A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [125]
“Poor Sir Herbert.” She raised her arched brows. “A perfectly fearful thing. I wish I knew what to say to help, but what can I do?” She shrugged graceful shoulders. “I have no idea what the man’s personal weaknesses may have been. I always found him courteous, highly professional, and correct at all times. But then”—she smiled at Monk, meeting his eyes—“if he were seeking an illicit romance, he would not have chosen me with whom to have it.” The smile widened. He knew she was telling both the truth and a lie. She expected him to decipher its double meanings. She was no trivial pastime to be picked up and put down; but on the other hand, she was a sophisticated and elegant woman, almost beautiful in her own way, perhaps better than beautiful—full of character. She had thought Prudence prim, naive, and immeasurably inferior to herself in all aspects of charm and allure.
Monk had no specific memories, and yet he knew he had stood in this position many times before, facing a wealthy, well-read woman who had found him exciting and was happy to forget his office and his purpose.
He smiled back at her very slightly, enough to be civil, not enough to betray any interest himself.
“I am sure it was part of your duties as a governor of the hospital, Lady Ross Gilbert, to be aware of the morals and failings of members of the staff. And I imagine you are an acute judge of human nature, particularly in that area.” He saw her eyes glisten with amusement. “What is Sir Herbert’s reputation? Please be honest—euphemisms will serve neither his interest nor the hospital’s.”
“I seldom deal in euphemisms, Mr. Monk,” she said, still with the curl of a smile on her lips. She stood very elegantly, leaning a little against one of the chairs. “I wish I could tell you something more interesting, but I have never heard a word of scandal about Sir Herbert.” She pulled a sad, mocking little face. “Rather to the contrary, he appears to be a brilliant surgeon but personally a boringly correct man, rather pompous, self-opinionated, socially, politically, and religiously orthodox.”
She was watching Monk all the time. “I doubt if he ever had an original idea except in medicine, in which he is both innovative and courageous. It seems as if that has drained all his creative energies and attentions, and what is left is tedious to a degree.” The laughter in her eyes was sharp and the interest in them more and more open, betraying that she did not believe for an instant that he fell into that category.
“Do you know him personally, Lady Ross Gilbert?” he asked, watching her face.
Again she shrugged, one shoulder a fraction higher than the other. “Only as business required, which is very little. I have met Lady Stanhope socially, but not often.” Her voice altered subtly, a very delicately implied contempt. “She is a very retiring person. She prefers to spend her time at home with her children—seven, I believe. But she always seemed most agreeable—not fashionable, you understand, but quite comely, very feminine, not in the least a strident or awkward creature.” Her heavy eyelids lowered almost imperceptibly. “I daresay she is in every way an excellent wife. I have no reason to doubt it.”
“And what of Nurse Barrymore?” he asked, again watching her face, but he saw no flicker in her expression, nothing to betray any emotion or knowledge that troubled her.
“I knew of her only the little I observed myself or what was reported to me by others. I have to confess, I never heard anything to her discredit.” Her eyes searched his face. “I think, frankly, that she was just as tedious as he is. They were well matched.”
“An interesting use of words, ma’am.”
She laughed quite openly. “Unintentional, Mr. Monk. I had no deeper meaning in my mind.”
“Do you believe she nourished daydreams about him?” he asked.
She looked up at the ceiling. “Heaven knows. I would have thought she would place them more interestingly—Dr. Beck, for a start. He is a man of feeling and humor, a little vain, and I would have thought