Page 69 of A Sudden, Fearful Death (William Monk 4)

“At the Royal Free Hospital on the Gray’s Inn Road,” she replied.

“A hospital?” Major Tiplady was amazed. “Not privately? Why? I thought you found it too …” He hesitated, unsure how to say what he meant diplomatically.

“Restricting to your temper,” Edith finished for him.

“It is,” Hester agreed, still smiling. “I am only there temporarily. It was very civil of you not to remind me that I am also fortunate to find a hospital which will take me after my last experience. Lady Callandra Daviot is on the Board of Governors. She obtained the position for me because their best nurse, another from the Crimea, was murdered.”

“Oh how terrible!” Edith’s face fell. “How did it happen?”

“We don’t know,” Hester replied with a return to gravity. “Lady Callandra has called Monk into the case, as well as the police, of course. And that is why I am there.”

“Ah!” The major’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “So you are engaged upon detection again.” Then he also became very grave. “Do be careful, my dear. Such an undertaking may become dangerous if your intent is realized.”

“You have no need for concern,” Hester assured him. “I am simply a nurse working like any other.” She smiled broadly. “Such dislike as I have collected is because I served in the Crimea and am bossy and opinionated.”

“And what was the dead nurse like?” Edith inquired.

“Bossy and opinionated.” Hester gave a wry smile. “But truly, if that were a motive for murder there would be few of us left.”

“Have you any idea why she was killed?” the major asked, leaning over the back of the chair in which Edith was sitting.

“No—no we haven’t. There are several possibilities. Monk is looking into some of them. I should like to find out more about a German doctor who is working there. I admit I like him and am more eager to prove his innocence than his guilt. I wonder if …” Then she stopped. What she had been going to say sounded impertinent now.

“We could help you,” the major finished for her. “We should be delighted. Tell us his name, and what you know about him, and we shall search for the rest. You may depend upon us. Mayn’t she, Edith?”

“Most certainly,” Edith said keenly. “I have become really quite good at discovering things—in a literary sort of way, of course.” She smiled ruefully, her individual face with its curved nose and humorous mouth showing her perception of the difference between research and detection as she thought Hester practiced it. “But I imagine much will be known of him by hospitals where he has worked before. I shall pursue it straightaway. There are medical authorities who have lists of all sorts.” She rearranged herself a little more comfortably. “But tell us what else you have been doing. How are you? You do look rather tired.”

“I shall order tea,” the major said with decision. “You must be thirsty. It’s terribly hot today, and no doubt you walked at least some of the way. Would you like some cucumber sandwiches? And perhaps tomato? I remember you were always fond of tomato.”

“I should love some.” Hester accepted with pleasure, for the refreshment itself, but even more for the friendship and the simple warmth of the occasion. She looked up at the major and smiled. “How thoughtful of you to remember.”

He blushed very faintly and went off about his errand, beaming with satisfaction.

“Tell me,” Edith said again, “everything that is fun and interesting and that you care about since we last met.”

Hester wriggled a little farther down in her chair and began.

At about the same time that Hester was enjoying her tea and cucumber sandwiches with Edith and the major, Callandra was picking up a very elegant wafer-thin finger of bread and butter at the garden party of Lady Stanhope. She was not fond of garden parties, still less of the sort of people who usually attended them, but she had come because she wanted to meet the daughter that Hester had told her Sir Herbert had spoken of, the one maimed for life by the bungled abortion. Even thinking of it chilled her so deeply she felt a little sick.

All around her were the sounds of tinkling cups and glasses, murmured conversation, laughter, the swish and rustle of skirts. Footmen moved discreetly among the guests with fresh bottles of chilled champagne or tall glasses of iced lemonade. Maids in crisp lace aprons and starched caps offered trays of sandwiches and tiny pastries or cakes. A titled lady made a joke, and everyone around her laughed. Heads turned.

It had not been easy to obtain an invitation. She was not acquainted with Lady Stanhope, who was a quiet woman better pleased to remain at home with her seven children than involve herself in public affairs, and entered society only as much as was required of her to maintain her husband’s standing, and not to find herse

lf remarked upon. This garden party was a way of discharging a great many of her obligations in one event, and she was not totally conversant with her guest list. Consequently she had not seemed surprised to meet Callandra. Perhaps she supposed her to be someone whose hospitality she had accepted without remembering, and whom she had invited in order to cancel a debt.

Callandra had actually come in the company of a mutual friend, upon whom she felt quite free to call for a favor without any detail of explanation.

She’d had to dress far more formally than she enjoyed. Her maid, a most comfortable and agreeable creature who had worked for her for years, had always found hair difficult and possessed little natural art with it. On the other hand, she was extremely good-tempered, had excellent health, a pleasing sense of humor, and was supremely loyal. Since Callandra seldom cared in the slightest what her hair looked like, these virtues far outweighed her failings.

However, today it would have been appreciated had she had skill with the comb and pin. Instead, Callandra looked as if she had ridden to the event at a gallop, and every time she put her hand up to tidy away a stray strand, she made it worse and (if such a thing were possible) drew more attention to it.

She was dressed in a medium shade of blue, trimmed with white. It was not especially fashionable, but it was most becoming, and that, at her age, mattered far more.

She was not really sure what she hoped to achieve. Even in the most fluent and companionable conversation with Victoria Stanhope, should she contrive such a thing, she could hardly ask her who had operated on her so tragically, nor what money he had taken from her for the act—one could hardly call it a service.

She was standing at the edge of the lawn, next to the herbaceous border, which was now filled with soaring delphiniums, blazing peonies, rather overblown poppies, and some blue veronica and catmint which smelled delicious. She felt miserable, out of place, and extremely foolish. It was quite pointless to have come, and she was on the edge of looking for some socially acceptable excuse to leave when she was engaged in conversation by an elderly gentleman who was determined to explain to her his theories on the propagation of pinks, and assure that she understood precisely how to instruct her gardener in the matter of cuttings.

Three times she tried to persuade him that her gardener was quite skilled in the art, but his enthusiasm overrode all she could do, and it was a quarter of an hour later when she finally extricated herself and found herself face to face with young Arthur Stanhope, Sir Herbert’s eldest son. He was a slender young man with a pale complexion and smooth brown hair. He was about nineteen and very obviously doing his duty at his mother’s party. It would have been heartless to dismiss him. The only decent thing was to answer all his polite questions and try to keep her mind on the totally meaningless conversation.

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