A Sudden, Fearful Death

"Of course," Monk agreed. And after bidding her goodbye he went out through the foyer into the wet streets. It had stopped raining, and the footpath and the roadway were glistening in the brightness of the sun. The air was filled with myriad smells, most of them warm, heavy, and not very pleasant: horse droppings, overflowing drains unable to take the downpour. Rubbish swirled along the gutters in the torrent. Horses clattered by, flanks steaming, vehicle wheels sending up showers of water.

Where could he find out Prudence's real ability? No one in the hospital would give him an unbiased opinion, nor would her family, and certainly not Geoffrey Taunton. He had already learned all he could expect to from Florence Nightingale. There was no recognized body that passed judgment on the abilities of nurses, no school or college of training.

He might find an army surgeon who had known her, for whatever his opinion would be worth on the subject. They must have been hurried, always tired, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the sick and injured. How much would they remember of any individual nurse and her medical knowledge? Had there even been time for anything beyond the most hasty treatment, little more than amputation, cauterization of the stump, stitching, splinting, and prayer?

He was walking along the fast-drying pavement, ignoring the passersby and going generally southward without any destination in mind.

Had she thought to improve her knowledge since leaving the Crimea? How would she have gone about it? No medical school accepted women. The idea was unthinkable. What private study was there? What might she learn without a teacher?

Some hazy memory of his own youth intruded into his mind. When he had first come down to London from Northumberland, desperate to better himself, absorb every piece of knowledge he could, and arm himself against a busy, impatient, and suspicious world, he had gone to the reading room of the British Museum.

Hastily he turned on his heel and walked back the twenty yards to Guildford Street and increased his pace past the Foundling Hospital toward Russell Square, then Montague Street and the British Museum. Once inside he went straight to the reading room. Here she would find all manner of books and papers if she were really as thirsty for learning as her father had said.

He approached the attendant with a sense of excitement that was wildly out of proportion to the importance of his quest.

"Excuse me, sir, may I interrupt you for a little of your time?"

"Good afternoon, sir. Of course you may," the man replied with a civil smile. He was small and very dark. "How may I be of service to you? If there is something you wish to find…" His eye roamed in unconcealed awe around the vast expanse of books both visible and invisible. All the world's knowledge was here, and the miracle of it still amazed him. Monk could see it in his eyes.

"I am inquiring on behalf of the friends and family of a young lady whom I believe used to study here," Monk began, more or less truthfully.

"Oh dear." The man's face darkened. "Oh dear. You speak, sir, as if she were deceased."

"I am afraid she is. But as so often happens, those who mourn her wish to know anything they can of her. It is all there is left."

"Of course. Yes, of course." The man nodded several times. "Yes, I do understand. But people do not always leave their names, you know, particularly if it is newspapers and periodicals that they come to read. Or the sort of thing young ladies usually seek-I'm afraid."

"This young lady was tall, of a determined and intelligent manner, and would in all likelihood be plainly dressed, perhaps in blue or gray, and with few, if any, hoops in her skirts."

"Ah." The man's face lightened. "I think I may know the young lady you mean. Would she by any chance have been interested in medical books and papers? A most remarkable person, most serious-minded. Always very pleasant, she was, except to those who interrupted her unnecessarily and made light of her intention." He nodded quickly. "I do recall her being very brisk indeed with a young gentleman who was rather persistent in his attentions, shall we say?"

"That would be she." Monk felt a sudden elation. "She studied medical texts, you say?"

"Oh indeed yes; most diligent, she was. A very serious person." He looked up at Monk. "A trifle daunting, if you know what I mean, that a young lady should be so intent. I assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that someone in her family suffered a disease and she thought to learn as much of it as possible." His face fell. "Now it seems I was wrong and it was she herself. I am most deeply sorry. For all her solemnity, I rather took to her." He said it with a slight air of apology, as if it needed some explaining. "There was something in her that… oh well. I am very sorry to know it. How may I help you, sir? I have no recollection of what she read now, I am afraid. But perhaps I can look. It was very general…"