by Anne Perry
She glared at him, confused and wretched, but not able to think of a retaliation.
But Rathbone knew the tone of drama would pass and reason reassert itself. He had achieved little to help Sir Herbert yet.
“You cared for him enough not to be dissuaded by his violent temper, Miss Cuthbertson?” he resumed.
Now suddenly she was pale.
“Violent temper?” she repeated. “That is nonsense, sir. Mr. Taunton is the gentlest of men.”
But the crowd watching her intently had seen the difference between disbelief and shock. They knew from the tightness of her body beneath its fashionable gown and huge skirts that she was perfectly aware what Rathbone alluded to. Her confusion was to hide it, not to understand it.
“If I were to ask Mr. Archibald Purbright, would he agree with me?” Rathbone said smoothly. “I doubt Mrs. Waldemar would think so.”
Lovat-Smith shot to his feet, his voice husky with assumed bewilderment.
“My lord, who is Archibald Purbright? My learned friend has made no previous mention of such a person. If he has evidence he must testify to it here, where the Crown may question him and weigh its validity. We cannot accept—”
“Yes, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” Hardie interrupted him. “I am quite aware that Mr. Purbright has not been called.” He turned to Rathbone, eyebrows raised inquiringly. “Perhaps you had better explain yourself?”
“I do not intend to call Mr. Purbright, my lord, unless Miss Cuthbertson should make it necessary.” It was a bluff. He had no idea where to find Archibald Purbright.
Hardie turned to Nanette.
She stood stiffly, white-faced.
“It was a solitary incident, and some time ago.” She almost choked on her words. “The man had been cheating. I regret having to say so, but it is true.” She shot a look of loathing at Rathbone. “And Mrs. Waldemar would bear me out on that!”
The moment’s tension evaporated. Lovat-Smith smiled.
“And Mr. Taunton was no doubt quite understandably extremely frustrated and felt a burning sense of injustice,” Rathbone agreed. “As would we all. To have done your best, to feel you deserve to win because you are the better player, and to be constantly cheated out of your victory would be enough to try the temper of most of us.”
He hesitated, taking a step or two casually and turning. “And in this instance, Mr. Taunton lashed out with such extreme violence that he was only prevented from doing Mr. Purbright a serious, perhaps fatal, injury by the overpowering strength of two of his friends.”
Suddenly the tension was back again. Gasps of shock were clearly audible amid rustles of movement, scrapings of shoes as people sat sharply upright. In the dock Sir Herbert’s lips curled in the very smallest smile. Even Hardie stiffened.
Lovat-Smith hid his surprise with difficulty. It was there on his face only for an instant, but Rathbone saw it. Their eyes met, then Rathbone looked back at Nanette.
“Do you not think it is possible, Miss Cuthbertson—indeed, do you not in your heart fear—that Mr. Taunton may have felt just the same sense of frustration and injustice with Miss Barrymore for persistently refusing him when she had no other admirer at hand, and no justifiable reason, in his view, for her actions?” His voice was calm, even solicitous. “Might he not have lashed out at her, if perhaps she were foolish enough to have mocked him or in some way slighted him to make her rejection plain? There were no friends to restrain him in the hospital corridor at that early hour of the morning. She was tired after a long night nursing the sick, and she would not expect violence—”
“No!” Nanette exploded furiously, leaning over the railing toward him, her face flushed again. “No! Never! It is quite monstrous to say such a thing! Sir Herbert Stanhope killed her”—she shot a look of loathing across at the dock and the jurors followed her eyes—“because she threatened to expose his affair with her,” she said loudly. “We all know it. It wasn’t Geoffrey. You are simply saying that because you are desperate to defend him.” She directed another blazing glance at the dock, and even Sir Herbert seemed discomfited. “And you have nothing else,” she accused him. “You are despicable, sir, to slander a good man for one miserable mistake.”
“One miserable mistake is all it needs, ma’am,” Rathbone said very levelly, his voice hushing the sudden murmur and movement in the room. “A strong man can strangle a woman to death in a very few moments.” He held up his hands, fine, beautiful hands with long fingers. He made a quick, powerful wrenching movement with them, and heard a woman gasp and the rattle of taffeta as she collapsed somewhere behind him.
