A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [49]
“And Prudence?” Monk prompted.
The light died out of his face.
“Prudence? She did not want to marry, she only cared about medicine and service. She wanted to heal people and to change things.” He sighed. “And always to know more! Of course her mother wanted her to marry, but she turned away all suitors, and there were several. She was a lovely girl….” Again he stopped for a moment, his feelings too powerful to hide.
Monk waited. Barrymore needed time to recover control and master the outward show of his pain. Somewhere beyond the garden a dog barked, and from the other direction came the sound of children laughing.
“I’m sorry,” Barrymore said after a few moments. “I loved her very much. One should not have favorite children, but Prudence was so easy for me to understand. We shared so many things—ideas—dreams …” He stopped, again his voice thick with tears.
“Thank you for sparing me your time, sir.” Monk rose to his feet. The interview was unbearable, and he had learned all he could. “I will see what I can find from the hospital, and perhaps any other friends you think she may have spoken to lately and who may have some knowledge.”
Barrymore recalled himself. “I have no idea how they could help, but if there is anything …”
“I would like to speak to Mrs. Barrymore, if she is well enough.”
“Mrs. Barrymore?” He seemed surprised.
“She may know something of her daughter, some confidence perhaps, which might seem trivial but could lead us to something of importance.”
“Oh—yes, I suppose so. I will ask her if she feels well enough.” He shook his head very slightly. “I am amazed at her strength. She has borne this, I think, better than I.” And with that observation, he excused himself and went to seek his wife.
He returned a few moments later and conducted Monk to another comfortable well-furnished room with flowered sofas and chairs, embroidered samplers on the walls, and many small ornaments of various types. A bookcase was filled with books, obviously chosen for their contents, not their appearance, and a basket of silks lay open next to a tapestry on a frame.
Mrs. Barrymore was far smaller than her husband, a neat little woman in a huge skirt, her fair hair graying only slightly, pulled back under a lace cap. Of course today she was wearing black, and her pretty, delicately boned face showed signs that she had wept very recently. But she was perfectly composed now and greeted Monk graciously. She did not rise, but extended to him a beautiful hand, partially covered by a fingerless lace mitten.
“How do you do, Mr. Monk? My husband tells me you are a friend of Lady Callandra Daviot, who was a patron of poor Prudence’s. It is most kind of you to take an interest in our tragedy.”
Monk silently admired Barrymore’s diplomacy. He had not thought of such an elegant way of explaining it.
“Many people are moved by her loss, ma’am,” he said aloud, brushing her fingertips with his lips. If Barrymore chose to present him as a gentleman, he would play the part; indeed, he would find acute satisfaction in it. Even though undoubtedly it was done for Mrs. Barrymore’s benefit, to spare her the feeling that her life was being pried into by lesser people.
“It is truly terrible,” she agreed, blinking several times. Silently she indicated where he might be seated, and he accepted. Mr. Barrymore remained standing beside his wife’s chair, a curiously remote and yet protective attitude. “Although perhaps we should not be taken totally by surprise. That would be naive, would it not?” She looked at him with startlingly clear blue eyes.
Monk was confused. He hesitated, not wanting to preempt her by saying the wrong thing.
“Such a willful girl,” Mrs. Barrymore went on, pinching in her mouth a little. “Charming and lovely to look at, but so set in her ways.” She stared beyond Monk toward the window. “Do you have daughters, Mr. Monk?”
“No ma’am.”
“Then my advice would be of little use