A Sudden, Fearful Death

Rathbone said nothing, his mind filled with conjecture, conclusionless, one thought melting into another, but worrying.

"Hester does not believe it is the answer," Monk continued after a moment or two.

Rathbone's attention was jerked back by the sound of her name. "Hester? What has she to do with it?"

Monk smiled with a downturn of the corners of his mouth. He regarded Rathbone with amusement, and Rathbone had the most uncomfortable sensation that his uneasy and very personal feelings for Hester were transparent in his face. Surely she would have had confided in Monk? That would be too-no, of course she would not. He dismissed the thought. It was disturbing and offensive.

"She knew Prudence in the Crimea," Monk replied. The easy use of Nurse Barrymore's given name startled Rathbone. He had thought of her as the victim; his concern had been entirely with Sir Herbert. Now suddenly her reality came to him with a painful shock. Hester had known her, perhaps cared for her. With chilling clarity he saw again how like Hester she must have been. Suddenly he was cold inside.

Monk perceived the shock in him. Surprisingly there was none of the ironic humor Rathbone expected, instead only a pain devoid of adulteration or disguise.

"Did you know her?" he asked before his brain censored the words. Of course Monk had not known her. How could he?

"No," Monk replied quietly, his voice full of hurt. "But I have learned a great deal about her." His gray eyes hardened, cold and implacable. "And I intend to see the right man with the noose around his neck for this." Then suddenly the ruthless, bitter smile was there on his lips. "I don't only mean in order to avoid a miscarriage of justice. Of course I don't want that-but neither do I intend to see Stanhope acquitted and no one in his place. I won't allow them to let this one go unresolved."

Rathbone looked at him closely, studying the passion so plain in his face.

"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 ekpose 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.