A sudden, fearful death (45 page)

There was a deep murmur of sympathy
around the room. Rathbone knew he was on the razor's edge. She had admitted
Prudence created a fantasy for herself, that she misread reality; but her grief
was also transparently genuine, and no honest person in the courtroom was
untouched by it. Most had families of their own, a mother they could in their
own minds put in her place, or a child they could imagine losing, as she had.
If he were too tentative he would miss his chance and perhaps Sir Herbert would
pay with his life. If he were too rough he would alienate the jury, and again
Sir Herbert would bear the cost.

He must speak. The rustle of
impatience was beginning; he could hear it around him.

"We all offer you not only our
sympathy but our understanding, ma'am," he said clearly. "How many
of us in our own youth have not let slip what would have been precious. Most
of us do not pay so very dearly for our dreams or our misconceptions." He
walked a few paces and turned, facing her from the other direction. "May I
ask you one thing more? Do you find yourself able to believe that Prudence, in
the ardor of her nature and her admiration of noble ideals and the healer's
art, may have fallen in love with Sir Herbert Stanhope, and being a natural
woman, have desired of him more than he was free to give her?"

He had his back to Sir Herbert, and
was glad of it. He preferred not to see his client's face as he speculated on
such emotions. If he had, his own thoughts might have intruded, his own anger
and guilt.

"And that, as with so many of
us," he continued, "the wish may have been father to the thought that
in truth he returned her feelings, when in fact he felt for her only the
respect and the regard due to a dedicated and courageous colleague with a skill
far above that of her peers?"

"Yes," she said very
quietly, blinking hard. "You have put it precisely. Foolish girl. If only
she would have taken what was offered her and settled down like anyone else,
she could have been so happy! I always said so—but she wouldn't listen. My
husband"—she gulped—"encouraged her. I'm sure he meant no harm, but
he didn't understand!" This time she did not look at the gallery.

'Thank you, Mrs. Barrymore,"
Rathbone said quickly, wishing to leave the matter before she spoiled the
effect. "I have nothing further to ask you."

Lovat-Smith half rose to his feet,
then changed his mind and sat down again. She was confused and grief-stricken,
but she was also rooted in her convictions. He would not compound his error.

* * * * *

After his quarrel with Rathbone on
the steps of the courthouse two days previous, Monk had gone home in a furious
temper. It was not in the least alleviated by the fact that he knew perfectly
well that Rathbone was bound by his trust to Sir Herbert, regardless of his
opinion of Prudence Barrymore. He was not free to divide his loyalties, and neither
evidence nor emotion permitted him to swerve.

Still he hated him for what he had
suggested of Prudence, generally because he had seen the faces of the jury
nodding, frowning, beginning to see her differently: less of a disciple of the
lady with the lamp, tending the sick and desperate in dangerous foreign lands,
and more as a fallible young woman whose dreams overcame her good sense.

But more particularly, and at the
root of his anger, was the fact that it had woken the first stirrings of doubt
in himself. The picture of her he had painted in his mind was now already just
so very slightly tarnished, and try as he might, he could not clear it to the
power and simplicity it had had before. It did not matter whether she had loved
Sir Herbert Stanhope or not, was she deluded enough to have misread him so
entirely? And worse than that, had she really performed the medical feats she
had claimed? Was she really one of those sad but so understandable creatures
who paint on the gray world the colors of their dreams and then escape into
parallel worlds of their own making, warping everything to fit?

He could understand that with a
sudden sickening clarity. How much of himself did he see only through the
twisted view of his own lack of memory? Was his ignorance of his past his own
way of escaping what he could not bear? How much did he really want to
remember?

To begin with he had searched with a
passion. Then as he had learned more, and found so much that was harsh,
ungenerous, and self-seeking, he had pursued it less and less. The whole
incident of Hermione had been painful and humiliating. And he suspected also
that much of Runcorn's bitterness lay at his door. The man was weak, that was
his one flaw, but Monk had traded on it over the years. A better man might not
have used it in that way. No wonder Runcorn savored his final triumph.

And even as he thought it, Monk
understood enough of himself to know he would not let it rest. Half of him
hoped Sir Herbert was not guilty and he could undercut Runcorn yet again.

In the morning he went back to the
hospital and questioned the nurses and dressers once more about seeing a
strange young man in the corridors the morning of Prudence's death. There was
no doubt it had been Geoffrey Taunton. He had admitted as much himself. But
perhaps someone had seen him later than he had said. Maybe someone had
overheard an angry exchange, angry enough to end in violence. Perhaps someone
had even seen Nanette Cuthbertson, or a woman they had not recognized who could
have been her. She certainly had motive enough.

It took Mm the best part of the
day. His temper was short and he could hear the rough edges to his voice, the
menace and the sarcasm in his questions, even as he disliked them. But his rage
against Rathbone, his impatience to find a thread, something to pursue,
overrode his judgment and his better intentions.

By four o'clock all he had learned
was that Geoffrey Taunton had been there, precisely as he already knew, and
that he had been seen leaving in a red-faced and somewhat flustered state while
Prudence was still very much alive. Whether he had then doubled back and found
her again, to resume the quarrel, was unresolved. Certainly it was possible,
but nothing suggested that it was so. In fact, nothing suggested he was of a
nature or personality given to violence at all. Prudence's treatment of him
would try the patience of almost any man.

About Nanette Cuthbertson he
learned nothing conclusive at all. If she had worn a plain dress, such as
nurses or domestics wear, she could have passed in and out again with no one
giving her a second glance.

By late afternoon he had exhausted
every avenue, and was disgusted with the case and with his own conduct of it.
He had thoroughly frightened or offended at least a dozen people, and furthered
his own interests hardly at all.

