heavy pressure on the reins.
    “Thank you, Mr. Monk, you set my mind at rest. It is unpleasant to speak ill of people, even slightly.”
    “I find many people enjoy it,” he said with a slow smile. “In fact, it is one of their greatest pleasures, particularly if they can feel superior at the time.”
    She was taken aback. It was not the sort of thing one acknowledged. “Er—do you think so?”
    He had nearly spoiled his own case. “Some people,” he said, knocking the head off a long stalk of wheat that had grown across the path. “But I regret I have to ask you to tell me something more of Prudence Barrymore, even if it is distasteful to you, because I do not know who else to ask, who will be frank. Eulogies are no help to me.”
    This time she kept her eyes straight ahead. They were almost to the farm gate and he opened it for her, waited while the horse followed her through, then went through himself and closed it carefully. An elderly man in a faded smock and trousers tied around the ankles with string smiled shyly, then took the animal. Nanette thanked himand led Monk