A Sudden, Fearful Death

by Anne Perry

“If it is not relevant, ma’am, I shall immediately forget it,” he promised, leaning an inch or two closer to her. “I can keep my own counsel.”

  “I am sure,” she said slowly. “Well—for some time poor Nanette has been most fond of Geoffrey Taunton, whom you must know. And he has had eyes only for that unfortunate girl Prudence Barrymore. Well, lately young Martin Hereford, a most pleasing and totally acceptable young man …” She invested the words with a peculiar emphasis, conveying her boredom with everything so tediously expected. “… has paid considerable attention to Nanette,” she concluded. “The night of the ball he made his admiration quite apparent. Such a nice young man. Far more suitable really than Geoffrey Taunton.”

  “Indeed?” Monk said with exactly the right mixture of skepticism, to entice her to explain, and encouragement, so she would not feel slighted. He kept his eyes on hers.

  “Well …” She lifted one shoulder, her eyes bright. “Geoffrey Taunton can be very charming, and of course he has excellent means and a fine reputation. But there is more to consider than that.”

  He watched her intently, waiting for her to elaborate.

  “He has a quite appalling temper,” she said confidently. “He is utterly charming most of the time, of course. But if he is really thwarted, and cannot bear it, he quite simply loses all control. I have only seen him do it once, and over the silliest incident. It was a weekend in the country.” She had Monk’s attention and she knew it. She hesitated, savoring the moment.

  He was becoming impatient. He could feel the ache in his muscles as he forced himself to sit, to smile at her, when he would like to have exploded in temper for her stupidity, her vacuous, meaningless flirting.

  “A long weekend,” she continued. “Actually, as I recall, it was from Thursday until Tuesday, or something like that. The men had been out shooting, I think, and we ladies had been sewing and gossiping all day, waiting for them to return. It was in the evening.” She took a deep breath and stared around the room as if in an effort to recollect. “I think it was Sunday evening. We’d all been to church early, before breakfast, so they would have the whole day outside. The weather was glorious. Do you shoot, Mr. Monk?”

  “No.”

  “You should. It’s a very healthy pastime, you know.”

  He choked back the answer that came to his lips.

  “I shall have to consider it, Mrs. Waldemar.”

  “They were playing billiards,” she said, picking up the thread again. “Geoffrey had lost all evening to Archibald Purbright. He really is such a cad. Perhaps I shouldn’t say that?” She looked at him inquiringly, her smile very close to a simper.

  He knew what she wanted.

  “I’m sure you shouldn’t,” he agreed with an effort. “But I shan’t repeat it.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I don’t think I care to, if he is a cad, as you say.”

  She laughed. “Oh dear. Still, I’m sure you will not repeat what I tell you?”

  “Of course not. It shall be a confidence between us.” He despised himself as he was doing it, and despised her the more. “What happened?”

  “Oh, Archie was cheating, as usual, and Geoffrey finally lost his temper and said some perfectly terrible things….”

  Monk felt a rage of disappointment. Abuse, however virulent, was hardly akin to murder. Stupid woman! He could have hit her silly, smiling face.

  “I see,” he said with distinct chill. It was a relief not to have to pretend anymore.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” she retorted urgently. “Geoffrey beat poor Archie over the head and shoulders with the billiard cue. He knocked him to the floor, and might have rendered him senseless had not Bertie and George pulled him off. It was really quite awful.” There was a flush of excitement in her cheeks. “Archie was in bed for four days, and of course they had to send for the doctor. They told him Archie had fallen off his horse, but I don’t think the doctor believed that for an instant. He was too discreet to say so, but I saw the look on his face. Archie said he’d sue, but he’d been cheating, and he knew we knew it, so naturally he didn’t. But neither of them were invited again.” She smiled up at him and shrugged her smooth shoulders. “So I daresay Nanette had a great deal to think about. After all, a temper of that sort gives one cause for consideration, however charming a man may be otherwise, don’t you agree?”

