There was a knock on the door, and on Runcorn's command John Evan came in. His lean young face lit up when he saw Callandra, but in spite of past circumstances and commitments shared he had enough aplomb to affect merely recognition and no more.

"Good morning, Sergeant," she said formally.

"Good morning, ma'am," he replied, then looked inquiringly at Runcorn.

"A murder in the Royal Free Hospital," Runcorn said, seizing the chance to regain control. "You will go with Inspector Jeavis and investigate. Keep me informed of all your findings."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, Jeavis," Runcorn added as Jeavis opened the door for Callandra.

"Yes sir."

"Don't forget to report to Sir Herbert Stanhope at the hospital. Don't go blundering in as if it were a manhunt down the Whitechapel Road. Remember who he is!"

"Naturally sir," Jeavis said soothingly, but his face tightened with a quick flick of temper. He did not like to be reminded of social niceties.

Evan shot a rapid glance at Callandra, amusement glinting in his hazel eyes, and a wealth of memory and silent humor passed between them.

Back in the hospital it was entirely different By the time they came in, in spite of Mrs. Flaherty's best efforts, the news was everywhere. The chaplain hurried up to them, coattails flapping, his round eyes startled. Then when he realized just who Jeavis was, he recovered again hastily, muttered something no one could distinguish, offered a hurried imprecation, and disappeared clutching his prayer book in both hands.

A young nurse stared inquisitively before going away about her duty. The treasurer shook his head with foreboding and directed them to Sir Herbert's rooms.

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.

"A nurse, was she?" Jeavis was looking at Kristian. "Work with you, did she, Doctor?"

"Sometimes," Kristian agreed. "She worked more often with Sir Herbert Stanhope, especially on his more difficult cases. She was an excellent nurse, and to the best of my belief, a fine woman. I never heard anyone speak ill of her."

Jeavis stood motionless, his dark eyes beneath their pale brows fixed on Kristian.

"Most interesting. What made you look in the laundry chute, Doctor?"

"It was blocked," Kristian replied. 'Two of the nurses were having trouble trying to put soiled sheets down, and unable to get them to go all the way. Lady Callandra and I went to their assistance."

"I see. And how did you dislodge the body?"

"We sent one of the skivvies who works here, a child of about thirteen. She slid down the chute and her weight moved the body."

"Very efficient," Jeavis said dryly. "If a little hard on the child. Still, I suppose working in a hospital she's seen many dead bodies before." His sharp nose wrinkled very slightly.

"We did not know it was a dead body," Kristian said in distaste. "We assumed it was a bundle of sheets."