A sudden, fearful death (52 page)

"I shall look forward to
it," Hester said quietly. She turned to the major. "When do you
expect to publish?"

He looked so deep in anxiety and
concentration she was surprised when he answered her.

"Oh—I think ..." Then he
closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly. His face was very
pink. "I was going to say there is much work to be done, but that is not
true. Edith has been so efficient there is really very little. But I am not
sure if I can find a publisher willing to take it, or if I may have to pay to
have it done." He stopped abruptly.

He took another deep breath, his
face even pinker, and turned to Edith with fierce concentration. "Edith, I
find the thought of concluding the work, and your leaving, quite intolerable.
I thought it was writing about India and Africa which was giving me such
pleasure and such inner peace, but it is not. It is sharing it with you, and
having you here every day. I never imagined I should find a woman's company so
extremely ... comfortable. I always considered them alien creatures, either
formidable, like governesses and nurses, or totally trivial and far more
frightening, like ladies who flirt. But you are the most ... agreeable person I
have ever known." His face was now quite scarlet, his blue eyes very
bright. "I should be desperately lonely if you were to leave, and the
happiest man alive if you were to remain—as my wife. If I presume, I
apologize—but I have to ask. I love you so very dearly." He stopped, overcome
by his own audacity, but his eyes never left her face.

Edith looked down at the floor,
blushing deeply; she was smiling, not with embarrassment but with happiness.

"My dear Hercules," she
said very gently. "I cannot think of anything in the world I should like
so much."

Hester rose to her feet, kissed
Edith gently on the cheek, then kissed the major in exactly the same way, and
tiptoed outside into the sun to walk back toward more suitable transport to the
Old Bailey and Oliver Rathbone.

Chapter 11

Before he could begin the case for
the defense, Rathbone went to see Sir Herbert again to brief him now that he
would be called to the witness stand.

It was not a meeting he looked
forward to. Sir Herbert was far too intelligent a man not to realize how
slender his chances were, how much depended on emotion, prejudices, sympathies;
certainly intangibles that Rathbone was well skilled in handling, but frail
threads from which to dangle a man's life. Evidence was unarguable. Even the
most perverse jury seldom went against it.

However, he found Sir Herbert in a
far more optimistic mood than he had feared. He was freshly washed and shaved
and dressed in clean clothes. Except for the shadows around his eyes and a
certain knack of twisting his fingers, he might have been about to set off for
the hospital and his own professional rounds.

"Good morning, Rathbone,"
he said as soon as the cell door was closed. 'This morning is our turn. How do
you propose to begin? It seems to me that Lovat-Smith has far from a perfect
case. He has not proved it was me. Nor can he ever; and he has certainly not
proved it was not Taunton or Beck, or even Miss Cuthbertson, let alone anyone
else. What is your plan of action?" He might have been discussing an
interesting medical operation in which he had no personal stake, except for a
certain tightness in the muscles of his neck and an awkwardness in his
shoulders.

Rathbone did not argue with
anything he had said, even though he doubted it had the importance Sir Herbert
attached to it. Quite apart from any motives of compassion, for all practical
reasons it was most important that Sir Herbert should maintain his appearance
of calm and assurance. Fear would convey itself to the jury, and they might
very easily equate fear with guilt. Why should an innocent man be afraid of
their judgment?

"I shall call you to the stand
first," he said aloud, forcing himself to smile as if he had every
confidence. "I shall give you the opportunity to deny having had any
personal relationship with Prudence at all, and of course to deny having
killed her. I would also like to be able to mention one or two specific
incidents which she may have misunderstood." He watched Sir Herbert
closely. "Simply to say in a general way that she daydreamed or twisted
reality will not do."

"I have been trying to
remember," Sir Herbert protested earnestly, his narrow eyes on Rathbone's.
"But for Heaven's sake I can't remember trivial comments passed in the
course of business! I can't remember being more than civil to her. Of course I
passed the odd word of praise—she more than warranted it. She was a damned good
nurse."

Rathbone remained silent, pulling a
very slight face.

"Good God man!" Sir
Herbert exploded, turning on his heel as if he would pace, but the walls of the
cell confined him, bringing him up sharply. "Can you remember every casual
word you pass to your clerks and juniors? It is just my misfortune I work
largely with women. Perhaps one shouldn't?" His tone was suddenly savage.
"But nursing is a job best done by women, and I daresay we could not find
reliable men willing and able to do it." His voice rose a tone, and then
another, and through long experience Rathbone knew it was panic just below the
surface, every now and again jutting through the thin skin of control. He had
seen it so often before, and as always he felt a stab of pity and another heavy
drag of the weight of his own responsibility.

He put his hands in his pockets and
stood a trifle more casually.

"I strongly advise you not to
say anything of that sort on the stand. Remember that the jurors are ordinary
people, arid almost certainly hold medicine in some awe, and very little
understanding. And after Miss Nightingale, who is a national heroine, whatever
you think of her, her nurses are heroines also. Don't appear to criticize
Prudence, even obliquely. That is the most important single piece of advice I
can give you. If you do, you can resign yourself to conviction."

Sir Herbert stared at him, his
bright intelligent eyes very clear. "Of course," he said quietly.
"Yes, of course I understand that."

"And answer only what I ask
you, add nothing whatever. Is that absolutely clear?"

"Yes—yes, of course, if you
say so."

"And don't underestimate
Lovat-Smith. He may look like a traveling actor, but he is one of the best
lawyers in England. Don't let him goad you into saying more than you have to in
order to answer the question exactly. He'll flatter you, make you angry,
challenge you intellectually if he thinks it will make you forget yourself.
Your impression on the jury is the most important weapon you have. He knows
that as well as I do."

