A newsboy stuffed his papers hastily into a canvas satchel without ceasing his cries. Monk turned up his coat collar and hunched forward.
That was it. The press! His rage had protected him from any vulnerability to the clamor for an arrest, and the pressure from superiors. He had not cared what anyone else thought or felt, all that mattered to him was his own overpowering emotion over the crime itself, the fury of it consumed him. But what was the crime? Nothing in his memory gave any clue to follow. Search as he could, it was a blank.
It was intensely frustrating. And that feeling was familiar. He had been frustrated then. The helplessness underlying the anger all the time. There had been one blind alley after another. He knew the upsurge of hope, the anticipation, and then the disappointment, the hollowness of failure. His fury had been at least partially directed at Runcorn because he was too timid, too careful of the sensibilities of witnesses. Monk had wished to press them regardless, not for cruelty's sake but because they were guarding their own petty little secrets when a far greater tragedy loomed over them with its brooding evil.
But what evil? All he could recall was a sense of darkness and a weight oppressing him, and always the rage.
The rain was heavy now, soaking through his trousers, making his ankles cold, and running down the back of his neck. He shivered violently, and quickened his pace. The water was rising in the gutter and swirling down the drains.
He needed to know. He needed to understand himself, the man he had been in those years, whether his anger was justified or merely the violence in his own nature finding an excuse-emotionally and intellectually dishonest. That was something he despised utterly.
And there was no excuse for self-indulgence at the expense of his task for Callandra. He had no idea who had murdered Prudence Barrymore, or why. There were too many possibilities. It could have been anything from a long hatred, frustration, or rejection such as that which must be felt by Geoffrey Taunton, or a mixture of the panic and jealousy which must have affected Nanette Cuthbertson as time passed by and still Geoffrey waited for Prudence and she kept him at bay, neither accepting him nor letting him go-
Or it could have been another lover, a doctor or hospital governor, a quarrel or an explosion of jealousy; or the blackmail that, according to Evan, Jeavis suspected of Kristian Beck.
Or if Prudence Barrymore were as opinionated, officious, and authoritarian as had been suggested, then it might as easily have been merely some nurse driven beyond the bounds of serf-control by the constant abrasion to her temper and esteem. Perhaps one gibe, one criticism, had been the final straw, and someone had at last lashed out?
He was almost at the hospital entrance.
He ran the final few yards and climbed the steps two at a time to be in the shelter at last, then stood in the entrance hall dripping pools of water onto the floor. He turned down his collar and smoothed his lapels and pushed his fingers through his hair in unconscious vanity. He wanted to see Evan alone, but he could not wait for an opportunity to present itself. He would have to look for him and hope he found him without Jeavis. He set out, still trailing water.
As it happened he was unfortunate. He had planned using the excuse that he was seeking Callandra, if anyone asked him his business. But he almost bumped into Jeavis and Evan as he was going along the corridor and they were standing near the laundry chute.
Jeavis looked up in surprise, at first suspecting a governor from Monk's dress, then recognizing his face, and his own expression darkening in suspicion.
'Hello-what are you doing here, Monk?' He smiled bleakly. 'Not sick, are you?' He looked at Monk's rain- darkened coat and wet footprints, but added nothing.
Monk hesitated, considering a lie, but the thought of excusing himself to Jeavis, even obliquely, was intolerable.
'I have been retained by Lady Callandra Daviot, as I daresay you know,' he answered. 'Is that the chute down to the laundry room?'
Evan looked acutely uncomfortable. Monk was tearing his loyalties and he knew it. Jeavis's face was hard. Monk had driven him onto the defensive. Perhaps that was clumsy. On the other hand, it might only have precipitated the inevitable.
'Of course it is,' he said coldly. He raised his pale brows. 'Is this the first time you've seen it? A bit slow for you, Monk.'
'Don't see what I can learn from it,' Monk replied edg-ily. 'If there were much, you would have made an arrest already.'
'If I'd found any evidence anywhere, I'd have made an arrest,' Jeavis said with an odd flash of humor. 'But I don't suppose that'll stop you padding around behind me, all the same!'
'Or the occasional place before you,' Monk added.
Jeavis shot him a glance. 'That's as may be. But you're welcome to peer down that chute all you wish. You'll see nothing but a laundry basket at the bottom. And at the top, there's a long corridor with few lights and half a dozen doors, but none along this stretch except Dr. Beck's office, and the treasurer's office over there. Make what you like out of that.'
Monk looked around, gazing up and down the length of the corridor. The only definite thing he concluded was that if Prudence had been strangled here beside the chute, then she could not have cried out without being heard had there been anyone in Beck's office or the treasurer's. The other doors seemed to be far enough away to be out of earshot. Similarly, if she had been killed in one of the other rooms, then she must have been carried some distance along the open corridor, which might have posed a risk. Hospital corridors were never entirely deserted, as those in a house or an office might be. However, he was not going to say so to Jeavis.
'Interesting, isn't it?' Jeavis said dryly, and Monk knew his thoughts were precisely the same. 'Looks unpleasantly like the good Dr. Beck, don't you think?'
'Or the treasurer,' Monk agreed. 'Or someone who acted on the spur of the moment, right here, and so swiftly and with such surprise she had no time to cry out.'
Jeavis pulled a face and smiled.
'Seems to me like a woman who would have fought,' he said with a little shake of his head. 'Tall, too. Not weakly, by all accounts. Mind, some of the other nurses are built like cart horses.' He looked at Monk with bland, challenging amusement. 'Seems she had a tongue as sharp as one o' the surgeon's knives and didn't spare them if she thought they slacked in their duty. A very different sort of woman, Nurse Barrymore.' Then he added under his breath, 'Thank God.'
'But good enough at her job to be justified in her comments,' Monk said thoughtfully. 'Or they'd have got rid of her, don't you think?' He avoided looking at Evan.
'Oh yes,' Jeavis agreed without hesitation. 'She seems to have been that, all right. Don't think anyone would have put up with her otherwise. At least, not those that disliked her And to be fair, that wasn't everyone. Seems she was something of a heroine to some. And Sir Herbert speaks well enough of her.'
A nurse with a pile of clean sheets approached and they moved aside for her.
'What about Beck?' Monk asked when she had gone.
'Oh, him too. But then, if he killed her, he's hardly going to tell us that he couldn't abide her, is he?'
'What do other people say?'
'Well now, Mr. Monk, I wouldn't want to rob you of your livelihood by doing your work for you, now would I?' Jeavis said, looking Monk straight in the eyes. 'If I did that, how could you go to Lady Callandra and expect to be paid?' And with a smile he glanced meaningfully at Evan and walked away down the corridor.
Evan looked at Monk and shrugged, then followed dutifully. Jeavis had already stopped a dozen yards away and was waiting for him.
Monk had little else to do here. He had no authority to question anyone, and he resisted the temptation to find Hester. Any unnecessary association with him might lessen her ability to question people without arousing suspicion and destroy her usefulness.
He had the geography of the place firmly in his mind. There was nothing more to learn standing here.
He was on his way out again, irritated and short-tempered, when he saw Callandra crossing the foyer. She looked tired and her hair was even more unruly than usual. The characteristic humor had left her face and there was an air of anxiety about her quite out of her customary spirit.