  “I do indeed, Mrs. Waldemar,” Monk said with sincerity. Suddenly she looked extremely different. She was not stupid; on the contrary, she was very perceptive. She did not prattle on; she recounted valuable and maybe extremely relevant information. He looked back at her with profound appreciation. “Thank you. Your excellent memory is most admirable and explains a great deal to me that had previously been beyond my understanding. No doubt Miss Cuthbertson was doing exactly as you say. Thank you so much for your time and courtesy.” He rose to his feet, backing away from her.

  “Not at all.” She rose also, her skirts billowing around her with a soft sound of taffeta. “If I can be of any further assistance, please feel able to call upon me.”

  “Indeed I shall.” And with such speed as grace allowed, he took his departure out into the darkening streets, the lamplighter passing on his way, one light glowing into life after another along the length of the pavement.

  So Geoffrey had a violent temper, even murderous. His step lightened. It was a small thing so far, but definitely a break in the gloom around Sir Herbert Stanhope.

  It did not explain Prudence’s dreams or their reality, and that still burdened him, but it was a beginning.

  And it would be an acute satisfaction to him to take it to Rathbone. It was something he had not found for himself, and Monk could imagine the look of surprise—and obligation—in Rathbone’s clever, self-possessed face when he told him.

  10

  AS IT HAPPENED, Rathbone was too relieved to hear Monk’s news of Geoffrey Taunton for his irritation to be more than momentary. There was a flash of anger at the smoothly complacent look on Monk’s face, the tone of arrogant satisfaction in his voice, and then Rathbone’s brain concentrated on what he would do with the knowledge, how best to use it.

  When he went to see Sir Herbert briefly before the day’s session began, he found him pensive, an underlying tension apparent in the nervous movement of his hands and the occasional gesture to adjust his collar or straighten his waistcoat. But he had sufficient control of himself not to ask how Rathbone thought the trial was progressing.

  “I have a little news,” Rathbone said immediately the jailer left them alone.

  Sir Herbert’s eyes widened and for a moment he held his breath. “Yes?” His voice was husky.

  Rathbone felt guilty; what he thought was not enough for real hope. It would need all his skill to make it count.

  “Monk has learned of a very unfortunate incident in Geoffrey Taunton’s recent past,” he said calmly. “A matter of catching an acquaintance cheating at billiards and becoming seriously violent. Apparently he attacked the man and had to be hauled off him before he injured him, perhaps mortally.” He was overstating the case a little, but Sir Herbert needed all the encouragement he could offer.

  “He was in the hospital at the time she was killed,” Sir Herbert said with a quick lift in his voice, his eyes alight. “And Heaven knows, he had motive enough. She must have confronted him—the stupid woman.” He looked at Rathbone intently. “This is excellent! Why are you not better pleased? He is at least as good a suspect as I!”

  “I am pleased,” Rathbone said quietly. “But Geoffrey Taunton is not in the dock—not yet. I have a great deal to do yet before I can put him there. I just wished you to know: there is every hope, so keep your courage high.”

  Sir Herbert smiled. “Thank you—that is very honest of you. I appreciate you cannot say more. I have been in the same position with patients. I do understand.”

  As it chanced, Lovat-Smith unwittingly played into Rathbone’s hands. His first witness of the day was Nanette Cuthbertson. Sh
e crossed the floor of the courtroom and mounted the steps to the witness stand gracefully, maneuvering her skirts up the narrow way with a single flick of her wrist. She turned at the top to face him, a calm smile on her face. She was dressed in dark brown, which was at once very sober and extremely flattering to her coloring and warm complexion. There was a murmur of appreciation around the crowd, and several people sat up a little straighter One of the jurors nodded to himself, and another straightened his collar.

  Their interest had been less sharp this morning. The revelations they had expected were not forthcoming. They had looked for their emotions to be torn one way and then another as piece after piece of evidence was revealed, while Sir Herbert appeared one moment guilty, the next innocent, and two giant protagonists battled each other across the courtroom floor.