Sir Herbert looked pale, a furrow
of anxiety sharp between his brows. He stared at Rathbone as if weighing him
for some inner judgment.

"I shall be careful," he
said at last. "Thank you for your counsel."

Rathbone straightened up and held
out his hand.

"Don't worry. This is the
darkest hour. From now on it is our turn, and unless we make some foolish
mistake, we will carry the day."

Sir Herbert grasped his hand and
held it hard.

"Thank you. I have every
confidence in you. And I shall obey your instructions precisely." He let
go and stepped back, a very slight smile touching his lips.

* * * * *

As on every day so far, the court
was packed with spectators and journalists, and this morning there was an air
of expectancy among them and something not unlike hope. The defense was about
to begin, there might at last be disclosures, drama, even evidence toward
another murderer. Everyone's eyes were to the front, the noise was not talking but
the myriad tiny rustles and creaks of movement as one fabric rubbed against
another, whalebone shifted pressure, and the leather soles of boots scraped on
the floor.

Rathbone was not as well prepared
as he would have liked, but there was no more time. He must look as if he not
only knew Sir Herbert was innocent but also who was guilty. He was acutely
aware of the eyes of every juror intent upon him; every movement was watched,
every inflection of his voice measured.

"My lord, gentlemen of the
jury," he began with a very slight smile. "I am sure you will
appreciate it is much easier for the prosecution to prove that a man is guilty
of a crime man for the defense to prove he is not. Unless, of course, you can
prove that someone else is. And unfortunately I cannot do that—so far.
Although it is always possible something may emerge during the evidence yet to
come."

The whisper of excitement was
audible, even the hasty scratching of pencil on paper.

"Even so," he continued,
"the prosecution has failed to demonstrate that Sir Herbert Stanhope
killed Prudence Barrymore, only that he could have. As could many others:
Geoffrey Taunton, Nanette Cuthbertson, Dr. Beck are only some. The main thrust
of his argument"—he indicated Lovat-Smith with a casual gesture—"is
that Sir Herbert had a powerful motive, as evidenced by Prudence's own letters
to her sister, Faith Barker."

His smile broadened a fraction and
he looked squarely at the jury.

"However, I will show you that
those letters are open to a quite different interpretation, one which leaves
Sir Herbert no more culpable than any other man might be in his position and
with his skills, his personal modesty, and the other urgent and powerful calls
upon his attention."

There was more fidgeting on the
public benches. A fat woman in the gallery leaned forward and stared at Sir Herbert
in the dock.

Before Hardie could become restive,
Rathbone proceeded to the point.

"I shall now call my first
witness, Sir Herbert Stanhope himself."

It took several moments for Sir
Herbert to disappear from the dock down the stairs and reappear in the body of
the court. Leaving his escort of jailers behind, he crossed the floor to mount
the steps to the witness stand, walking very uprightly, an immaculately dressed
and dignified figure. All the time there was a hush in the room as if everyone
had held their breath. The only sound was the scratching of pencils on paper as
the journalists sought to catch the mood in words.

As soon as Sir Herbert reached the
top of the steps and turned there was a ripple of movement as a hundred heads
craned forward to look at him, and everyone shifted very slightly in their
seats. He stood square-shouldered, head high, but Rathbone watching him felt it
was assurance, not arrogance. He glanced at the jury's faces and saw interest
and a flash of reluctant respect.

The clerk swore him in, and
Rathbone moved to the center of the floor and began.

"Sir Herbert, you have been
chief surgeon at the Royal Free Hospital for approximately the last seven
years. During that time you must have been assisted by many nurses, probably
even hundreds, would you say?"

Sir Herbert's slight eyebrows rose
in surprise.

"I never thought of
counting," he said frankly. "But, yes, I suppose so."

"Of very varying degrees of
skill and dedication?"

"I am afraid that is
true." Sir Herbert's mouth curled almost imperceptibly in wry,
self-mocking amusement.

"When did you first meet
Prudence Barrymore?"

Sir Herbert concentrated in thought
for a moment. The court was utterly silent, every eye in the room upon his
face. There was no hostility in the jurors' total attention, only a keen
awaiting.

"It must have been in July of
1856," he replied. "I cannot be more exact than that, I am
afraid." He drew breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.

Rathbone noted it with inner
satisfaction. He was going to obey. Thank God for that! He affected innocence.
"Do you recall the arrival of all the new nurses, Sir Herbert?"

"No, of course not. There are
scores of them. Er ..." Then again he stopped. A bitter amusement stirred
Rathbone. Sir Herbert was obeying him so very precisely; it was a betrayal of
the depth of the fear he was concealing. Rathbone judged he was not a man who
obeyed others easily.

"And why did you note Miss
Barrymore in particular?" he asked.

"Because she was a Crimean
nurse," Sir Herbert replied. "A gentlewoman who had dedicated herself
to the care of the sick, at some considerable cost to herself, even risk of her
own life. She did not come because she required to earn her living but because
she wished to nurse."

Rathbone was aware of a low murmur
of agreement from the crowd and the open expressions of approval on the jurors'
faces.

"And was she as skilled and
dedicated as you had hoped?"

"More so," Sir Herbert
replied, keeping his eyes on Rathbone's face. He stood a little forward in the
box, his hands on the rails, arms straight. It was an attitude of concentration
and even a certain humility. If Rathbone had schooled him he could not have
done better. "She was tireless in her duties," he added. "Never
late, never absent without cause. Her memory was phenomenal and she learned
with remarkable rapidity. And no one ever had cause to question her total
morality in any area whatsoever. She was altogether an excellent woman."