Nanette looked as if she too might faint.
Hardie banged sharply with his gavel, his face hard.
Lovat-Smith rose to his feet, and then subsided again.
Rathbone smiled. “Thank you, Miss Cuthbertson. I have nothing further to ask you.”
Geoffrey Taunton was a different matter. Rathbone knew from Lovat-Smith’s stance as he took the floor that he was in two minds as to whether he should have called Taunton at all. Should he leave bad alone rather than risk making it worse, or should he try to retrieve it with a bold attack? He was a brave man. He chose the latter, as Rathbone had been sure he would. Of course Geoffrey Taunton had been outside, as prospective witnesses always were, in case a previous testimony should color theirs, so he had no idea what had been said of him. Nor had he noticed Nanette Cuthbertson, now seated in the public gallery, her face tense, her body rigid as she strained to catch every word, at once dreading it, and yet unable to warn him in any way.
“Mr. Taunton,” Lovat-Smith began, a note of confidence ringing in his voice to belie what Rathbone knew he felt. “You were well acquainted with Miss Barrymore and had been for many years,” he went on. “Had you any reason to know her feelings for Sir Herbert Stanhope? I would ask you not to speculate, but to tell us only what you observed for yourself, or what she told you.”
“Of course,” Geoffrey agreed, smiling very slightly and perfectly confident. He was serenely unaware of the reason people were staring at him with such intensity, or why all the jurors looked but avoided his eyes. “Yes, I was aware for some years of her interest in medicine, and I was not surprised when she chose to go to the Crimea to help our wounded men in the hospital at Scutari.” He rested his hands on the railing in front of him. He looked quite casual and fresh.
“However, I admit it took me aback when she insisted in pursuing the course of working in the Royal Free Hospital in London. She was no longer needed in the same way. There are hundreds of other women perfectly able and willing to do the sort of work in which she was involved, and it was totally unsuited to a woman of her birth and background.”
“Did you point that out to her and try to dissuade her?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“I did more than that, I offered her marriage.” There was only the faintest touch of pink in his cheeks. “However, she was set upon her course.” His mouth tightened. “She had very unrealistic ideas about the practice of medicine, and I regret to say it of her, but she valued her own abilities quite out of proportion to any service she might have been able to perform. I think her experiences during the war gave her ideas that were impractical at home in peacetime. I believe she would have come to realize that, with good guidance.”
“Your own guidance, Mr. Taunton?” Lovat-Smith said courteously, his blue eyes wide.
“And that of her mother, yes,” Geoffrey agreed.
“But you had not yet succeeded?”
“No, I regret we had not.”
“Do you have any knowledge as to why?”
“Yes I do. Sir Herbert Stanhope encouraged her.” He shot a look of contempt at the dock.
Sir Herbert stared at him quite calmly, not a shadow of guilt or evasion in his face.
A juror smiled to himself. Rathbone saw it, and knew the elation of a small victory.
“Are you quite sure?” Lovat-Smith asked. “That seems an extraordinary thing to do. He, of all people, must surely have known that she had no
abilities and no chance whatever of acquiring any beyond those of an ordinary nurse: to fetch and carry, to empty slops, prepare poultices, to change linen and bandages.” He enumerated the points on his short strong hands, waving them with natural energy and expression. “To watch patients and call a doctor in case of distress, and to administer medicines as directed. What else could she conceivably do here in England? We have no field surgeries, no wagon loads of wounded.”
“I have no idea,” Geoffrey said with acute distaste twisting his features. “But she told me quite unequivocally that he had said there was a future for her, with advancement.” Again the anger and disgust filled him as he glanced across at Sir Herbert.
This time Sir Herbert winced and shook his head a little, as if, even bound to silence, he could not bear to let it pass undenied.
“Did she speak of her personal feelings for Sir Herbert?” Lovat-Smith pursued.
“Yes. She admired him intensely and believed that all her future happiness lay with him. She told me so—in just those words.”