  Instead it had been a rather tedious procession of ordinary people offering their opinions that Prudence Barrymore was an excellent nurse, but not a great heroine, and that she had suffered the very ordinary feelings of many young women in that she had imagined a man to be in love with her, when in fact he was merely being civil. It was sad, even pathetic, but not the stuff of high drama. No one had yet offered a satisfactory alternative murderer, and yet quite clearly she had been murdered.

  Now at last here was an interesting witness, a dashing and yet demure young woman. They craned forward, eager to see why she had been called.

  “Miss Cuthbertson,” Lovat-Smith began as soon as the necessary formalities had been completed. He knew the anticipation and the importance of keeping the emotion high. “You knew Prudence Barrymore from your childhood days together, did you not?”

  “I did,” Nanette replied candidly, her chin lifted, her eyes downcast.

  “You knew her well?”

  “Very well.”

  No one was bothering to look at Sir Herbert. They all stared at Nanette, waiting for the evidence for which she had been called.

  Only Rathbone surreptitiously glanced sideways and up toward the dock. Sir Herbert was sitting well forward, peering at the witness stand in profound concentration. His face had a look on it almost of eagerness.

  “Was she a romantic?” Lovat-Smith asked.

  “No, not in the slightest.” Nanette smiled ruefully. “She seemed of an extremely practical turn of mind. She took no trouble to be charming or to attract gentlemen.” She covered her eyes, then looked up again. “I dislike speaking ill of one who is not here to answer for herself, but for the sake of preventing injustice, I must say what is true.”

  “Of course. I am sure we all understand,” Lovat-Smith said a trifle sententiously. “Have you any knowledge of her ideas in the matter of love, Miss Cuthbertson? Young ladies sometimes confide in each other from time to time.”

  She looked suitably modest at mention of such a subject.

  “Yes. I am afraid she would not look at anyone else but Sir Herbert Stanhope. There were other, eminently suitable and quite dashing gentlemen who admired her, but she would have none of them. All the time she spoke only of Sir Herbert, his dedication, his skill, how he had helped her and shown her great care and attention.” A frown crossed her face, as if what she was about to say both surprised and angered her, but never once did she lift her eyes to look at the dock. “She said over and over that she believed he was going to make all her dreams come true. She seemed to light up with excitement and a sort of inner life when she spoke his name.”

  Lovat-Smith stood in the very center of the floor, his gown less than immaculate. He had little of the grace of Rathbone, and yet he was so vibrant with suppressed energy that he commanded everyone’s attention. Even Sir Herbert was temporarily forgotten.

  “And did you gather, Miss Cuthbertson,” he asked, “that she was in love with him and believed him to be in love with her, and that he would shortly make her his wife?”

  “Of course,” Nanette agreed, her eyes wide. “What other possible meaning could there have been?”

  “Indeed, none that I know of,” Lovat-Smith agreed. “Were you aware of the change in her beliefs, a time when she realized that Sir Herbert did not return her feelings after all?”

  “No. No I was not.”

  “I see.” Lovat-Smith walked away from the witness stand as if he were concluded. Then he turned on his heel and faced her again. “Miss Cuthbertson, was Prudence Barrymore a woman of determination and resolve? Had she great strength of will?”

  “But of course,” Nanette said vehemently. “How else would she have gone to the Crimea, of all places? I believe it was quite dreadful. Oh certainly, when she had set her heart upon something, she did not give up.”

  “Would she have given up her hope of marrying Sir Herbert without a struggle, in your estimation?”

  Nanette answered before Judge Hardie could lean forward and intervene, or Rathbone could voice his protest. “Never!”

  “Mr. Lovat-Smith,” Hardie said gravely. “You are leading the witness, as you know full well.”

  “I apologize, my lord,” Lovat-Smith said without a trace of remorse. He shot a sideways glance at Rathbone, smiling. “Your witness, Mr. Rathbone.”

  “Thank you.” Rathbone rose to his feet, smooth and graceful. He walked over to the witness stand and looked up at Nanette. “I regret this, ma’am, but there are many questions I need to ask you.” His voice was a beautiful instrument and he knew how to use it like a master. He was at once polite, even deferential, and insidiously menacing.

