A Sudden, Fearful Death

"It would seem unnecessary to tell the police." Hester controlled her voice with an effort. Deliberately she thought of Prudence in the surgeon's tent on the battlefield, and then lying dead in the laundry room, to make herself angry. It was better than being afraid of this wretched woman. "Your behavior makes it so obvious that the stupidest constable could see it for himself. Do you often break people's necks if they annoy you?"

Dora opened her mouth to reply, then realized that what she had been going to say led her straight into a trap.

"Well are you goin' ter Sir 'Erbert, or shall I tell him as yer declines to, seein' as yer too busy?"

"I'm going." Hester moved away, around the huge figure of Dora Parsons and swiftly out of the room and along the corridor, boot heels clattering on the floor. She reached Sir Herbert's door and knocked sharply, as if Dora were still behind her.

"Come!" Sir Herbert's voice was peremptory.

She turned the handle and went in.

He was sitting behind his desk, papers spread in front of him. He looked up.

"Oh-Miss-er… Latterly. You're the Crimean nurse, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir Herbert." She stood straight, her hands clasped behind her in an attitude of respect.

"Good," he said with satisfaction, folding some papers and putting them away. "I have a delicate operation to perform on a person of some importance. I wish you to be on hand to assist me and to care for the patient afterwards. I cannot be everywhere all the time. I have been reading some new theories on the subject. Most interesting." He smiled. "Not, of course, that I would expect them to be of concern to you."

He had stopped, as if he half thought she might answer him. It was of considerable interest to her, but mindful of her need to remain employed in the hospital (and that might depend upon Sir Herbert's view of her), she answered as she thought he would wish it.

"I hardly think it lies within my skill, sir," she said demurely. "Although, of course, I am sure it is most important, and may well be something I shall have to learn when the time is fit."

The satisfaction in his small intelligent eyes was sharp.

"Of course, Miss Latterly. In due time, I shall tell you all you need to know to care for my patient. A very fitting attitude."

She bit her tongue to refrain from answering back. But she did not thank him for what was undoubtedly intended as a compliment. She did not think she could keep her voice from betraying her sarcasm.

He seemed to be waiting for her to speak.

"Would you like me to see the patient before he comes to the operating room, sir?" she asked him.

"No, that will not be necessary. Mrs. Flaherty is preparing him. Do you sleep in the nurses' dormitory?"

"Yes." It was a sore subject. She hated the communal living, the rows of beds in the long room, like a workhouse ward, without privacy, no silence in which to sleep or to think or to read. Always there were the sounds of other women, the interruptions, the restless movements, the talking, sometimes the laughter, the coming and going. She washed under the tap in one of the two large sinks, ate what little there was as opportunity offered between the long twelve-hour shifts.

It was not that she was unused to hard conditions. Heaven knew the Crimea had been immeasurably worse.

She had been colder, hungrier, wearier, and often in acute personal danger. But there it had seemed unavoidable; it was war. And there had been a comradeship and a facing of common enemies. Here it was arbitrary, and she resented it. Only the thought of Prudence Barrymore made her endure it.

"Good." Sir Herbert smiled at her. It lit his face and made him look quite different. Even though it was only a gesture of politeness, she could see a softer, more human man behind the professional. "We do have a few nurses who maintain their own homes, but it is not a satisfactory arrangement, most particularly it they are to care for a patient who needs their undivided attention. Please make yourself available at two o'clock precisely. Good day to you. Miss Latterly."

"Thank you, Sir Herbert." And immediately she withdrew.

The operation was actually very interesting. For over two hours she totally forgot her own dislike of hospital discipline and the laxness she saw in nursing, living in the dormitory, and the threatening presence of Dora Parsons; she even forgot Prudence Barrymore and her own reason for being here. The surgery was for the removal of stones from a very portly gentleman in his late fifties. She barely saw his face, but the pale abdomen, swollen with indulgence, and then the layers of fat as Sir Herbert cut through them to expose the organs, was fascinating to her. The fact that the patient could be anesthetized meant that speed was irrelevant. That release from urgency, the agonizing consciousness of the patient's almost unbearable pain, brought her close to euphoria.