A sudden, fearful death (56 page)

"Yes—but—"

"Yes will do,"
Lovat-Smith interrupted. "And your mother: did she approve of this
adventure of hers? Was she not worried for her safety? There must have been
remarkable physical danger: wreck at sea, injury from cargo, horses, not to
mentioned frightened and possibly rough soldiers separated from meir own
women, going to a battle from which they might not return? And that even before
she reached the Crimea!"

"It is not necessarily—"

"I am not speaking of the
reality, Mrs. Barker!" Lovat-Smith interrupted. "I am speaking of
your mother's perceptions of it. Was she not concerned for Prudence? Even
terrified for her?"

"She was afraid—yes."

"And was she also afraid of
what she might experience when close to the battlefield—or in the hospital
itself? What if the Russians had prevailed? What would have happened to
Prudence then?"

A ghost of a smile crossed Faith
Barker's face.

"I don't think Mama ever
considered the possibility of the Russians prevailing," she said quietly.
"Mama believes we are invincible."

There was a murmur of amusement
around the room, even an answering smile on Hardie's face, but it died away
instantly.

Lovat-Smith bit his lip.
"Possibly," he said with a little shake of his head. "Possibly.
A nice thought, but perhaps not very realistic."

"You asked for her feelings,
sir, not the reality of it."

There was another titter of
laughter, vanishing into silence like a stone dropped into still water.

"Nevertheless,"
Lovat-Smith took up the thread again, "was your mother not gravely worried
for her, even frightened?"

"Yes."

"And you yourself? Were you
not frightened for her? Did you not lie awake visualizing what might happen to
her, dreading the unknown?"

"Yes."

"Your distress did not deter
her?"

"No," she said, for the
first time a marked reluctance in her voice.

Lovat-Smith's eyes widened.
"So physical obstacles, personal danger, even extreme danger, official
objections and difficulties, her family's fear and anxiety and emotional pain,
none of these deterred her? She would seem to have a ruthless streak in her,
would she not?"

Faith Barker hesitated.

There was a fidgeting in the crowd,
an unhappy restlessness.

"Mrs. Barker?"
Lovat-Smith prompted.

"I don't care for the word
ruthless."

"It is not always an
attractive quality, Mrs. Barker," he agreed. "And that same strength
and drive which took her to the Crimea, against all odds, and preserved her
there amidst fearful carnage, daily seeing the death of fine brave men, may in
peacetime have become something less easy to understand or admire."

"But I—"

"Of course." Again he
interrupted her before she could speak. "She was your sister. You do not
wish to think such things of her. But I find it unanswerable nevertheless.
Thank you. I have no further questions."

Rathbone rose again. There was
total silence in the court. Even on the public benches no one moved. There was
no rustle of fabric, no squeak of boots, no scratching of pencils.

"Mrs. Barker, Prudence went to
the Crimea regardless of your mother's anxieties, or yours. You have not made
it plain whether she forced or coerced you in any way, or simply told you,
quite pleasantly, that she wished to do this and would not be dissuaded."

"Oh the latter, sir, quite
definitely," Faith said quickly. "We had no power to prevent her
anyway."

"Did she try to persuade you
of her reasons?"

"Yes, of course she did—she
believed it was the right thing to do. She wished to give her life in service
to the sick and injured. The cost to herself was of no account." Suddenly
grief filled her face again. "She frequently said that she would rather
die in the course of doing something fine than live to be eighty doing nothing
but being comfortable—and dying of uselessness inside."

"That does not sound
particularly ruthless to me," Rathbone said very gently. 'Tell me, Mrs.
Barker, do you believe it is within the nature of the woman, and even my
learned friend agrees you knew her well, to have attempted to blackmail a man into
marrying her?"

"It is quite impossible,"
she said vehemently. "It is not only of a meanness and small-mindedness
totally at odds with all her character—it is also quite stupid. And whatever
you believe of her, no one has suggested she was that."

"No one indeed," Rathbone
agreed. "Thank you, Mrs. Barker. That is all."

Judge Hardie leaned forward.

"It is growing late, Mr.
Rathbone. We will hear your final arguments on Monday. Court is
adjourned."

All around the room there was a
sigh of tension released, the sound of fabric whispering as people relaxed, and
then immediately after a scramble as journalists struggled to be the first out,
free to head for the street and the hasty ride to their newspapers.

Oliver Rathbone was unaware of it,
but Hester had been in the court for the last three hours of the afternoon, and
had heard Faith Barker's testimony both as to the letters she had received and
her beliefs as to Prudence's character and personality. When Judge Hardie
adjourned the court, she half hoped to speak to Rathbone, but he disappeared
into one of the many offices, and since she had nothing in particular to say
to him, she felt it would be foolish to wait.

She was leaving, her thoughts
turning over and over what she had heard, her own impressions of the jurors'
moods, of Sir Herbert Stanhope, and of Lovat-Smith. She felt elated. Of course
nothing could possibly be certain until the verdict was in, but she was almost
certain that Rathbone had won. The only unfortunate aspect was that they were
still as far from discovering who really had murdered Prudence. And that
reawoke the sick ache inside that perhaps it had been Kristian Beck. She had
never fully investigated what had happened the night before Prudence's death.
Kristian's patient had died unexpectedly, that was all she knew. He had been
distressed; was he also guilty of some negligence—or worse? And had Prudence
known that? And uglier and more painful, did Callandra know it now?

She was outside on the flight of
wide stone steps down to the street when she saw Faith Barker coming toward
her, her face furrowed in concentration, her expression still one of confusion
and unhappiness.