  Nanette looked down at him without any awareness of what was to come, her eyes wide, her expression bland.

  “I know it is your job, sir, and I am perfectly prepared.”

  One of the jurors smiled, another nodded in approval. There was a murmur around the public benches.

  “You knew Prudence Barrymore since childhood, and knew her well,” Rathbone began. “You told us that she confided many of her inner feelings to you, which is quite natural, of course.” He smiled up at her and saw an answering flicker touch her lips only sufficient to be civil. She did not like him because of who he represented. “You also spoke of another admirer, whose attentions she rejected,” he continued. “Were you referring to Mr. Geoffrey Taunton?”

  A pinkness colored her cheeks, but she kept her composure. She must have been aware that question would come.

  “I was.”

  “You considered her foolish and unreasonable not to have accepted him?”

  Lovat-Smith rose to his feet. “We have already covered that subject, my lord. The witness has said as much. I fear in his desperation, my learned friend is wasting the court’s time.”

  Hardie looked at Rathbone inquiringly.

  “Mr. Rathbone, have you some point, other than to give yourself time?”

  “Indeed I have, my lord,” Rathbone replied.

  “Then proceed to it,” Hardie directed.

  Rathbone inclined his head, then turned back to Nanette.

  “You know Mr. Taunton well enough to judge that he is an admirable young man?”

  The pink flushed her cheeks again. It was becoming, and possibly she knew it.

  “I do.”

  “Indeed? You know of no reason why Prudence Barrymore should not have accepted him?”

  “None whatever.” This time there was some defiance in her voice and she lifted her chin a trifle higher. She was beginning to feel she had the measure of Rathbone. Even in the body of the court attention was waning. This was tedious, verging on pitiful. Sir Herbert in the dock lost his sharp interest and began to look anxious. Rathbone was achieving nothing. Only Lovat-Smith sat with a guarded expression on his face.

  “Would you yourself accept him, were he to offer?” Rathbone asked mildly. “The question is hypothetical, of course,” he added before Hardie could interrupt.

  The blood burned up Nanette’s cheeks. There was a hiss of breath around the room. One of the jurors in the back row cleared his throat noisily.

  “I …” Nanette stammered awkwardly. She could not deny it, or she
would effectively be refusing him, the last thing on earth she wished. “I—you …” She composed herself with difficulty. “You place me in an impossible position, sir!”

  “I apologize,” Rathbone said insincerely. “But Sir Herbert is also in an impossible position, ma’am, and one of considerably more peril to himself.” He inclined his head a little. “I require you to answer, because if you would not accept Mr. Taunton, then that would indicate that you know of some reason why Prudence Barrymore also might not have accepted him. Which would mean her behavior was not so unreasonable, nor necessarily in any way connected with Sir Herbert, or any hopes she may have entertained regarding him. Do you see?”

  “Yes,” she conceded reluctantly. “Yes, I see.”

  He waited. At last the crowd on the public benches was caught. He could hear the rustle of taffeta and bombazine as they craned forward. They did not totally understand what was to come, but they knew drama when they smelled it, and they knew fear.

  Nanette took a deep breath. “Yes—I would,” she said in a strangled voice.

  “Indeed.” Rathbone nodded. “So I had been led to believe.” He walked a pace or two, then turned to her again. “In fact, you are very fond of Mr. Taunton yourself, are you not? Sufficiently so to have marred your affection for Miss Barrymore when he persistently courted her in spite of her repeated refusal of his offers?”

  There was a mutter of anger around the room. Several jurors shifted uncomfortably.

  Nanette was truly appalled. The tide of scarlet ran right to the dark line of her hair, and she clung to the rail of the witness box as if to support herself. The rustle of embarrassment increased, but in no one did it exceed curiosity. No one looked away.

  “If you suggest that I lie, sir, you are mistaken,” Nanette said at length.

  Rathbone was politeness itself.

  “Not at all, Miss Cuthbertson. I suggest that your perception of the truth, like that of most of us in the grip of extreme emotion, is likely to be colored by our own imperatives. That is not to lie, simply to be mistaken.”