A Sudden, Fearful Death

by Anne Perry

  “I did not kill Nurse Barrymore,” he answered. “Nor do I know who did, although I may guess why, but I have no knowledge. Ask me whatever you wish.”

  “I shall pursue those points myself.” Rathbone leaned a little back in his chair, not comfortably, since it was wooden and straight. He regarded Sir Herbert steadily. “Means and opportunity are immaterial. A large number of people possessed both. I assume you have thought hard to see if there is anyone who could account for your time that morning and there is no one? No, I assumed not, or you would have told the police and we should not now be here.”

  The ghost of a smile lit Sir Herbert’s eyes, but he made no comment.

  “That leaves motive,” Rathbone went on. “The letters Miss Barrymore wrote to her sister, and which are now in the hands of the prosecution, suggest most forcibly that you had a romantic liaison with her, and that when she realized that it could come to nothing she became troublesome to you, threatened you in some way, and to avoid a scandal you killed her. I accept that you did not kill her. But were you having an affair with her?”

  Sir Herbert’s thin lips tightened in a grimace.

  “Most certainly not. The idea would be amusing, it is so far from the truth, were it not mortally dangerous. No, Mr. Rathbone. I had never even thought of Miss Barrymore in that light.” He looked shiftily surprised. “Nor any woman other than my wife. Which may sound unlikely, most men’s morals being as they are.” He shrugged, a deprecating and amused gesture. “But I have put all my energy into my professional life, and all my passion.”

  His eyes were very intent upon Rathbone’s face. He had a gift of concentration, as if the person to whom he was speaking at that moment were of the utmost importance to him, and his attention was absolute. Rathbone was acutely conscious of the power of his personality. But for all that, he believed the passion in him was of the mind, not of the body. It was not a self-indulgent face. He could see no weakness in it, no ungoverned appetite. “I have a devoted wife, Mr. Rathbone,” Sir Herbert continued. “And seven children. My home life is amply sufficient. The human body holds much fascination for me, its anatomy and physiology, its diseases and their healing. I do not lust after nurses.” The amusement was there again, briefly. “And quite frankly, if you had known Nurse Barrymore you would not have assumed I might. She was handsome enough, but unyielding, ambitious, and very unwomanly.”

  Rathbone pursed his lips a trifle. He must press the issue, whatever his own inner convictions. “In what way unwomanly, Sir Herbert? I have been led to suppose she had admirers; indeed, one who was so devoted to her he pursued her for years, in spite of her continued rejection of him.”

  Sir Herbert’s light, thin eyebrows rose. “Indeed? You surprise me. But to answer your question: she was perverse, displeasingly outspoken and opinionated on certain subjects, and uninterested in home or family. She took little trouble to make herself appealing.” He leaned forward. “Please understand me, none of this is criticism.” He shook his head. “I have no desire to have hospital nurses flirting with me, or with anyone else. They are there to care for the sick, to obey orders, and to keep a reasonable standard of morality and sobriety. Prudence Barrymore did far better than that. She was abstemious in her appetites, totally sober, punctual, diligent in her work, and at times gifted. I think I can say she was the best nurse I had ever known, and I have known hundreds.”

  “A thoroughly decent, if somewhat forbidding, young woman,” Rathbone summed up.

  “Quite,” Sir Herbert agreed, sitting back in his chair again. “Not the sort with whom one flirts, given one were so inclined, and I am not.” He smiled ruefully. “But believe me, Mr. Rathbone, if I were, I should not choose such a public place in which to do so, still less would I indulge myself in my place of work, which to me is the most important in my life. I would never jeopardize it for such a relatively trivial satisfaction.”

  Rathbone did not doubt him. He had spent his professional life, and carved a brilliant reputation, by judging when a man was lying and when he was not. There were a score of tiny signs to watch for, and he had seen none of them.

  “Then what is the explanation of her letters?” he asked levelly and quite quietly. There was no change in his tone; it was simply an inquiry to which he fully expected an acceptable answer.

