A Sudden, Fearful Death

Sir Herbert met them at the door, opening it wide to show the gracious interior, carpeted in Prussian blue, gleaming with polished wood, and a bar of sunlight across the floor from the southern window.

"Good day, Inspector," he said gravely. "Please come in and I shall give you all the information I have in this affair. Thank you, Lady Callandra. You have discharged your duty excellently. Indeed, more than your duty, and we are all most obliged." As he ushered Jeavis and Evan inside, at the same time he stood so that he blocked the way for Callandra. There was nothing she could do but accept the dismissal and go back down to the laundry room to see if Kristian was still there.

The huge basement was full of steam again; copper pipes gurgled and clanked, the vast boiler hissed when the lid was lifted off and the laundrywomen poked in wooden poles to lever out the linen and carried it, arms straining, over to the sinks that lined the far wall. The sinks were mounted with giant mangles through which the linen was pressed to remove as much of the water as possible. Work had resumed, time and taskmasters waited for no one, and the corpse had lost their immediate interest. Most of the women had seen plenty of corpses before. Death came often enough.

Kristian was still standing near the laundry basket, his back to it, leaning a little on its rim to take his weight. As soon as he saw Callandra his head lifted and his eyes met her questioningly.

"The police are in with Sir Herbert," she said in answer to his unspoken question. "A man called Jeavis; I suppose he's quite good."

He looked at her more closely. "You sound doubtful."

She sighed. "I wish it were William Monk."

"The detective who went into private work?" There was a flash of humor across his face, so quick she barely caught it.

"He would have had…" She stopped, unsure what she meant. No one could say that Monk was sensitive. He was as ruthless as a juggernaut.

Kristian was waiting, trying to read her meaning.

She smiled at him. "Imagination, intelligence," she said, knowing that was still not quite what she meant. "The perception to see beyond the obvious," she went on. "And no one would have fobbed him off with a suitable answer if it was not the truth."

"You have a high regard for him," Kristian observed, his dry rueful smile returning. "Let us hope Mr. Jeavis is as gifted." He looked back at the basket. There was an unwashed sheet now folded over to cover the dead face. "Poor woman," he said very gently. "She was a good nurse, you know; in fact, I think she was the best here. What a ridiculous tragedy that she should come all through the campaigns in the Crimea, the danger and the disease, and the ocean voyages, to die at the hands of some criminal in a London hospital." He shook his head and there was a terrible sadness in his face. "Why would anyone want to kill such a woman?"

"Why indeed?" Jeavis had arrived without either of them being aware of him. "You knew her, Dr. Beck?"

Kristian looked startled. "Of course." His voice rose with irritation. "She was a nurse here. We all knew her."

"But you knew her personally?" Jeavis persisted, his dark eyes fixed almost accusingly on Kristian's face.

"If you mean did I know her outside her duties here in the hospital, no I did not," Kristian answered, his expression narrowing.

Jeavis grunted and moved over to the laundry basket. With delicate fingers he picked up the sheet and pulled it back. He looked at the dead woman. Callandra looked at her again carefully.

Prudence Barrymore had been in her early thirties, a very tall woman, slender. Perhaps in life she had been elegant; now with the awkwardness of death, there was no grace in her at all. She lay with arms and legs sprawled, one foot poking up, her skirts fallen back to reveal a long shapely leg. Her face was ashen now, but even with the blood coursing she must have been pale-skinned. Her hair was medium brown, her brows level and delicately marked, her mouth wide and sensitive. It was a passionate face, individual, full of humor and strength.

Callandra could remember her vividly, even though they had always met hastily, and about their separate duties. But Prudence Barrymore had been a reformer with a burning zeal, and few people in the hospital had been unaware of her. Not many were as interesting alive as she had been, and it seemed a vicious mockery that she should be lying here emptied of all that had made her vivid and special, nothing left but a vacated shell beyond feeling or awareness, and yet looking so terribly vulnerable.

"Cover her up," Callandra said instinctively.

"In a moment, ma'am." Jeavis held up his arm as if to prevent Callandra from doing it herself. "In a moment. Strangled, you said? Yes indeed. Looks like it. Poor creature." He stared at the deep-colored marks on her neck. It was horribly easy to imagine them as fingerprints of someone pressing harder and harder until there was no air left, no breath, no life.