A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [120]
“What did you learn of her which moves you this profoundly?”
“Courage,” Monk answered. “Intelligence, dedication to learning, a will to fight for what she believed and what she wanted. She cared about people, and there was no equivocation or hypocrisy in her.”
Rathbone had a sudden vision of a woman not unlike Monk himself, in some ways strange and complex, in others burningly simple. He was not surprised that Monk cared so much that she was dead, even that he felt an identity with her loss.
“She sounds like a woman who could have loved very deeply,” Rathbone said gently. “Not one who would have accepted rejection without a struggle.”
Monk pursed his lips, doubt in his eyes, reluctant and touched with anger.
“Nor one to resort to pleading or blackmail,” he said, but his voice held more hurt than conviction.
Rathbone rose to his feet.
“If there is another story we have not touched yet, find it. Do whatever you can that will expose other motives. Someone killed her.”
Monk’s face set hard. “I will,” he promised, not to Rathbone but to himself. His smile was sour. “I assume Sir Herbert is paying for this?”
“He is,” Rathbone replied. “If only we could unearth a strong motive in someone else! There is a reason why someone killed her, Monk.” He stopped. “Where is Hester working now?”
Monk smiled, the amusement going all the way to his eyes. “In the Royal Free Hospital.”
“What?” Rathbone was incredulous. “In a hospital? But I thought she …” He stopped. It was none of Monk’s business that Hester had been dismissed before, although of course he knew it. The thoughts, the amusement, the anger, and the instinct to defend, in spite of himself, were all there in his eyes as Rathbone stared at him.
There were times when Rathbone felt uniquely close to Monk, and both liked and disliked him intensely with two warring parts of his nature.
“I see,” he said aloud. “Well, I suppose it could prove useful. Please keep me informed.”
“Of course,” Monk agreed soberly. “Good day.”
Rathbone never doubted that he would also go to see Hester. He argued with himself, debating the reasons for and against such a move, but he did it with his brain, even while his feet were carrying him toward the hospital. It would be difficult to find her; she would be busy working. Quite possibly she knew nothing helpful about the murder anyway. But she had known Prudence Barrymore. Perhaps she also knew Sir Herbert. He could not afford to ignore her opinion. He could hardly afford to ignore anything!
He disliked the hospital. The very smell of the place offended his senses, and his consciousness of the pain and the distress colored all his thoughts. The place was in less than its normal state of busy, rather haphazard order since Sir Herbert’s arrest. People were confused, intensely partisan over the issue of his innocence or guilt.
He asked to see Hester, explaining who he was and his purpose, and he was shown into a small, tidy room and requested to wait. He was there, growing increasingly impatient and short-tempered, for some twenty minutes before the door opened and Hester came in.
It was over three months since he had last seen her, and although he had thought his memory vivid, he was still taken aback by her presence. She looked tired, a little pale, and there was a splash of blood on her very plain gray dress. He found the sudden feeling of familiarity both pleasant and disturbing.
“Good afternoon, Oliver,” she said rather formally. “I am told you are defending Sir Herbert and wish to speak to me on the matter. I doubt I can help. I was not here at the time of the murder, but of course I shall do all I can.” Her eyes met his directly with none of the decorum he was used to in women.
In that instant he was powerfully aware that she had known and liked Prudence Barrymore, and that her emotions would crowd her actions in the matter. It both pleased and displeased him. It would be a nuisance professionally. He needed clarity of observation. Personally, he found indifference to death