A sudden, fearful death (59 page)

Now she was terrified for him. He
would be caught, and that would mean professional ruin and imprisonment. She
was aching inside with the tension of fear.

"Victoria Stanhope," she
said huskily, her heart full of memories of a girl in a pink dress, her face
drawn, her eyes full of hope, and then despair. She had to know this one last
thing, and then dismiss it forever. "Did you operate on her?"

His face shadowed with grief.

"No. I would have, since the
child was the result of both incest and seduction—her brother Arthur, God help
him— but she was only four months from term. It was too late. There was nothing
I could do. I wish there had been."

Suddenly the whole picture was
different. It was not abortion for money but an attempt to help some of the
weakest and most desperate people to cope with a situation beyond their
bearing. Should he have? Or was it still a sin?

Surely not? Surely it was
compassion—and wisdom?

She stared at him, unable to grasp
the joy of it, the immeasurable relief that washed over her. Her eyes were
prickling with tears and her voice was trapped somewhere in her throat.

"Callandra?" he said
gently.

She smiled, a ridiculous, radiant
smile, meeting his eyes with such intensity it was like a physical touch.

Very slowly he began to smile too.
He reached out his hand across the desktop and took hers. If it occurred to him
that she had thought also that he had killed Prudence, he did not say so. Nor
did he ask her why she had not told the police. She would have told him it was
because she loved him fiercely, unwillingly and painfully, but it was far
better for all that such things be unsaid. It was known between them, and
understood, with all the other impossibilities which did not need words now.

For several minutes they sat in
silence, hands clasped, staring across the desk and smiling.

* * * * *

Rathbone entered court in a
white-hot anger. Lovat-Smith sat somberly at his table, knowing he had lost. He
looked up at Rathbone without interest, then saw his expression and stiffened.
He glanced up at the dock. Sir Herbert was standing with a faint smile on his
lips and an air of calm confidence, nothing so vulgar or ill-judged as
jubilation, but unmistakable nonetheless.

"Mr. Rathbone?" Judge
Hardie looked at him question-ingly. "Are you ready to present your
closing argument?"

Rathbone forced his voice to sound
as level as he could.

"No, my lord. If it please the
court, I have one or two further witnesses I should like to call."

Hardie looked surprised, and
Lovat-Smith's eyes widened. There was a faint rustle around the public
benches. Several of the jurors frowned.

"If you think it necessary,
Mr. Rathbone," Hardie said doubtfully.

"I do, my lord," Rathbone
replied. 'To do my client complete justice." As he said it he glanced up
at the dock and saw Sir Herbert's smile fade just a fraction and a tiny furrow
mark his brows. But it did not last The smile reappeared; he met Rathbone's
eyes with confidence and a brilliance which only the two of them knew was
contempt.

Lovat-Smith looked curious,
shifting his glance from Rathbone to the dock and back again, sitting up a
little straighter at his table.

"I would like to call Dr.
James Cantrell," Rathbone said clearly.

"Call Dr. James
Cantrell," the usher repeated in a loud voice.

After several seconds he duly appeared,
young, thin, his chin and throat spotted with blood where he had cut himself
shaving in his nervousness. He was a student doctor and his career hung in the
balance. He was sworn in and Rathbone began to ask him long, detailed questions
about Sir Herbert's immaculate professional behavior.

The jury was bored, Hardie was
growing irritated, and Lovat-Smith was quite candidly interested. The smile
never faltered on Sir Herbert's face.

Rathbone struggled on, feeling more
and more absurd— and hopeless—but he would give Monk all the time he could.

Hester had arranged with another
nurse to take care of her duties for a few hours, promising to return the favor
in due course at double the hours. She met Monk at his lodgings at six in the
morning. Every minute must be made use of. Already the sun was high, and they
did not know how long Rathbone could give them.

"Where shall we begin?"
she asked. "I have been thinking, and I confess I do not feel nearly as
optimistic as I did before."

"I was never optimistic,"
he said savagely. "I'm just certain I'm not going to let that bastard
walk away." He smiled at her bleakly, but there was something in it which
was not warmth—he was too angry for that—but even deeper. It was total trust,
the certainty that she understood and, without explanation, shared his feeling.
"He didn't advertise and he didn't tout for business. Somewhere there is
a man or woman who did that for him. He will not have accepted women without
money, so that means society—old or new—"

"Probably old," she
interrupted wryly. "Trade, which is new society, comes from the genteel
upper working classes with social ambitions—like Runcorn. Their morals are usually
very strict. It's the older money, which is sure of itself, which flouts
convention and is more likely to need abortions—or to feel unable to cope with
above a certain number of children."

"Poor women are even less able
to manage," Monk said with a frown.

"Of course," she agreed.
"But can you see them affording Sir Herbert's prices? They'll go to the
women in the back streets, or try to do it themselves."

A look of irritation crossed his
face—at his own stupidity, not hers. He stood by the mantel shelf, his foot on
the fender.

"So how would a society lady
find herself an abortionist?" he demanded.

"Word of mouth, I
suppose," she said thoughtfully. "But who would she dare ask?"

He remained silent, watching her
and waiting.

She continued, thinking aloud.
"Someone her husband would not know—or her father, if she is unmarried—or
possibly her mother also. Where does she go alone without causing
comment?" She sat down in the high chair and rested her chin on her hands.
"Her dressmaker—her milliner," she answered herself. "She might
trust a friend, but unlikely. It is the sort of thing you don't want your
friends to know—it is their opinion you are guarding against"

"Then those are the people we
must try," he said swiftly. "But what can I do? I'm not standing here
waiting for you!"