Hester stepped forward.

"Mrs. Barker ..."

Faith froze. "I have nothing
to say. Please leave me alone."

It took Hester a moment to realize
what manner of person Faith Barker had supposed her to be.

"I am a Crimean nurse,"
she said immediately, cutting across all the explanations. "I knew
Prudence—not well, but I worked with her on the battlefield." She saw
Faith Barker's start of surprise and then the sudden emotion flooding through
her, the hope and the pain.

"I certainly knew her well
enough to be completely sure that she would never have blackmailed Sir Herbert,
or anyone else, into marriage," Hester hurried on. "Actually, what I
find hardest to believe is that she wished to get married at all. She seemed to
me to be utterly devoted to medicine, and marriage and family were the last
things she wished for. She refused Geoffrey Taunton, of whom I believe she was
really quite fond."

Faith stared at her.

"Were you?" she said at
last, her eyes clouded with concentration, as if she had some Gordian knot of
ideas to untangle. "Really?"

"In the Crimea? Yes."

Faith stood motionless. Around them
in the afternoon sun people stood arguing, passing the news and opinions in
heated voices. Newsboys shouted the latest word from Parliament, India, China,
the Court, society, cricket, and international affairs. Two men quarreled over
a hansom, a pie seller cried his wares, and a woman called out after an errant
child.

Faith was still staring at Hester
as if she would absorb and memorize every detail of her.

"Why did you go to the
Crimea?" she said at last. "Oh, I realize it is an impertinent
question, and I beg your pardon. I don't think I can explain it to you but I
desperately need to know—because I need to understand Prudence, and I don't. I
always loved her. She was magnificent, so full of energy and ideas."

She smiled and she was close to
tears. "She was three years older than I. As a child I adored her. She was
like a magical creature to me—so full of passion and nobility. I always
imagined she would marry someone very dashing—a hero of some sort. Only a hero
would be good enough for Prudence." A young man in a top hat bumped into
her, apologized, and hurried on, but she seemed oblivious of him. "But
then she didn't seem to want to marry anyone at all." She smiled ruefully.
"I used to dream all sorts of things too—but I knew they were dreams. I
never really thought I would sail up the Nile to find its source, or convert
heathens in Africa, or anything like that. I knew if I were fortunate I should
find a really honorable man I could be fond of and trust, and marry him, and
raise children."

An errand boy with a message in his
hand asked them directions, listened to what they said, then went oh his way
uncertainly.

"I was about sixteen before I
realized Prudence really meant to make her dreams come true," Faith
continued as if there had been no interruption.

'To nurse the sick," Hester
put in. "Or specifically to go to some place like the Crimea—a
battlefield?"

"Well really to be a
doctor," Faith answered. "But of course that is not possible." She
smiled at the memory. "She used to be so angry she was a woman. She wished
she could have been a man so she could do all these things. But of course that
is pointless, and Prudence never wasted time on pointless emotions or regrets.
She accepted it." She sniffed in an effort to retain her control. "I
just—I just cannot see her jeopardizing all her ideals to try to force a man
like Sir Herbert into marrying her. I mean—what could she gain by it, even if
he agreed? It's so stupid! What happened to her, Miss ..." She stopped,
her face full of pain and confusion.

"Latterly," Hester
supplied. "I don't know what happened to her—but I won't rest until I do.
Someone murdered her—and if it wasn't Sir Herbert, then it was someone
else."

"I want to know who," Faith
said very intently. "But more than that, I have to know why. This doesn't
make any sense... ."

"You mean the Prudence you
knew would not have behaved as she seems to have?" Hester asked.

"Exactly. That is exactly it.
Do you understand?"

"No—if only we had access to
those letters. We could read them again and see if there is anything in them at
all to explain when and why she changed so completely!"

"Oh they don't have them
all," Faith said quickly. "I only gave them the ones that referred
most specifically to Sir Herbert and her feelings for him. There are plenty of
others."

Hester clasped her arm, forgetting
all propriety and the fact that they had known each other barely ten minutes.

"You have them! With you in
London?"

"Certainly. They are not on my
person, of course—but in my lodgings. Would you care to come with me and see
them?"

"Yes—yes I certainly would—if
you would permit it?" Hester agreed so quickly there was no courtesy or
decorum in it, but such things were utterly trivial now. "May I come
immediately?"

"Of course," Faith
agreed. "We shall require to take a hansom. It is some little distance
away."

Hester turned on her heel and
plunged toward the curb, pushing her way past men arguing and women exchanging
news, and calling out at the top of her voice, "Hansom! Cabby? Over here,
if you please!"

* * * * *

Faith Barker's lodgings were
cramped and more than a trifle worn, but scrupulously clean, and the landlady
seemed quite agreeable to serving two for supper.

After the barest accommodation to
civility, Faith fetched the rest of Prudence's letters and Hester settled
herself on the single overstuffed sofa and began to read.

Most of the detail was interesting
to her as a nurse. There were clinical notes on a variety of cases, and as she
read them she was struck with the quality of Prudence's medical knowledge. It
was far more profound than her own, which until now she had considered rather
good.

The words were familiar, the
patterns of speech reminded her of Prudence so sharply she could almost hear
them spoken in her voice.

She remembered the nurses lying in
narrow cots by candlelight, huddled in gray blankets, talking to each other,
sharing the emotions that were too terrible to bear alone. It was a time which
had bumed away her innocence and forged her into the woman she was—and Prudence
had indelibly been part of that, and so part of her life ever afterwards.

But as far as indication of a
change in her ideals or her personality, Prudence's letters offered nothing whatsoever.