leave.
It was a very pleasant day, and he enjoyed the half hour it took him to walk from Green Lane to Little Ealing and find the home of Geoffrey Taunton. And the time gave him the opportunity to formulate in his mind what he would say. He did not expect it to be easy. Geoffrey Taunton might even refuse to see him. People react differently to grief. With some, the anger comes first, long before the simple acceptance of pain. And of course it was perfectly possible that Geoffrey Taunton might have been the one who killed her. Perhaps he was not as willing to wait as he had been in the past, and his frustration had finally boiled over? Or maybe it was passion of a different sort which had run out of control, and then he regretted it and wished to marry this Nanette Cuthbertson instead. He must remember to ask Evan precisely what the medical examiner's report had said. For example, had Prudence Barrymore been with child? From her father's account of her, that seemed unlikely, but then fathers are frequently ignorant of that aspect of their daughters' lives, from preference or by design.
It really was a splendid day. The fields stretched out on either side of the lane, light wind rippling through the wheat, already turning gold. In another couple of months the reapers would be out, backs bent in the heat and the grain dust, the smell of hot straw everywhere, and the wagon somewhere behind them with cider and loaves of bread. In his imagination he could hear the rhythmic swishing of the scythe, feel the sweat on his bare skin, and the breeze, and then the shelter of the wagon, the thirst, and the cool sweet cider, still smelling of apples.
When had he ever done farm laboring? He searched his mind and nothing came. Was it here in the south, or at home in Northumberland, before he had come to London to learn commerce, make money, and becoming something of a gendeman?
He had no idea. It was gone, like so much else. And perhaps it was as weD. It might belong to some personal memory, like the one of Hermione, which still cut so deep into his emotions. It was not losing her, that was nothing. It was his own humiliation, his misjudgment, the stupidity of having loved so much a woman who had not in her the capacity to love in return. And she had been honest enough to admit that she did not even wish to. Love was dangerous. It could hurt. She did not want hostages to fortune and she said so.
No, definitely any memories he chased from now on would be professional ones. There at least he was safe. He was brilliant. Even his bitterest enemy, and so far that was Runcorn, had never denied his skill, his intelligence, or his intuition, and the dedication which harnessed them all and had made him the best detective in the force. He strode briskly. There was no sound but his own steps and the wind across the fields, faint and warm. In the early morning there could have been larks, but now it was too late.
And there was another reason, apart from the gratification of pride, why he should remember all he could. He needed to make his living by detection now, and without the memory of his past contacts with the criminal underworld, the minutiae of his craft, the names and faces of those who owed him debts or who feared him, those who had knowledge he would find useful, those who had secrets to hide. Without all this he was handicapped, starting again as a beginner. He needed to know more fully who his friends and his enemies were. Blindfolded by forgetting, he was at their mercy.
The warm sweet scent of honeysuckle was thick around him. Here and there long briers of wild rose trailed pink or white sprays of bloom.
He turned right into the Ride and after a hundred yards found an old carter leading his horse along the lane. He inquired after Geoffrey Taunton, and, after a few minutes' suspicious hesitation, was directed.
The house was gracious from the outside, and the plaster showed signs of having been fairly recently embellished with new pargetting in rich designs. The half timbering was immaculate. Presumably that was all done when Geoffrey Taunton came into his father's money.
Monk walked up the neat gravel drive, which was weed-less and recently raked, and knocked at the front door. It was now early afternoon and he would be fortunate to find the master of the house at home; but if he were out, then he would endeavor to make an appointment for a later time.
The maid who answered the door was young and bright-eyed, full of curiosity when she saw a smartly dressed stranger on the step.
'Yes sir?' she said pleasantly, looking up at him.
'Good afternoon. I have no appointment, but I should like to see Mr. Taunton, if he is at home. If I am too early, perhaps you would tell me when would be a more convenient time?'