  Sir Herbert’s face took on an expression of rueful apology.

  “It is embarrassing, Mr. Rathbone. I dislike having to say this—it is highly unbecoming a gentleman to speak so.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I—I have heard of occasions in the past when young women have become … shall I say enamored of … certain … prominent men.” He looked at Rathbone curiously. “I daresay you have had the experience yourself? A young woman you have helped, or whose family you have helped. Her natural admiration and gratitude becomes … romantic in nature? You may have been quite unaware of it until suddenly some chance word or look brings to your mind the reality that she is nurturing a fantasy with you at its heart.”

  Rathbone knew the experience only too well. He could remember a very pleasant feeling of being admired suddenly turning into an acutely embarrassing confrontation with a breathless and ardently romantic young woman who had mistaken his vanity for shyness and a concealed ardor. He blushed hot at the recollection even now.

  Sir Herbert smiled.

  “I see you have. Most distressing. And one can find that, out of sheer blindness, one’s mind occupied with one’s work, one has not discouraged it plainly enough when it was still budding, and one’s silence has been misunderstood.” His eyes were still on Rathbone’s face. “I fear that is what happened with Nurse Barrymore. I swear I had no idea whatsoever. She was not the type of woman with whom one associates such emotions.” He sighed. “God only knows what I may have said or done that she has taken to mean something quite different. Women seem to be able to interpret words—and silence—to mean all sorts of things that never crossed one’s mind.”

  “If you can think of anything specific, it would help.”

  Sir Herbert’s face wrinkled up in an effort to oblige.

  “Really it is very difficult,” he said reluctantly. “One does not weigh what one says in the course of duty. Naturally I spoke to her countless times. She was an excellent nurse. I told her a great deal more than I would a lesser woman.” He shook his head sharply. “Ours was a busy professional relationship, Mr. Rathbone. I did not speak to her as one would a social acquaintance. It never occurred to me to watch her face to assure myself she had perceived my remarks in a correct light. I may often have had my back to her, or even spoken to her as I was walking away or doing something else. My regard for her was in no way personal.”

  Rathbone did not interrupt him, but sat waiting, watching his face.

  Sir Herbert shrugged. “Young women are prone to fancies, especially when they reach a certain age and are not married.” A fleeting smile of regret and sympathy touched his mouth and vanished. “It is not natural for a woman to devote herself to a career in such a way, and no doubt it places a strain upon the natural emotions, most particularly when that career is an unusual and demanding one like nursing.” His gaze was earnest on Rathbone’s face. “Her experiences in the war must have left her particularly vulnerable to emotional injury, and daydreaming is not an abnormal way of coping with circumstances that might otherwise be unendurable.”

  Rathbone knew that what he said was perfectly true, and yet he found himself feeling that it was vaguely patronizing, and without knowing why, he resented it. He could not imagine anyone less likely to indulge in unreality or romanctic daydreams than Hester Latterly, who in many of the ways Sir Herbert referred to, was in exactly the same circumstances as Prudence. Perhaps he would have found her easier if she had. And yet he would have admired her less, and perhaps liked her less too. With an effort he refrained from saying what sprang to his mind. He returned to his original request.

  “But you can think of no particular occasion on which she may have
misinterpreted a specific remark? It would be most helpful if we could rebut it in more than general terms.”

  “I realize that, but I am afraid I can think of nothing I have ever said or done to make any woman think my interest was more than professional.” Sir Herbert looked at him with anxiety and, Rathbone judged, a totally innocent confusion.

  Rathbone rose to his feet.

  “That is sufficient for this visit, Sir Herbert. Keep your spirits up. We have some time yet in which to learn more of Miss Barrymore and her other possible enemies and rivals. But please continue to cast your mind back over all the times you worked together recently and see if anything comes to you which may be of use. When we get to court, we must have more than a general denial.” He smiled. “But try not to worry overmuch. I have excellent people who can assist me, and we will no doubt discover a great deal more before then.”

