William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

murder,” he went on. “Not with the police but at the wish of one of her friends.”
    “I am deeply sorry. Please be seated, Mr. Monk.” She indicateda hard-backed chair and sat in one opposite, holding her hands in her lap and staring at him.
    He obeyed. “Can you tell me something of her nature and her abilities, ma’am?” he asked. “I have already heard that she was dedicated to medicine to the exclusion of all else, that she had refused a man who had admired her for many years, and that she held her opinions with great conviction.”
    A flicker of amusement touched Florence Nightingale’s mouth. “And expressed them,” she agreed. “Yes, she was a fine woman, with a passion to learn. Nothing deterred her from seeking the truth and acknowledging it.”
    “And telling it to others?” he asked.
    “Of course. If you know the truth, it takes a gentler and perhaps a wiser woman than Prudence Barrymore not to speak it aloud. She did not understand the arts of diplomacy. I fear that perhaps I do not either. The sick cannot wait for flattery and coercion to do their work.”
    He did not flatter her with agreement. She was not a woman who would have valued the obvious.
    “Might Miss Barrymore have made enemies profound enough to have killed her?” he asked. “I mean, was her zeal to reform or her medical knowledge sufficient for that?”
    For several moments Florence Nightingale sat silent, but Monk knew perfectly well that she had understood him and that she was considering the question before answering.
    “I find it unlikely, Mr. Monk,” she said at last. “Prudence was more interested in medicine itself than in ideas of reforming such as I have. I desire above all things to see the simple changes that would save so many lives and cost little, such as proper ventilation of hospital wards.” She looked at him with brilliant eyes, burning with the intensity of her feeling. Already the timbre of her voice had altered and there was a new quality of urgency in it. “Have you any idea, Mr. Monk, how stuffy most wards are, how stale the air and full of noxious vapors and fumes? Clean air will do as much to heal people as half the medicines they aregiven.” She leaned forward a fraction. “Of course our hospitals here are nothing like the hospitals in Scutari, but still they are places where as many people die of infections caught there as of the original complaints that brought them! There is so much to do, so much suffering and death which could be avoided.” She spoke quietly, and yet Monk, listening to her, felt a quiver of excitement inside himself. There was a passion in her eyes which lit them from within. No longer could Monk possibly say she was ordinary. She possessed a fierceness, a solitary fire, and yet a vulnerability which made her unique. He caught a glimpse of what it was that had inspired an army to love her and the nation to revere her, and yet leave her with such a core of inner loneliness.
    “I have a friend”—he used the word without thinking—“who nursed with you in the Crimea, a Miss Hester Latterly …”
    Her face softened with instant pleasure. “You know Hester? How is she? She had to return home early because of the death of both of her parents. Have you seen her recently? Is she well?”
    “I saw her two days ago,” he answered readily. “She is in excellent health. She will be most pleased to know you asked after her.” He felt slightly proprietorial. “She is largely nursing privately at present. I am afraid her outspokenness cost her her first hospital post.” He found himself smiling, although at the time he had been both angry and critical. “She knew more of fever medicine than the doctor, and acted upon it. He never forgave her.”
    Florence smiled, a peaceful inward amusement, and he thought a certain pride. “I am not surprised,” she admitted. “Hester never suffered fools easily, especially military ones, and there are a great many of those. She used to get so angry at the waste and told them how stupid they were and what they should have done.” She shook her head. “I think had she been a man, Hester might have made a good soldier. She had all the zeal to fight and a good instinct for strategy, at least of a physical sort.”
    “A physical sort?” He did not understand. He had not noticed Hester being particularly good at planning ahead—in fact, rather the opposite.
    She saw his confusion and the doubt in him.
    “Oh, I don’t mean of