Lovat-Smith affected surprise.
“Did you not attempt to disabuse her, Mr. Taunton? Surely you must have been aware that Sir Herbert Stanhope is a married man.” He waved one black-clad arm toward the dock. “And could offer her nothing but a professional regard, and that only as a nurse, a position immeasurably inferior to his own. They were not even colleagues, in any equal sense of the term. What could she have hoped for?”
“I have no idea.” He shook his head, his mouth twisted with anger and pain. “Nothing of any substance at all. He lied to her—that is the least of his offenses.”
“Quite so,” Lovat-Smith agreed sagely. “But that is for the jury to decide, Mr. Taunton. It would be improper for us to say more. Thank you, sir. If you will remain there, no doubt my learned friend will wish to question you.” Then he stopped, turning on his heel and looking back at the witness stand. “Oh! While you are here, Mr. Taunton: were you in the hospital on the morning of Nurse Barrymore’s death?” His voice was innocuous, as if the questions were merely by the way.
“Yes,” Geoffrey said guardedly, his face pale and stiff.
Lovat-Smith inclined his head. “We have heard that you have a somewhat violent temper when you are provoked beyond endurance.” He said it with a half smile, as if it were a foible, not a sin. “Did you quarrel with Prudence and lose control of yourself that morning?”
“No!” Geoffrey’s hands were white-knuckled on the railing.
“You did not murder her?” Lovat-Smith added, eyebrows raised, his voice with a slight lift in it.
“No I did not!” Geoffrey was shaking, emotion naked in his face.
There was a ripple of sympathy from somewhere in the gallery, and from another quarter a hiss of disbelief.
Hardie lifted his gavel, then let it fall without sound.
Rathbone rose from his seat and replaced Lovat-Smith on the floor of the court. His eyes met Lovat-Smith’s for an instant as they passed. He had lost the momentum, the brief ascendancy, and they both knew it.
He stared up at the witness stand.
“You tried to disabuse Prudence of this idea that her personal happiness lay with Sir Herbert Stanhope?” he asked mildly.
“Of course,” Geoffrey replied. “It was absurd.”
“Because Sir Herbert is already married?” He put his hands in his pockets and stood very casually.
“Naturally,” Geoffrey replied. “There was no way whatsoever in which he could offer her anything honorable except a professional regard. And if she persisted in behaving as if there were more, then she would lose even that.” His face tightened, showing his impatience with Rathbone for pursuing something so obvious, and so painful.
Rathbone frowned.
“Surely it was a remarkably foolish and self-destructive course of action for her to have taken? It could only bring embarrassment, unhappiness, and loss.”
“Precisely,” Geoffrey agreed with a bitter curl to his mouth. He was about to add something further when Rathbone interrupted him.
“You were very fond of Miss Barrymore, and had known her over a period of time. Indeed, you also knew her family. It must have distressed you to see her behaving in such a way?”
“Of course!” A flicker of anger crossed Geoffrey’s face and he looked at Rathbone with mounting irritation.
“You could see danger, even tragedy, ahead for her?” Rathbone pursued.
“I could. And so it has transpired!”
There was a murmur around the room. They also were growing impatient.
Judge Hardie leaned forward to speak.
Rathbone ignored him and hastened on. He did not want to lose what little attention he had by being interrupted.
“You were distressed,” he continued, his voice a little louder. “You had on several occasions asked Miss Barrymore to marry you, and she had refused you, apparently in the foolish belief that Sir Herbert had something he could offer her. Which, as you say, is patently absurd. You must have felt frustrated by her perversity. It was ridiculous, self-destructive, and quite unjust.”
Geoffrey’s fingers tightened again on the railing of the witness box and he leaned farther forward.
The creaking and rustling of fabric stopped as people realized what Rathbone was about to say.
“It would have made any man angry,” Rathbone went on silkily. “Even a man with a less violent temper than yours. And yet you say you did not quarrel over it? It seems you do not have a violent temper after all. In fact, it seems as if you have no temper whatsoever. I can think of very few men, if any”—he pulled a very slight face, not quite of contempt—“who would not have felt their anger rise over such treatment.”
