He disliked the hospital. The very smell of the place offended his senses, and his consciousness of the pain and the distress colored all his thoughts. The place was in less than its normal state of busy, rather haphazard order since Sir Herbert's arrest. People were confused, intensely partisan over the issue of his innocence or guilt.

He asked to see Hester, explaining who he was and his purpose, and he was shown into a small, tidy room and requested to wait. He was there, growing increasingly impatient and short-tempered, for some twenty minutes before the door opened and Hester came in.

It was over three months since he had last seen her, and although he had thought his memory vivid, he was still taken aback by her presence. She looked tired, a little pale, and there was a splash of blood on her very plain gray dress. He found the sudden feeling of familiarity both pleasant and disturbing.

"Good afternoon, Oliver," she said rather formally. "I am told you are defending Sir Herbert and wish to speak to me on the matter. I doubt I can help. I was not here at the time of the murder, but of course I shall do all I can." Her eyes met his directly with none of the decorum he was used to in women.

In that instant he was powerfully aware that she had known and liked Prudence Barrymore, and that her emotions would crowd her actions in the matter. It both pleased and displeased him. It would be a nuisance professionally. He needed clarity of observation. Personally, he found indifference to death a greater tragedy than the death itself, and sometimes a more offensive sin than many of the other lies, evasions, and betrayals that so often accompanied a trial.

"Monk tells me you knew Prudence Barrymore," he said bluntly.

Her face tightened. "Yes."

"Are you aware of the content of the letters she wrote to her sister?"

"Yes. Monk told me." Her expression was guarded, unhappy. He wondered whether it was at the intrusion into privacy or at the subject matter of the letters themselves.

"Did it surprise you?" he asked.

She was still standing in front of him. There were no chairs in the room. Apparently it was used simply to store materials of one sort and another, and had been offered him because it afforded privacy.

"Yes," she said unequivocally. "I accept that is what she wrote, because I have to. But it sounds most unlike the woman I knew."

He did not wish to offend her, but he must not fall short of the truth either.

"And did you know her other than in the Crimea?"

It was a perceptive question, and she saw the meaning behind it immediately.

"No, I didn't know her here in England," she replied. "And I left the Crimea before she did because of my parents' death, nor have I seen her since then. But all the same, this is nothing like me woman I worked with." She frowned, trying to order her thoughts and find words for them. "She was-more sufficient in herself…" It was half a question, to see if he understood. "She never allowed her happiness to rest in other people," she tried again. "She was a leader, not a follower. Am I explaining myself?" She regarded him anxiously, conscious of inadequacy.

"No," he said simply, with a faint smile. "Are you saying she was incapable of falling in love?"

She hesitated for so long he thought she was not going to answer. He wished he had not broached the subject, but it was too late to retreat.

"Hester?"

"I don't know," she said at last. "Of loving, certainly, but falling in love… I am not sure. Falling implies some loss of balance. It is a good word to use. I am not at all sure Prudence was capable of falling. And Sir Herbert doesn't seem…" She stopped.

"Doesn't seem?" he prompted.

She pulled a very slight face. "The sort of man to inspire an overwhelming passion." She made it almost a question, watching his face.

"Then what can she have meant in her letters?" he asked.

She shook her head fractionally. "I cannot see any other explanation. I just find it so hard to believe. I suppose she must have changed more than I would have thought possible." Her expression hardened. "There must have been something between them that we have not even guessed at, some tenderness, something shared which was uniquely precious to her, so dear she could not give it up, even at the cost of demeaning herself to use threats."

She shook her head again with a brisk impatient little movement, as if to brush away some troublesome insect. "She was always so direct, so candid. What on earth would she want with the affection of a man she had forced into giving it? It makes no sense!"

"Infatuation seldom does make sense, my dear," he said quietly. "When you care so fiercely and all-consumingly for someone you simply cannot believe that in time they will not learn to feel the same for you. If only you have the chance to be with them, you can make things change." He stopped abruptly. It was all true, and relevant to the case, but it was far more than he had intended to say. And yet he heard his own voice carrying on. "Have you never cared for anyone in that way?" He was asking not only for Prudence Barrymore, but because he wanted to know if Hester had ever felt that wild surge of emotion that eclipses everything else and distracts all other needs and wishes. As soon as the words were out, he wished he had not asked. If she said no, he would feel her cold, something less than a woman, and fear she was not capable of such feelings. But if she said yes, he would be ridiculously jealous of the man who had inspired it in her. He waited for her answer, feeling utterly foolish.

If she were aware of the turmoil in him she betrayed none of it in her face.

"If I had, I should not wish to discuss it," she said primly, then gave a sudden smile. "I am not being of any assistance, am I? I'm sorry. You have to defend Sir Herbert, and this is no use at all. I suppose what you had better do is see if you can find out what pressure she intended to use. And if you can find none, it may tend to vindicate him." She screwed up her face. "That is not very good, is it?"

"Almost no good at all," he agreed, making himself smile back.

"What can I do that would be useful?" she asked frankly.

"Find me evidence to suggest that it was someone else."

He saw a flicker of doubt in her face, or perhaps it was anxiety, or unhappiness. But she did not explain it.

"What is it?" he pressed. "Do you know something?"

"No," she said too quickly. Then she met his eyes. "No, I know of no evidence whatever to implicate anyone else. I believe the police have looked fairly thoroughly at all the other people it might be. I know Monk thought quite seriously about Geoffrey Taunton and about Nanette Cuthbert-son. I suppose you might pursue them?"

"I shall certainly do so, naturally. What of the other nurses here? Have you formed any impression as to their feelings for Nurse Barrymore?"

"I'm not sure if my impressions are of much value, but it seems to me they both admired and resented her, but they would not have harmed her." She looked at him with a curious expression, half wry, half sad. "They are very angry with Sir Herbert. They think he did it, and there is no pity for him." She leaned a little against one of the benches. "You will be very ill-advised to call any of them as witnesses if you can help it."

"Why? Do they believe she was in love with him and he misled her?"

"I don't know what they think." She shook her head. "They simply accept that he is guilty. It is not a carefully reasoned matter, just the difference between the status of a doctor and that of a nurse. He had power, she had not. It is all the old resentments of the weak against the strong, the poor against the wealthy, the ignorant against the educated and the clever. But you will have to be very subtle indeed to gain anything good from them on the witness stand."