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. "That is a tragedy and a crime. Nothing can bring her back, but I want to see whoever did this hanged."

"If we catch him, I daresay that will be your privilege, sir," Monk replied harshly. "Although watching a hanging is a vile affair, in my opinion. I have only seen two, but they were both experiences I would prefer to forget."

Taunton looked startled and his mouth went slack, then he winced with displeasure. "I did not mean it literally, Mr. Monk. That is, as you say, a vile thought. I simply meant that I desire it to be done."

"Oh I see. Yes, that is different, and a quite common sentiment." His voice carried all his contempt for those who visit others to perform the unpleasant deeds so they do not suffer the distress of their reality and can sleep without nightmare and the horror of guilt, doubt, and pity. Then with an effort he recollected his purpose for having come. He forced himself to meet Taunton's eyes with something like courtesy. "And I assure you that anything that falls within my power to see that that is accomplished I shall do with all purpose and diligence at my command, you may be assured."

Taunton was mollified. He too forgot his sense of offense and returned his mind to Prudence and her death.

"Why have you come to see me, Mr. Monk? What can I do to assist you? I am aware of nothing whatever to account for what happened, except the very nature of hospitals and the people who inhabit them, the type of women employed there, of which you must be aware yourself."

Monk evaded the question slightly. "Can you think of any reason why another nurse should wish Miss Barrymore harm?" he asked.

Taunton looked thoughtful. "Many possibilities come to mind. Would you care to come through to my study, where we may discuss it in more comfortable surroundings?"

"Thank you," Monk accepted, following him back through the hallway and into a charming room much larger than he had expected, facing a rose garden with open fields beyond. A fine stand of elms rose two hundred yards away. "What a splendid view," he said involuntarily.

"Thank you," Taunton acknowledged with a tight smile. He waved at one of the large chairs, inviting Monk to sit, and then occupied another opposite it. "You asked about the nurses," he said, addressing the subject again. "Since you are consulted by the Board of Governors, I assume you are familiar with the kind of women who become nurses?

They have little or no education and the morals one would expect from such people." He regarded Monk gravely. "It would hardly be surprising if they resented a woman such as Miss Barrymore, who had what must have seemed to them to be wealth, and who worked not from necessity but because she wished to. Quite obviously she had education, gentle birth, and all the blessings of life they would have asked for themselves." He looked at Monk to make sure he understood the nuances of what he was saying.

"A quarrel?" Monk asked with surprise. "It would have taken a very vicious woman, and one of considerable physical strength, to have attacked Miss Barrymore and strangled her without drawing the attention of other people. The corridors are often empty for periods of time, but the wards are not far. A scream would have brought people running."

Taunton frowned. "I do not see the burden of your remark, Mr. Monk. Are you trying to say that Miss Barrymore was not killed in the hospital?" His expression hardened into contempt. "Is that what the Board of Governors wants, to disclaim responsibility and say the hospital is not involved?"

"Certainly not." Monk might have been amused had he not been so angry. He despised pomposity; coupled with foolishness, as it usually was, it was intolerable. "I am trying to point out that a quarrel between two women is unlikely to have ended by one of them being strangled," he said impatiently. "A quarrel would have been heard; indeed, it was two women quarreling which brought Dr. Beck and Lady Callandra to the scene and resulted in their finding Miss Barrymore."