'Oh not at all, sir, this is an excellent time.' Then she stopped and hesitated, realizing she had defied the social convention of pretending her employer was not in until she had ascertained whether the visitor was to be received or not. 'Oh, I mean…'
Monk smiled in spite of himself. 'I understand,' he said dryly. 'You had better go and ask if he will see me.' He handed her his card, which showed his name and his residence, but not his occupation. 'You may tell him it is in connection with one of the Board of Governors of the Royal Free Hospital in Gray's Inn, a Lady Callandra Daviot.' That sounded impressive, not too personal, and it was true, in fact if not in essence.
'Yes sir,' she said with a lift of interest in her voice. 'And if you'll excuse me, I'll go and ask, sir.' With a swish of skirts, she turned and was gone after having left Monk in the morning room in the sun.
Geoffrey Taunton himself came less than five minutes later. He was a pleasant-looking mart in his early thirties, tall and well built, now dressed in the fashionless black of mourning. He was of medium coloring and good features, regular and well proportioned. His expression was mild, and at the moment marred by grief.
'Mr. Monk? Good afternoon. What may I do to be of service to you and the Board of Governors?' He held out his hand.
Monk took it with a twinge of guilt for his misrepresentation, but it was easily dismissed. There were greater priorities.
'Thank you for sparing me the time, sir, and excusing my calling without notice,' he apologized. 'But I heard of you only through Mr. Barrymore when I called upon him this morning. As you may have assumed, it is in connection with the death of Miss Prudence Barrymore that I have been consulted.'
'Consulted?' Taunton frowned. 'Surely it is a police matter?' His expression was one of sharp disapproval. 'If the Board of Governors are concerned about scandal, there is nothing whatever I can do to assist them. If they employ young women in such a calling, then there are all sorts of unfortunate circumstances which may arise, as I frequently tried to impress upon Miss Barrymore, but without success.
'Hospitals are not salubrious places,' he continued with asperity. 'Either physically or morally. It is bad enough to have to visit them if one should require surgery which cannot be performed in one's own home, but a woman who seeks employment there runs horrible risks. Most especially if the woman concerned is of gentle birth and has no need whatever to earn her living.' His face darkened with pain at the uselessness of it, and he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He looked stubborn, bewildered, and acutely vulnerable.
Evan would have been sorry for him; Runcorn would have agreed. Monk could only feel angry at his blindness. They were still standing in the morning room facing each other across the green carpet, neither willing to sit.
'I imagine she served out of compassion for the sick rather than for the financial reward,' Monk said dryly. 'From what I have heard said of her, she was a woman of remarkable gifts and great dedication. That she did not work from necessity can only be to her credit.'
'It cost her her life,' Taunton said bitterly, his wide eyes full of fury. 'That is a tragedy and a crime. Nothing can bring her back, but I want to see whoever did this hanged.'
'If we catch him, I daresay that will be your privilege, sir,' Monk replied harshly. 'Although watching a hanging is a vile affair, in my opinion. I have only seen two, but they were both experiences I would prefer to forget.'
Taunton looked startled and his mouth went slack, then he winced with displeasure. 'I did not mean it literally, Mr. Monk. That is, as you say, a vile thought. I simply meant that I desire it to be done.'
'Oh I see. Yes, that is different, and a quite common sentiment.' His voice carried all his contempt for those who visit others to perform the unpleasant deeds so they do not suffer the distress of their reality and can sleep without nightmare and the horror of guilt, doubt, and pity. Then with an effort he recollected his purpose for having come. He forced himself to meet Taunton's eyes with something like courtesy. 'And I assure you that anything that falls within my power to see that that is accomplished I shall do with all purpose and diligence at my command, you may be assured.'
Taunton was mollified. He too forgot his sense of offense and returned his mind to Prudence and her death.
'Why have you come to see me, Mr. Monk? What can I do to assist you? I am aware of nothing whatever to account for what happened, except the very nature of hospitals and the people who inhabit them, the type of
