A sudden, fearful death (54 page)

A slow flush spread up Sir
Herbert's cheeks.

"Of course not," he said
very quietly. "But the gratitude and dependence of a patient are quite
different. One knows to accept it as related to one's skills, to the patient's
natural fear and pain, and not as a personal emotion. Its intensity is
transient, even if the gratitude remains. Most men of medicine experience such
feelings and know them for what they are. To mistake them for love would be
quite foolish."

Fine, Rathbone thought. Now stop,
for Heaven's sake! Don't spoil it by going on.

Sir Herbert opened his mouth and
then, as if silently hearing Rathbone's thoughts, closed it again.

Lovat-Smith stood in the center of
the floor, staring up at the witness box, his head a little to one side.
"So in spite of your experience with your wife, your daughters, your
grateful and dependent patients, you were still taken totally by surprise when
Prudence Barrymore expressed her love and devotion toward you? It must have
been an alarming and embarrassing experience for you—a happily married man as
you are!"

But Sir Herbert was not so easily
tripped.

"She did not express it,
sir," he replied levelly. "She never said or did anything which would
lead me to suppose her regard for me was more than professional. When her
letters were read to me it was the first I knew of it."

"Indeed?" Lovat-Smith
said with heavy disbelief, giving a little shake of his head. "Do you
seriously expect the jury to believe that?" He indicated them with one
hand. "They are all intelligent, experienced men. I think they would find
it hard to imagine themselves so ... naive." He turned from the witness stand
and walked back to his table.

"I hope they will," Sir
Herbert said quietly, leaning forward over the railing with hands clasping it.
"It is the truth. Perhaps I was remiss, perhaps I did not look at her as a
young and romantic woman, simply as a professional upon whom I relied. And that
may be a sin—for which I shall feel an eternal regret. But it is not a cause to
commit murder!"

There was a brief murmur of
applause from the court. Someone called out, "Hear, hear!" and Judge
Hardie glanced at them. One of the jurors smiled and nodded.

"Do you wish to reexamine your
witness, Mr. Rathbone?" Hardie asked.

"No thank you, my lord,"
Rathbone declined graciously.

Hardie excused Sir Herbert, who
walked with dignity, head high, back to his place in the dock.

Rathbone called a succession of Sir
Herbert's professional colleagues. He did not ask them as much as he had
originally intended; Sir Herbert's impression upon the court in general had
been too powerful for him to want to smother it with evidence which now seemed
largely extraneous. He asked them briefly for their estimation of Sir Herbert
as a colleague and each replied unhesitatingly of his great skill and
dedication. He asked of his personal moral reputation and they spoke equally
plainly that he was beyond reproach.

Lovat-Smith did not bother to
pursue them. He made something of a show of boredom, looking at the ceiling
while Rathbone was speaking, and when it was his own turn, waiting several
seconds before he began. He did not exactly say that their loyalty was totally
predictable—and meaningless—but he implied it. It was a ploy to bore the jury
and make them forget this impression of Sir Herbert, and Rathbone knew it. He
could see from the jurors' faces that they were still completely in sympathy with
Sir Herbert, and further laboring of the point risked insulting their
intelligence and losing their attention. He thanked the doctor at that moment
on the stand and excused him, sending a message that no further colleagues
would be required— except Kristian Beck.

It would have been a startling
omission had he not called him, but apart from that, he wished to sow in the
jurors' minds the strong possibility that it had been Beck himself who had
murdered Prudence.

Kristian took the stand without the
slightest idea of what awaited him. Rathbone had told him only that he would be
called to witness to Sir Herbert's character.

"Dr. Beck, you are a physician
and surgeon, are you not?"

"I am." Kristian looked
faintly surprised. It was hardly necessary for the validity of his testimony.

"And you have practiced in
several places, including your native Bohemia?" He wanted to establish in
the jurors' minds Beck's foreignness, his very differentness from the
essentially English, familiar Sir Herbert. It was a task he disliked, but the
shadow of the noose forms strange patterns on the mind.

"Yes," Kristian agreed
again.

"But you have worked with Sir
Herbert Stanhope for more than ten or eleven years, is that correct?"

"About that," Kristian
agreed. His accent was almost indiscernible, merely a pleasant clarity to
certain vowels. "Of course we seldom actually work together, since we are
in the same field, but I know his reputation, both personal and professional,
and I see him frequently." His expression was open and candid, his
intention to help obvious.

"I understand," Rathbone
conceded. "I did not mean to imply that you worked side by side. What is
Sir Herbert's personal reputation, Dr. Beck?"

A flash of amusement crossed
Kristian's face, but there was no malice in it.

"He is regarded as pompous, a
little overbearing, justifiably proud of his abilities and his achievements,
an excellent teacher, and a man of total moral integrity." He smiled at
Rathbone. "Naturally he is joked about by his juniors, and guyed occasionally—I
think that is the wok!—as we all are. But I have never heard even the most
irresponsible suggest his behavior toward women was other than totally
correct."

"It has been suggested that he
was somewhat naive concerning women." Rathbone lifted his voice
questioningly. "Especially young women. Is that your observation, Dr.
Beck?"

"I would have chosen the word
uninterested"
Kristian replied. "But I suppose
naive
would do. It is not
something to which I previously gave any thought. But if you wish me to say
that I find it extremely difficult to believe that he had any romantic interest
in Nurse Barrymore, or that he would be unaware of any such feeling she might
have had for him, then I can do so very easily. I find it harder to believe
that Nurse Barrymore cherished a secret passion for Sir Herbert." A pucker
of doubt crossed his face, and he stared at Rathbone very directly.

"You find that hard to
believe, Dr. Beck?" Rathbone said very clearly.

"I do."

"Do you consider yourself a
naive or unworldly man?"

