found an old carter leading his horse along the lane. He inquired after Geoffrey Taunton, and, after a few minutes' suspicious hesitation, was directed.
The house was gracious from the outside, and the plaster showed signs of having been fairly recently embellished with new pargetting in rich designs. The half timbering was immaculate. Presumably that was all done when Geoffrey Taunton came into his father's money.
Monk walked up the neat gravel drive, which was weed-less and recently raked, and knocked at the front door. It was now early afternoon and he would be fortunate to find the master of the house at home; but if he were out, then he would endeavor to make an appointment for a later time.
The maid who answered the door was young and bright-eyed, full of curiosity when she saw a smartly dressed stranger on the step.
"Yes sir?" she said pleasantly, looking up at him.
"Good afternoon. I have no appointment, but I should like to see Mr. Taunton, if he is at home. If I am too early, perhaps you would tell me when would be a more convenient time?"
"Oh not at all, sir, this is an excellent time." Then she stopped and hesitated, realizing she had defied the social convention of pretending her employer was not in until she had ascertained whether the visitor was to be received or not. "Oh, I mean..."
Monk smiled in spite of himself. "I understand," he said dryly. "You had better go and ask if he will see me." He handed her his card, which showed his name and his residence, but not his occupation. "You may tell him it is in connection with one of the Board of Governors of the Royal Free Hospital in Gray's Inn, a Lady Callandra Daviot." That sounded impressive, not too personal, and it was true, in fact if not in essence.
"Yes sir," she said with a lift of interest in her voice. "And if you'll excuse me, I'll go and ask, sir." With a swish of skirts, she turned and was gone after having left Monk in the morning room in the sun.
Geoffrey Taunton himself came less than five minutes later. He was a pleasant-looking mart in his early thirties, tall and well built, now dressed in the fashionless black of mourning. He was of medium coloring and good features, regular and well proportioned. His expression was mild, and at the moment marred by grief.
"Mr. Monk? Good afternoon. What may I do to be of service to you and the Board of Governors?" He held out his hand.
Monk took it with a twinge of guilt for his misrepresentation, but it was easily dismissed. There were greater priorities.
"Thank you for sparing me the time, sir, and excusing my calling without notice," he apologized. "But I heard of you only through Mr. Barrymore when I called upon him this morning. As you may have assumed, it is in connection with the death of Miss Prudence Barrymore that I have been consulted."
"Consulted?" Taunton frowned. "Surely it is a police matter?" His expression was one of sharp disapproval. "If the Board of Governors are concerned about scandal, there is nothing whatever I can do to assist them. If they employ young women in such a calling, then there are all sorts of unfortunate circumstances which may arise, as I frequently tried to impress upon Miss Barrymore, but without success.
"Hospitals are not salubrious places," he continued with asperity. "Either physically or morally. It is bad enough to have to visit them if one should require surgery which cannot be performed in one's own home, but a woman who seeks employment there runs horrible risks. Most especially if the woman concerned is of gentle birth and has no need whatever to earn her living." His face darkened with pain at the uselessness of it, and he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He looked stubborn, bewildered, and acutely vulnerable.
Evan would have been sorry for him; Runcorn would have agreed. Monk could only feel angry at his blindness. They were still standing in the morning room facing each other across the green carpet, neither willing to sit.
"I imagine she served out of compassion for the sick rather than for the financial reward," Monk said dryly. "From what I have heard said of her, she was a woman of remarkable gifts and great dedication. That she did not work from necessity can only be to her credit."
"It cost her her life," Taunton said bitterly, his wide eyes full of fury.