He left the hospital and went
outside into the rapidly cooling streets amid the clatter and hiss of
carriages, the sound of vendors' cries as costers' carts traveled by, peddlers
called their wares, and men and women hurried to reach their destinations
before the heavy skies opened up in a summer thunderstorm.

He stopped and bought a newspaper
from a boy who was shouting: "Latest on trial o' Sir 'Erbert! Read all
about it! Only a penny! Read the news 'ere!" But when Monk opened the page
it was little enough: merely more questions and doubts about Prudence, which
infuriated him.

There was one more place he could
try. Nanette Cuthbertson had stayed overnight with friends only a tew hundred
yards away. It was possible they might know something, however trivial.

He was received very coolly by the
butler; indeed, had he been able to refuse entirely without appearing to deny
justice, Monk gathered he would have done so. The master of the house, one
Roger Waldemar, was brief to the point of rudeness. His wife, however, was
decidedly more civil, and Monk caught a gleam of admiration in her glance.

"My daughter and Miss
Cuthbertson have been friends for many years." She looked at Monk with a
smile in her eyes although her face was grave.

They were alone in her sitting
room, all rose and gray, opening onto a tiny walled garden, private, ideal for
contemplation—or dalliance. Monk quashed his speculations as to what might
have taken place there and returned his attention to his task.

"Indeed, you might say they
had been from childhood," Mrs. Waldemar was saying. "But Miss
Cuthbertson was with us at the ball all evening. Quite lovely she looked, and
so full of spirits. She had a real fire in her eyes, if you know what I mean,
Mr. Monk? Some women have a certain"—she shrugged
suggestively—"vividness to them that others have not, regardless of
circumstance."

Monk looked at her with an
answering smile. "Of course I know, Mrs. Waldemar. It is something a man
does not overlook, or forget." He allowed his glance to rest on her a
fraction longer than necessary. He liked the taste of power, and one day he
would push his own to find its limits, to know exactly how much he could do.
He was certain it was far more than this very mild, implied flirtation.

She lowered her eyes, her fingers
picking at the fabric of the sofa on which she sat. "And I believe she
went out for a walk very early," she said clearly. "She was not at
breakfast. However, I would not wish you to read anything unfortunate into
that. I am sure she simply took a little exercise, perhaps to clear her head. I
daresay she wished to think." She looked up at him through her lashes.
"I should have in her position. And one must be alone and uninterrupted
for such a thing."

"In her position?" Monk
inquired, regarding her steadily.

She looked grave. She had very fine
eyes, but she was not the type of woman that appealed to him. She was too
willing, too obviously unsatisfied.

"I—I am not sure if this is
discreet; it can hardly be relevant___"

"If it is not relevant, ma'am,
I shall immediately forget it," he promised, leaning an inch or two closer
to her. "I can keep my own counsel."

"I am sure," she said
slowly. "Well—for some time poor Nanette has been most fond of Geoffrey
Taunton, whom you must know. And he has had eyes only for that unfortunate girl
Prudence Barrymore. Well, lately young Martin Hereford, a most pleasing and
totally acceptable young man ..." She invested the words with a peculiar
emphasis, conveying her boredom with everything so tediously expected.
"... has paid considerable attention to Nanette," she concluded.
"The night of the ball he made his admiration quite apparent. Such a nice
young man. Far more suitable really than Geoffrey Taunton."

"Indeed?" Monk said with
exactly the right mixture of skepticism, to entice her to explain, and
encouragement, so she would not feel slighted. He kept his eyes on hers.

"Well . . ." She lifted
one shoulder, her eyes bright. "Geoffrey Taunton can be very charming, and
of course he has excellent means and a fine reputation. But there is more to
consider than that."

He watched her intently, waiting
for her to elaborate.

"He has a quite appalling
temper," she said confidently. "He is utterly charming most of the
time, of course. But if he is really thwarted, and cannot bear it, he quite
simply loses all control. I have only seen him do it once, and over the silliest
incident. It was a weekend in the country." She had Monk's attention and
she knew it. She hesitated, savoring the moment.

He was becoming impatient. He could
feel the ache in his muscles as he forced himself to sit, to smile at her, when
he would like to have exploded in temper for her stupidity, her vacuous,
meaningless flirting.

"A long weekend," she
continued. "Actually, as I recall, it was from Thursday until Tuesday, or
something like that. The men had been out shooting, I think, and we ladies had
been sewing and gossiping all day, waiting for them to return. It was in the
evening." She took a deep breath and stared around the room as if in an
effort to recollect. "I think it was Sunday evening. We'd all been to
church early, before breakfast, so they would have the whole day outside. The
weather was glorious. Do you shoot, Mr. Monk?"

"No."

"You should. It's a very healthy
pastime, you know."

He choked back the answer that came
to his lips.

"I shall have to consider it,
Mrs. Waldemar."

"They were playing
billiards," she said, picking up the thread again. "Geoffrey had lost
all evening to Archibald Purbright. He really is such a cad. Perhaps I
shouldn't say that?" She looked at him inquiringly, her smile very close
to a simper.

He knew what she wanted.

"I'm sure you shouldn't,"
he agreed with an effort. "But I shan't repeat it."

"Do you know him?"

"I don't think I care to, if
he is a cad, as you say."

She laughed. "Oh dear. Still,
I'm sure you will not repeat what I tell you?"

"Of course not. It shall be a
confidence between us." He despised himself as he was doing it, and
despised her the more. "What happened?"

"Oh, Archie was cheating, as
usual, and Geoffrey finally lost his temper and said some perfectly terrible
things... ."

Monk felt a rage of disappointment.
Abuse, however virulent, was hardly akin to murder. Stupid woman! He could
have hit her silly, smiling face.