"You are trying the milliners
and dressmakers," she replied with decision, rising to her feet. "I
am going to try the hospital. Someone there must know. He was assisted, even if
it was by a different nurse each time. If I read Prudence's letters again for
dates and names"—she straightened her skirts—"I may be able to trace
it back to particular people. She left initials. One of them may be prepared to
testify as to the middle man ... or woman."

"You can't do that—it's too
dangerous," he said instantly. "Besides, they won't tell you anything."

She looked at him with disgust.
"I'm not going to ask them outright, for Heaven's sake. And we haven't got
time to be squeamish. Oliver will be able to protract the trial not more than
another day or two at the very best."

Protests rose to his lips and died
unspoken.

"What time do milliners
open?" he asked. "And what in God's name am I going to go into a
milliner's for?"

"Hats," she said bluntly,
clasping her reticule, ready to leave.

He glared at her.

"For your sister, your mother,
your aunt Anybody you like."

"And what am I going to do
with two dozen women's hats? And if you give me an impertinent answer ..."

"You don't have to buy any!
Just say you will consider it and then ..." She stopped.

"Ask if they can guide me to a
good abortionist," he finished.

She raised her chin sharply.

"Something like that."

He gave her a filthy look, then
opened the door for her to leave. It was now quarter to seven. On the step she
turned to meet his eyes in a long, steady gaze, then smiled a little, just
turning up the corners of her mouth. It was a gesture of courage rather than
humor or hope.

He watched her leave without the
sense of despair he ought to have felt, considering how totally absurd their
venture was.

* * * * *

His first attempt was ghastly. The
establishment opened for business at ten o'clock, although the flowermakers,
stitchers, ribboners, and pressers had been there since seven. A middle-aged
woman with a hard, watchful face welcomed him in and inquired if she might be
of service.

He asked to see a hat suitable for
his sister, avoiding looking at the displays of any manner of hats in straw,
felt, linen, feather, flowers, ribbons, and lace stacked in several corners of
the room and along shelves to the sides.

With a supercilious air she asked
him to describe his sister and the type of occasion for which the hat was
required.

He made an attempt to tell her of
Beth's features and general aspect.

"Her coloring, sir," she
said with ill-concealed weariness. "Is she dark like yourself, or fair?
Does she have large eyes? Is she tall or small?"

He seized on something definite,
cursing Hester for having sent him on this idiot's venture.

"Light brown hair, large blue
eyes," he replied hastily. "About your height."

"And the occasion, sir?"

"Church."

"I see. Would that be a London
church, sir, or somewhere in the country?"

"Country." Did his
Northumbrian heritage show so transparently? Even after his years of careful
diction to eradicate it? Why had he not said London: it would have been so much
easier, and it did not matter. He was not going to buy a hat anyway.

"I see. Perhaps you would care
to look at a few of these?" She led him to several very plain shapes in
straw and fabric. "We can, of course trim them as you please," she
added, seeing the look on his face.

The color rose up his cheeks. He
felt like a complete fool. Again he cursed Hester. Nothing except his rage
against Sir Herbert would have kept him here. "What about something in
blue?"

"If you like," she said
with disapproval. "Rather obvious, don't you think? What about green and
white?" She picked up a bunch of artificial daisies and held them against
a pale green straw bonnet with a green ribbon, and suddenly the effect was so
fresh and dainty it took him back with a jolt of memory to childhood days in
the summer fields with Beth as a little girl.

"That's lovely," he said
involuntarily.

"I'll have it delivered,"
she said immediately. "It will be ready by tomorrow evening. Miss
Liversedge will see to the details. You may settle the account with her."

And five minutes later Monk found
himself in the street, having purchased a bonnet for Beth and wondering how on
earth he would post it to Northumberland for her. He swore profoundly. The
bonnet would have suited Hester, but he certainly was not going to give it to
her—of all people.

The next shop was less expensive,
busier, and his by now blazing temper saw him through the difficulty of actually
expressing approval of any particular bonnet.

He could not waste all day looking
at hats. He must broach the subject of his call, however difficult.

"Actually the lady in question
is with child," he said abruptly.

"So she will shortly be
remaining at home for some time," the assistant observed, thinking of the
practicalities. 'The hat will be worn only for a few months, or even
weeks?"

He pulled a face.

"Unless she is able to
..." He stopped, shrugged slightly.

The woman was most perceptive.
"She already has a large family?" she suggested.

"Indeed."

"Unfortunate. I assume, sir,
that she is not—happy—with the event?"

"Not happy at all," he
agreed. "In fact, it may well jeopardize her health. There is a
limit..." He looked away and spoke very quietly. "I believe if she
knew how to—take steps ..."

"Could she afford ...
assistance?" the woman inquired, also very quietly.

He turned to face her. "Oh yes
... if it were anything within reason."

The woman disappeared and returned
several moments later with a piece of paper folded over to conceal the writing
on it.

"Give her this," she
offered.

"Thank you. I will." He
hesitated.

She smiled. "Have her tell
them who gave you the address. That will be sufficient."

"I see. Thank you."

Before he went to the address she
had given him, which was in one of the back streets off the WMtechapel Road, he
walked some distance in that general direction, thinking long and carefully
about the story he would present. It crossed his mind with some humor that he
should take Hester and say that she was the lady in need of help. But dearly as
he would have liked to do that—the poetic justice of it would have been
sweet—she was too importantly occupied as she was at the hospital.