Kristian's mouth curled into faint
self-mockery. "No—no, I don't."

"Then if you find it
surprising and hard to accept, is it hard to believe that Sir Herbert was also
quite unaware of it?" Rathbone could not keep the ring of triumph out of
his voice, although he tried.

Kristian looked rueful, and in
spite of what Rathbone had said, surprised.

"No—no, that would seem to
follow inevitably."

Rathbone thought of all the
suspicions of Kristian Beck that Monk had raised to him: the quarrel overheard
with Prudence, the possibilities of blackmail, the fact that Kristian Beck had
been in the hospital all the night of Prudence's death, that his own patient
had died when he had been expected to recover—-but it was all suspicion, dark
thoughts, no more. There was no proof, no hard evidence of anything. If he
raised it now he might direct the jury's thoughts toward Beck as a suspect. On
the other hand, he might only alienate them and betray his own desperation. It
would look ugly. At the moment he had their sympathy, and that might just be
enough to win the verdict. Sir Herbert's life could rest on this decision.

Should he accuse Beck? He looked at
his interesting, curious face with its sensuous mouth and marvelous eyes.
There was too much intelligence in it—too much humor; it was a risk he dare not
take. As it was, he was winning. He knew it—and Lovat-Smith knew it.

"Thank you, Dr. Beck," he
said aloud. "That is all."

Lovat-Smith rose immediately and
strode toward the center of the floor.

"Dr. Beck, you are a busy
surgeon and physician, are you not?"

"Yes," Kristian agreed,
puckering his brows.

"Do you spend much of your
time considering the possible romances within the hospital, and whether one
person or another may be aware of such feelings?"

"No," Kristian confessed.

"Do you spend any time at all
so involved?" Lovat-Smith pressed.

But Kristian was not so easily
circumvented.

"It does not require thought,
Mr. Lovat-Smith. It is a matter of simple observation one cannot avoid. I am
sure you are aware of your colleagues, even when your mind is upon your
profession."

This was so patently true that
Lovat-Smith could not deny it. He hesitated a moment as if some argument were
on the tip of his tongue, then abandoned it.

"None of them is accused of
murder, Dr. Beck," he said with a gesture of resignation and vague
half-rueful amusement. "That is all I have to ask you, thank you."

Hardie glanced at Rathbone.

Rathbone shook his head.

Kristian Beck left the witness
stand and disappeared into the body of the court, leaving Rathbone uncertain
whether he had just had a fortunate escape from making a fool of himself, or if
he had just missed a profound opportunity he would not get again.

Lovat-Smith looked across at him,
the light catching in his brilliant eyes, making his expression unreadable.

* * * * *

The following day Rathbone called
Lady Stanhope, not that he expected her evidence to add anything of substance.
Certainly she knew no facts germane to the case, but her presence would counter
the emotional impact made by Mrs. Barrymore. Lady Stanhope also stood to lose
not only her husband to a ghastly death, but her family to scandal and
shame—and in all probability her home to a sudden and almost certainly
permanent poverty and isolation.

She mounted the stand with a little
assistance from the clerk and faced Rathbone nervously. She was very pale and
seemed to keep her posture only with difficulty. But she did stop and quite
deliberately look up and across at her husband in the dock, meet his eyes, and
smile.

Sir Herbert blinked, gave an
answering smile, and then looked away. One could only guess his emotions.

Rathbone waited, giving the jury
time to observe and remember, then he stepped forward and spoke to her courteously,
very gently.

"Lady Stanhope, I apologize
for having to call you to testify at what must be a most distressing time for
you, but I am sure you would wish to do everything possible to assist your
husband to prove his innocence."

She swallowed, staring at him.

"Of course. Anything ..."
She stopped, obviously also remembering his instruction not to say more than
she was asked for.

He smiled at her. "Thank you.
I don't have a great deal to ask you, simply a little about Sir Herbert and
your knowledge of his life and his character."

She looked at him blankly, not
knowing what to say.

This was going to be extremely
difficult. He must steer a course between catering to her so much he learned
nothing and being so forceful he frightened her into incoherence. He had
thought when he had originally spoken to her that she would be an excellent
witness, now he was wondering if he had made an error in calling her. But if
he had not, her absence would have been noticed and wondered upon.

"Lady Stanhope, how long have
you been married to Sir Herbert?"

'Twenty-three years," she
replied.

"And you have children?"

"Yes, we have seven children,
three daughters and four sons." She was beginning to gain a little more
confidence. She was on familiar ground.

"Remember you are on oath,
Lady Stanhope," he warned gently, not for her but to draw the jury's
attention, "and must answer honestly, even if it is painful to you. Have
you ever had cause to doubt Sir Herbert's complete loyalty to you during that
time?"

She looked a little taken aback,
even though he had previously ascertained that her answer would be in the negative
or he would not have asked.

"No, most certainly not!"
She flushed faintly and looked down at her hands. "I'm sorry, that was
insensitive of me. I am quite aware that many women are not so fortunate. But
no, he has never given me cause for distress or anxiety in that way." She
took a breath and smiled very slightly, looking at Rathbone. "You must
understand, he is devoted to his profession. He is not a great deal interested
in personal affection of that sort. He loves his family, he likes to be
comfortable with people, to be able, if you understand what I mean, to take
them for granted." She smiled apologetically, looking steadily at
Rathbone and keeping her eyes from everyone else. "I suppose you might say
that is lazy, in a sort of way, but he puts all his energy into his work. He
has saved the lives of so many people—and surely that is more important than
making polite conversation, flattering people and playing little games of
etiquette and manners? Isn't it?" She was asking him for reassurance, and
already he was conscious of the sounds of sympathy and agreement from the
crowd, little murmurs, shiftings and nods, matters of affirmation.