wrong as anything can be?'
'It is fearful, naturally,' Berenice answered, adjusting the drape of her fichu. 'But to judge from your expression, I thought there must be something new. I'm relieved there is not.' She was dressed in a rich shade of brown with gold lace. 'The whole place is at sixes and sevens. Mrs. Flaherty cannot get sense out of any of the nurses. Stupid women seem to think there is a lunatic about and they are all in danger.' Her rather long-nosed face with its ironic amusement was full of contempt as she stared at Callandra. 'Which is ridiculous. It's obviously a personal crime- some rejected lover, as like as not.'
'Rejected suitor, perhaps,' Callandra corrected. 'Not lover. Prudence was not of that nature.'
'Oh really, my dear.' Berenice laughed outright, her face full of scornful amusement. 'She may have been gauche, but of course she was of that nature. Do you suppose she spent all that time out in the Crimea with all those soldiers out of a religious vocation to help the sick?'
'No. I think she went out of a sense of frustration at home,' Callandra snapped back. 'Adventure to travel and see other places and people, do something useful, and above all to learn about medicine, which had been her passion since she was a girl.'
Berenice tossed her head in laughter, a rich gurgling sound. 'You are naive, my dear! But by all means think what you will.' She moved a little closer to Callandra, as if to impart a confidence, and Callandra caught a breath of rich musky perfume. 'Have you seen that fearful little policeman? What an oily creature, like a beetle. Have you noticed he has hardly any eyebrows, and those black eyes like stones.' She shuddered. 'I swear they look just like the prune stones I used to count to know my future. You know, tinker, tailor, and so on. I am quite sure he thinks Dr. Beck did it.'
Callandra tried to speak and had to swallow an obstruction in her throat.
'Dr. Beck?' She should not have been surprised. It was only her fear spoken aloud. 'Why? Why on earth should Dr. Beck have-have-killed her?'
Berenice shrugged. 'Who knows? Perhaps he pursued her and she rejected him, and he was furious and lost his temper and strangled her?'
'Pursued her?' Callandra stared, turmoil in her mind and a hot, sick feeling of horror rippling through her body.
'For Heaven's sake, Callandra, stop repeating everything I say as if you were half-witted!' Berenice said tartly. 'Why not? He is a man in the prime of life, and married to a woman who at best is quite indifferent to him, and at worst, if I were unkind, refuses to fulfill her conjugal duties…'
Callandra cringed inside. It was inexpressibly offensive to hear Berenice speaking in such terms of Kristian and his most personal life. It hurt more than she could have foreseen.
Berenice continued, apparently with total unawareness of the horror she was causing.
'And Prudence Barrymore was quite a handsome woman, in her own fashion, one has to grant that. Not really a demure face, or traditionally pretty, but I imagine some men may have found it interesting, and poor Dr. Beck may have been in a desperate state. Working side by side can prove peculiarly powerful.' She shrugged her elegant shoulders. 'Still, it is hardly anything we can affect, and I have too much to do to spend more time on it. I have to find the chaplain, then I.am invited to take tea with Lady Washbourne. Do you know her?'
'No,' Callandra replied abruptly. 'But I know someone probably more interesting, whom I must see. Good day to you.' And with that she walked off smartly before Berenice could be the one to depart first.
She had had Monk in mind when she spoke, but actually the next person she saw was Kristian Beck himself. He came out of one of the wards into the corridor just as she was passing. He looked preoccupied and anxious, but he smiled when he recognized her and the candor of it sent a warmth through her, which only sharpened her fear. She was forced to admit she cared for him more profoundly than anyone else she could recall. She had loved her husband, but it was a friendship, a companionship of long familiarity and a number of shared ideals over the years, not the sharp, strange vulnerability she felt over Kristian Beck, and not the swift elation and the painful excitement, the inner sweetness, in spite of the pain.
He was smiling and she had no idea what he had said. She blushed at her stupidity.
