A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [61]
He strode along the platform, threading his way among the people, bumping into a porter and nearly tripping over a bale of papers.
What had Prudence Barrymore been like as a nurse? Better to begin at the beginning. He had met her parents, her suitor, albeit unsuccessful, and her rival. In time he would ask her superiors, but they were, or might be, suspects. The best judge of the next stage in her career would be someone who had known her in the Crimea, apart from Hester. He dodged around two men and a woman struggling with a hat box.
What about Florence Nightingale herself? She would know something about all her nurses, surely? But would she see Monk? She was now fêted and admired all over the city, second in public affection only to the Queen.
It was worth trying.
Tomorrow he would do that. She was immeasurably more famous, more important, but she could not be more opinionated or more acid-tongued than Hester.
Unconsciously he quickened his step. It was a good decision. He smiled at an elderly lady who glared back at him.
Florence Nightingale was smaller than he had expected, slight of build and with brown hair and regular features, at a glance quite unremarkable. It was only the intensity of her eyes under the level brows which held him, and the way she seemed to look right into his mind, not with interest, simply a demand that he meet her honesty with equal candor. He imagined no one dared to waste her time.
She had received him in some sort of office, sparsely furnished and strictly functional. He had gained admittance only with difficulty, and after explaining his precise purpose. It was apparent she was deeply engaged in some cause and had set it aside only for the duration of the interview.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk,” she said in a strong clear voice. “I believe you have come in connection with the death of one of my nurses. I am extremely sorry to hear of it. What is it you wish of me?”
He would not have dared prevaricate, even if it had been his intention.
“She was murdered, ma’am, while serving in the Royal Free Hospital. Her name was Prudence Barrymore.” He saw the shadow of pain pass over Florence Nightingale’s calm features, and liked her the better for it. “I am inquiring into her murder,” he went on. “Not with the police but at the wish of one of her friends.”
“I am deeply sorry. Please be seated, Mr. Monk.” She indicated a hard-backed chair and sat in one opposite, holding her hands in her lap and staring at him.
He obeyed. “Can you tell me something of her nature and her abilities, ma’am?” he asked. “I have already heard that she was dedicated to medicine to the exclusion of all else, that she had refused a man who had admired her for many years, and that she held her opinions with great conviction.”
A flicker of amusement touched Florence Nightingale’s mouth. “And expressed them,” she agreed. “Yes, she was a fine woman, with a passion to learn. Nothing deterred her from seeking the truth and acknowledging it.”
“And telling it to others?” he asked.
“Of course. If you know the truth, it takes a gentler and perhaps a wiser woman than Prudence Barrymore not to speak it aloud. She did not understand the arts of diplomacy. I fear that perhaps I do not either. The sick cannot wait for flattery and coercion to do their work.”
He did not flatter her with agreement. She was not a woman who would have valued the obvious.
“Might Miss Barrymore have made enemies profound enough to have killed her?” he asked. “I mean, was her zeal to reform or her medical knowledge sufficient for that?”
For several moments Florence Nightingale sat silent, but Monk knew perfectly well that she had understood him and that she was considering the question before answering.
“I find it unlikely, Mr. Monk,” she said at last. “Prudence was more interested in medicine itself than in ideas of reforming such as I have. I desire above all things to see the simple changes that