The implication was obvious. His honor and his manhood were in question.
There was not a sound in the room except the scrape of Lovat-Smith’s chair as he moved to rise, then changed his mind.
Geoffrey swallowed. “Of course I was angry,” he said in a choked voice. “But I did not quarrel violently. I am not a violent man.”
Rathbone opened his eyes very wide. There was total silence in the room except for Lovat-Smith letting out his breath very slowly.
“Well of course violence is all relative,” Rathbone said smoothly. “But I would have thought your attack upon Mr. Archibald Purbright, because he cheated you at a game of billiards—frustrating, of course, but hardly momentous—that was violent, was it not? If your friends had not restrained you, you would have done the man a near-fatal injury.”
Geoffrey was ashen, shock draining him.
Rathbone gave him no time.
“Did you not lose your temper similarly with Miss Barrymore when she behaved with such foolishness and refused you yet again? Was that really so much less infuriating to you than losing a game of billiards to a man everyone knew was cheating anyway?”
Geoffrey opened his mouth but no coherent sound came.
“No.” Rathbone smiled. “You do not have to answer that! I quite see that it is unfair to ask you. The jury will come to their own decisions. Thank you, Mr. Taunton. I have no further questions.”
Lovat-Smith rose, his eyes bright, his voice sharp and clear.
“You do not have to answer it again, Mr. Taunton,” he said bitterly. “But you may if you chose to. Did you murder Miss Barrymore?”
“No! No I did not!” Geoffrey found speech at last. “I was angry, but I did her no harm whatsoever! For God’s sake.” He glared across at the desk. “Stanhope killed her. Isn’t it obvious?”
Involuntarily everyone, even Hardie, looked at Sir Herbert. For the first time Sir Herbert looked profoundly uncomfortable, but he did not avert his eyes, nor did he blush. He looked back at Geoffrey Taunton with an expression which seemed more like frustration and embarrassment than guilt.
Rathbone felt a surge of admiration for him, and in that moment a renewed dedication to seeing him acquitted.
“To some of us.” Lovat-Smith smiled patiently. “But n
ot all—not yet. Thank you, Mr. Taunton. That is all. You may be excused.”
Geoffrey Taunton climbed down the steps slowly, as if he were still uncertain if he should, or could add something more. Then finally he realized the opportunity had slipped, if it was ever there, and he covered the few yards of the floor to the public benches in a dozen strides.
The first witness of the afternoon was Berenice Ross Gilbert. Her very appearance caused a stir even before she said anything at all. She was calm, supremely assured, and dressed magnificently. It was a somber occasion, but she did not choose black, which would have been in poor taste since she was mourning no one. Instead she wore a jacket of the deepest plum shot with charcoal gray, and a huge skirt of a shade similar but a fraction darker. It was wildly flattering to her coloring and her age, and gave her an air both distinguished and dramatic. Rathbone could hear the intake of breath as she appeared, and then the hush of expectancy as Lovat-Smith rose to begin his questions. Surely such a woman must have something of great import to say.
“Lady Ross Gilbert,” Lovat-Smith began. He did not know how to be deferential—something in his character mocked the very idea—but there was respect in his voice, whether for her or for the situation. “You are on the Board of Governors of the hospital. Do you spend a considerable time there?”
“I do.” Her voice was vibrant and very clear. “I am not there every day, but three or four in the week. There is a good deal to be done.”
“I am sure. Most admirable. Without the generous gift of service of people like yourself, such places would be in a parlous state,” Lovat-Smith acknowledged, although whether that was true was debatable. He spent no further effort on the thought. “Did you see Prudence Barrymore often?”
“Of course. The moral welfare and the standards and duties of nurses were a matter I was frequently asked to address. I saw poor Prudence on almost every occasion I was there.” She looked at him and smiled, waiting for the next obvious question.
“Were you aware that she worked very frequently with Sir Herbert Stanhope?”
“Of course.” There were the beginnings of regret in her voice. “To begin with I assumed it was merely coincidence, because she was an excellent nurse.”