'I beg your pardon?' she stammered.
He was surprised. 'I said 'Good morning,' ' he repeated. 'Are you well?' He looked at her more closely. 'Has that wretched policeman been bothering you?'
'No.' She smiled in sudden relief. It was ridiculous. She could have dealt with Jeavis without a hesitation in her stride. Good heavens, she was a match for Monk, let alone one of Runcorn's junior minions appointed in his stead. 'No,' she said again. 'Not at all. But I am concerned about his efficiency. I fear he may not be as capable of the skill as this unhappy case requires.'
Kristian gave a twisted smile. 'He is certainly diligent enough. He has already questioned me three times, and to judge from his expression, believed nothing I said.' He gave a sad little laugh. 'I think he suspects me.'
She caught the edge of fear in his voice, and pretended she had not, then changed her mind and met his eyes. She longed to be able to touch him, but she did not know how much he felt, or knew. And this was hardly the time.
'He will be eager to prove himself by solving the case as quickly and satisfactorily as possible,' she said with an effort at composure. 'And he has a superior with social ambitions and a keen sense of what is politically judicious.' She saw his face tighten as he appreciated exactly what she meant, and the consequent danger to himself as a foreigner and a man with no social connections in England. 'But I have a friend, a private inquiry agent,' she went on hastily, aching to reassure him. 'I have engaged him to look into the case. He is quite brilliant. He will find the truth.'
'You say that with great confidence,' he observed quietly, halfway between amusement and a desperate need to believe her.
'I have known him for some time and seen him solve cases the police could not.' She searched his face, the anxiety in his eyes, the smile on his lips belying it. 'He is a hard man, ruthless, and sometimes arrogant,' she went on intently. 'But he has imagination and brilliance, and he has absolute integrity. If anyone can find the truth, it will be Monk.' She thought of the past cases through which she had known him and felt a surge of hope. She made herself smile and saw an answering flicker in Kristian's eyes.
'If he has your confidence to that degree, then I must rest my trust in him also,' he replied.
She wanted to say something further, but nothing came to her mind that was not forced. Rather than appear foolish, she excused herself and walked away to look for Mrs. Flaherty, to discuss some charitable business.
Hester found returning to hospital duty after private nursing a severe strain on her temper. She had grown accustomed to being her own mistress since her dismissal roughly a year ago. The restrictions of English medical practice were almost beyond bearing after the urgency and freedom of the Crimea, where there had frequently been so few army surgeons that nurses such as herself had had to take matters into their own hands, and there had been little complaint. Back at home again it seemed that every pettifogging little rule was invoked, more to safeguard dignity than to ease pain or preserve life, and that reputation was more precious than discovery.
She had known Prudence Barrymore and she felt a sharply personal sense of both anger and loss at her death. She was determined to give Monk any assistance she could in learning who had killed her. Therefore she would govern her temper, however difficult that might prove; refrain from expressing her opinions, no matter how severely tempted; and not at any time exercise her own medical judgment.
So far she had succeeded, but Mrs. Flaherty tried her sorely. The woman was set in her ways. She refused to listen to anyone's instructions about opening windows, even on the warmest, mildest days. Twice she had told the nurses to put a cloth over buckets of slops as they were carrying them out, but when they had forgotten on all subsequent occasions she had said nothing further. Hester, as a disciple of Florence Nightingale, was passionately keen on fresh air to cleanse the atmosphere and carry away harmful effluvia and unpleasant odor. Mrs. Flaherty was terrified of chills and preferred to rely on fumigation. It was with the greatest of difficulty that Hester kept her own counsel.
Instinctively she liked Kristian Beck. There seemed to be both compassion and imagination in his face. His modesty and dry humor appealed to her and she felt he was greatly skilled at his profession. Sir Herbert Stanhope she liked less, but was obliged to concede he was a brilliant surgeon. He performed operations lesser men might