  Sir Herbert rose also. He was pale and the marks of anxiety were plain in his face now that he had stopped concentrating on specific questions. The gravity of his situation overwhelmed him, and for all the force of logic and Rathbone’s assurances, if the verdict was against him, he faced the rope, and the reality of that crowded out everything else.

  He made as if to speak, and then found no words.

  Rathbone had stood in cells like this more times than he could count, with all manner of both men and women, each facing the fear in their own way. Some were openly terrified, others masked their feelings with pride or anger. Sir Herbert was outwardly calm, but Rathbone knew the sick anxiety he must feel inside, and was helpless to do anything to help. Whatever he said, as soon as he was gone and the great door closed behind him, Sir Herbert would be alone for the long dragging hours, to swing from hope to despair, courage to terror. He must wait, and leave the battle to someone else.

  “I will put my best people onto it,” Rathbone said aloud, gripping Sir Herbert’s hand in his own. “In the meantime, try to think over any conversation with Miss Barrymore that you can. It will be helpful to us to refute the interpretation they have put upon your regard for her.”

  “Yes.” Sir Herbert composed his face into an expression of calm intelligence. “Of course. Good day, Mr. Rathbone. I shall look forward to your next visit….”

  “In two or three days’ time,” Rathbone said in answer to the unasked question, then he turned to the door and called for the jailer.

  Rathbone had every intention of doing all he could to find another suspect in the case. If Sir Herbert were innocent, then someone else was guilty. There was no one in London better able to unearth the truth than Monk. Accordingly he sent a letter to Monk’s lodgings in Fitzroy Street, stating his intention to call upon him that evening on a matter of business. It never occurred to him that Monk might be otherwise engaged.

  And indeed Monk was not. Whatever his personal inclinations, he needed every individual job, and he needed Rathbone’s goodwill in general. Many of his most rewarding cases, both professionally and financially, came through Rathbone.

  He welcomed him in and invited him to be seated in the comfortable chair, himself sitting in the one opposite and regarding him curiously. There had been nothing in his letter as to the nature of the present case.

  Rathbone pursed his lips.

  “I have an extremely difficult defense to conduct,” he began carefully, watching Monk’s face. “I am assuming my client is innocent. The circumstantial evidence is poor, but the evidence of motive is strong, and no other immediate suspect leaps to mind.”

  “Any others possible?” Monk interrupted.

  “Oh indeed, several.”

  “With motive?”

  Rathbone settled a little more comfortably in his seat.

  “Certainly, although there was no proof that it is powerful enough to have precipitated the act. One may deduce it rather than observe evidence of it.”

  “A nice distinction.” Monk smiled. “I presume your client’s motive is rather more evident?”

  “I’m afraid so. But he is by no means the only suspect, merely by some way the best.”

  Monk looked thoughtful. “He denies the act. Does he deny the motive?”

  “He does. He claims that the perception of it is a misunderstanding, not intentional, merely somewhat … emotionally distorted.” He saw Monk’s gray eyes narrow. Rathbone smiled. “I perceive your thoughts. You are correct. It is Sir Herbert Stanhope. I am quite aware that it was you who found the letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister.”

  Monk’s eyebrows rose.

  “And yet you ask me to help you disprove their content?”

  “Not disprove their content,” Rathbone argued. “Simply show that Miss Barrymore’s infatuation with Sir Herbert did not mean that he killed her. There are very credible other possibilities, one of which may prove to be the truth.”

  “And you are content with the possibility?” Monk asked. “Or do you wish me to provide proof of the alternative as well?”

  “Possibility first,” Rathbone said dryly. “Then when you have that, of course an alternative would be excellent. It is hardly satisfactory simply to establish doubt. It is not certain a jury will acquit on it, and it assuredly will not save the man’s reputation. Without the conviction of someone else, he will effectively be ruined.”

  “Do you believe him innocent?” Monk looked at Rathbone with acute interest. “Or is that something you cannot tell me?”

  “Yes I do,” Rathbone answered candidly. “I have no grounds for it, but I do. Are you convinced of his guilt?”

