William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

had been doing however many years ago—was it ten, fifteen? Runcorn had been different. He had had more confidence, less arrogance, less need to exert his authority, less need to show he was right. Something had happened to him in the years between which had destroyed an element of belief in himself, injuring some inner part so that now it was maimed.
    Did Monk know what it was? At least had he known before the accident? Was Runcorn’s hatred of him born of that: his vulnerability, and Monk’s use of it?
    The train was going through Paddington now. Not long till he was home. He ached to be able to stand up.
    He closed his eyes again. The heat in the carriage and the rhythmic swinging to and fro, the incessant clatter as the wheels passed over the joins in the rails, were hypnotic.
    There had been another constable on the case as well, a slight young man with dark hair that stood up from thebrow. The memory of him was vivid and acutely uncomfortable, but Monk had no idea why. He racked his brain but nothing came. Had he died? Why was there this unhappiness in his mind when he pictured him?
    Runcorn was different; for him he felt anger and a swift harsh contempt. It was not that he was stupid. He was not: his questions were perceptive enough, well phrased, well judged, and he obviously weighed the answers. He was not gullible. So why did Monk find himself unconsciously curling his lip?
    What had the case been? He could not remember that either! But it had mattered, of that he had no doubt at all. It was serious. The superintendent had been asking them every day for progress. The press had been demanding someone be caught and hanged. But for what?
    Had they succeeded?
    He sat up with a jolt. They were at Euston Road and it was time he got off or he would be carried past his stop. Hastily, apologizing for treading on people’s feet, he scrambled out of his seat and made his way out onto the platform.
    He must stop dwelling in the past and think what next to do in the murder of Prudence Barrymore. There was nothing to report to Callandra yet, but she might have something to tell him, although it was a trifle early. Better to leave it a day or two, then he might have something to say himself.
    He strode along the platform, threading his way among the people, bumping into a porter and nearly tripping over a bale of papers.
    What had Prudence Barrymore been like as a nurse? Better to begin at the beginning. He had met her parents, her suitor, albeit unsuccessful, and her rival. In time he would ask her superiors, but they were, or might be, suspects. The best judge of the next stage in her career would be someone who had known her in the Crimea, apart from Hester. He dodged around two men and a woman struggling with a hat box.
    What about Florence Nightingale herself? She would know something about all her nurses, surely? But would she see Monk? She was now fêted and admired all over the city, second in public affection only to the Queen.
    It was worth trying.
    Tomorrow he would do that. She was immeasurably more famous, more important, but she could not be more opinionated or more acid-tongued than Hester.
    Unconsciously he quickened his step. It was a good decision. He smiled at an elderly lady who glared back at him.
    Florence Nightingale was smaller than he had expected, slight of build and with brown hair and regular features, at a glance quite unremarkable. It was only the intensity of her eyes under the level brows which held him, and the way she seemed to look right into his mind, not with interest, simply a demand that he meet her honesty with equal candor. He imagined no one dared to waste her time.
    She had received him in some sort of office, sparsely furnished and strictly functional. He had gained admittance only with difficulty, and after explaining his precise purpose. It was apparent she was deeply engaged in some cause and had set it aside only for the duration of the interview.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Monk,” she said in a strong clear voice. “I believe you have come in connection with the death of one of my nurses. I am extremely sorry to hear of it. What is it you wish of me?”
    He would not have dared prevaricate, even if it had been his intention.
    “She was murdered, ma’am, while serving in the Royal Free Hospital. Her name was Prudence Barrymore.” He saw the shadow of pain pass over Florence Nightingale’s calm features, and liked her the better for it. “I am inquiring into her