  “No,” Monk replied with little hesitation. “I rather think not, in spite of the letters.” His face darkened as he spoke. “It seems she was infatuated with him, and he may have been flattered and foolish enough to encourage her. But on reflection—I have given it a great deal of thought—murder seems a somewhat hysterical reaction to a young woman’s emotions, no doubt embarrassing but not dangerous to him. Even if she was intensely in love with him,” he said the words as though they were distasteful to him, “there was nothing she could do that would do more than cause him a certain awkwardness.” He seemed to retreat inside himself and Rathbone was aware that the thoughts hurt him. “I would have thought a man of his eminence, working very often with women,” he continued, “must have faced similar situations before. I do not share your certainty of his innocence, but I am sure there is more to the story than we have discovered so far. I accept your offer. I shall be most interested to see what else I can learn.”

  “Why were you involved in it in the first place?” Rathbone asked curiously.

  “Lady Callandra wished the matter looked into. She is on the Board of Governors of the hospital and had a high regard for Prudence Barrymore.”

  “And this answer satisfies her?” Rathbone did not conceal his surprise. “I would have thought as a governor of the hospital she would have been most eager to vindicate Sir Herbert! He is unquestionably their brightest luminary; almost anyone could be better spared than he.”

  A flicker of doubt darkened Monk’s eyes.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “She does seem to be well satisfied. She has thanked me, paid me, and released me from the case.”

  Rathbone said nothing, his mind filled with conjecture, conclusionless, one thought melting into another, but worrying.

  “Hester does not believe it is the answer,” Monk continued after a moment or two.

  Rathbone’s attention was jerked back by the sound of her name. “Hester? What has she to do with it?”

  Monk smiled with a downturn of the corners of his mouth. He regarded Rathbone with amusement, and Rathbone had the most uncomfortable sensation that his uneasy and very personal feelings for Hester were transparent in his face. Surely she would have had confided in Monk? That would be too—no, of course she would not. He dismissed the thought. It was disturbing and offensive.

  “She knew Prudence in the Crimea,” Monk replied. The easy use of Nurse Barrymore’s given name startled Rathbone. He had thought of her as t
he victim; his concern had been entirely with Sir Herbert. Now suddenly her reality came to him with a painful shock. Hester had known her, perhaps cared for her. With chilling clarity he saw again how like Hester she must have been. Suddenly he was cold inside.

  Monk perceived the shock in him. Surprisingly there was none of the ironic humor Rathbone expected, instead only a pain devoid of adulteration or disguise.

  “Did you know her?” he asked before his brain censored the words. Of course Monk had not known her. How could he?

  “No,” Monk replied quietly, his voice full of hurt. “But I have learned a great deal about her.” His gray eyes hardened, cold and implacable. “And I intend to see the right man with the noose around his neck for this.” Then suddenly the ruthless, bitter smile was there on his lips. “I don’t only mean in order to avoid a miscarriage of justice. Of course I don’t want that—but neither do I intend to see Stanhope acquitted and no one in his place. I won’t allow them to let this one go unresolved.”

  Rathbone looked at him closely, studying the passion so plain in his face.

  “What did you learn of her which moves you this profoundly?”

  “Courage,” Monk answered. “Intelligence, dedication to learning, a will to fight for what she believed and what she wanted. She cared about people, and there was no equivocation or hypocrisy in her.”

  Rathbone had a sudden vision of a woman not unlike Monk himself, in some ways strange and complex, in others burningly simple. He was not surprised that Monk cared so much that she was dead, even that he felt an identity with her loss.

  “She sounds like a woman who could have loved very deeply,” Rathbone said gently. “Not one who would have accepted rejection without a struggle.”

  Monk pursed his lips, doubt in his eyes, reluctant and touched with anger.

  “Nor one to resort to pleading or blackmail,” he said, but his voice held more hurt than conviction.

  Rathbone rose to his feet.

  “If there is another story we have not touched yet, find it. Do whatever you can that will expose other motives. Someone killed her.”