by Anne Perry
“And later?” Lovat-Smith prompted.
She lifted one shoulder in an eloquent posture. “Later I was forced to realize that she was devoted to him.”
“Do you mean more than could be accounted by the duties that would fall to her because of her skill?” Lovat-Smith phrased the question carefully, avoiding any slip that would allow Rathbone to object.
“Indeed,” Berenice said with a modest share of reluctance. “It became obvious that her admiration for him was intense. He is a fine surgeon, as we all know, but Prudence’s devotion to him, the extra duties she performed of her own volition, made it unmistakable that her feelings were more than merely professional, no matter how dedicated and conscientious.”
“Did you see evidence that she was in love with Sir Herbert?” Lovat-Smith asked it with a gentle, unassuming voice, but his words carried to the very back of the room in the total silence.
“Her eyes lit at mention of him, her skin glowed, she gained an extra, inward energy.” Berenice smiled and pulled a slightly rueful face. “I can think of no other explanation when a woman behaves so.”
“Nor I,” Lovat-Smith admitted. “Given the moral welfare of nurses was your concern, Lady Ross Gilbert, did you address her on the subject?”
“No,” she said slowly, as if still giving the matter thought. “To be frank I never saw evidence that her morality was in jeopardy. To fall in love is part of the human condition.” She looked quizzically beyond Lovat-Smith to the public benches. “If it is misplaced, and hopeless of any satisfactory conclusion, it is sometimes safer for the morals than if it is returned.” She hesitated, affecting discomfort. “Of course at that time I had no idea the whole affair would end as it has.”
Not once had she looked at Sir Herbert opposite in the dock, although his eyes never left her face.
“You say that Prudence’s love was misplaced.” Lovat-Smith was not yet finished. “Do you mean by that that Sir Herbert did not return her feelings?”
Berenice hesitated, but it appeared it was a pause to find exactly the right words rather than because she was uncertain of her belief.
“I am less skilled at reading the emotions of men than of women, you understand….”
There was a murmur around the room, whether of belief or doubt it was impossible to say. A juror nodded sagely.
Rathbone had the distinct impression she was savoring the moment of drama and her power to hold and control her audience.
Lovat-Smith did not interrupt.
“He asked for her on every occasion he required a skilled nurse,” she said slowly, each word falling distinctly into the bated hush. “He worked closely with her over long hours, and at times without any other person present.” She spoke without ever looking across at him, her eyes fixed on Lovat-Smith.
“Perhaps he was unaware of her personal emotions toward him?” Lovat-Smith suggested without a shred of conviction. “Is he a foolish man, in your experience?”
“Of course not! But—”
“Of course not,” he agreed, cutting her off before she could add her explanation. “Therefore you did not consider it necessary to warn him?”
“I never thought of it,” she confessed with irritation. “It is not my place to make suggestions on the lives of surgeons, and I did not think I could tell him anything of which he was not already perfectly aware and would deal with appropriately. Looking back now I can see that I was—”
“Thank you,” he interrupted. “Thank you, Lady Ross Gilbert. That is all I have to ask you. But my learned friend … may.” He left it a delicate suggestion that Rathbone’s cause was broken, and he might already have surrendered to the inevitable.
And indeed Rathbone was feeling acutely unhappy. She had undone a great deal, if not all, of the good he had accomplished with Nanette and with Geoffrey Taunton. At best all he had raised was a reasonable doubt. Now even that seemed to be slipping away. The case was hardly an ornament to his career, and it was looking increasingly as if it might not even save Sir Herbert’s life, let alone his reputation.
He faced Berenice Ross Gilbert with an air of casual confidence he did not feel. Deliberately he stood at ease. The jury must believe he had some tremendous revelation in hand, some twist or barb that would at a stroke destroy Lovat-Smith’s case.
“Lady Ross Gilbert,” he began with a charming smile. “Prudence Barrymore was an excellent nurse, was she not? With far above the skills and abilities of the average?”
“Most certainly,” she agreed. “She had considerable actual medical knowledge, I believe.”
“And she was diligent in her duties?”
“Surely you must know this?”
“I do.” Rathbone nodded. “It has already been testified to by several people. Why does it surprise you, then, that Sir Herbert should have chosen her to work with him in a large number of his surgical cases? Would that not be in the interest of his patients?”
“Yes—of course it would.”
“You testified that you observed in Prudence the very recognizable signs of a woman in love. Did you observe any of these signs in Sir Herbert, when in Prudence’s presence, or anticipating it?”
“No I did not,” she replied without hesitation.
“Did you observe any change in his manner toward her, any departure from that which would be totally proper and usual between a dedicated surgeon and his best and most responsible nurse?”
She considered only a moment before replying. For the first time she looked across at Sir Herbert, just a glance, and away again.
“No—he was always as usual,” she said to Rathbone. “Correct, dedicated to his work, and with little attention to people other than the patients, and of course the teaching of student doctors.”
Rathbone smiled at her. He knew his smile was beautiful.
“I imagine men have been in love with you, possibly many men?”
She shrugged very slightly, a delicate gesture of amusement and concurrence.
“Had Sir Herbert treated you as he treated Prudence Barrymore, would you have supposed that he was in love with you? Or that he considered abandoning his wife and family, his home and reputation, in order to ask you to marry him?”
Her face lit with amusement.
“Good Heavens, no! It would be totally absurd. Of course not.”
“Then for Prudence to imagine that he was in love with her was unrealistic, was it not? It was the belief of a woman who could not tell her dreams from reality?”
A shadow crossed her face, but it was impossible to read it.
“Yes—yes it was.”
He had to press home the point.
“You said she had some medical skill, ma’am. Do you have any evidence that it was surgical skill of a degree where she was capable of performing amputations herself, unaided and successfully? Was she indeed not a mere nurse, but a surgeon?”
There was an unhappy murmur around the room and a confusion of emotions.
Berenice’s eyebrows shot up.
“Good Heavens. Of course not! If you forgive me, Mr. Rathbone, you have no knowledge whatever of the medical world if you can ask such a question. A woman surgeon is absurd.”
“Then in that respect also, she had lost the ability to distinguish between daydreams and reality?”
“If that is what she said, then most certainly she had. She was a nurse, a very good one, but certainly not a doctor of any sort. Poor creature, the war must have unhinged her. Perhaps we are at fault if we did not see it.” She looked suitably remorseful.
“Perhaps the hardships she endured and the suffering she saw unbalanced her mind,” Rathbone agreed. “And her wish to be able to help led her to imagine she could. We may never know.” He shook his head. “It is a tragedy that such a fine and compassionate woman, with so intense a desire to heal, should have been strained beyond the point she could endure with safety to her own nature; and above all that she should end her life by such a means.” He said that for the jury, not that it had
any relevance to the evidence, but it was imperative to keep their sympathy. He had destroyed Prudence’s reputation as a heroine; he must not take from her even the role of honorable victim.
Lovat-Smith’s last witness was Monk.
He climbed the steps of the witness box stone-faced and turned to the court coldly. As before, he had caught snatches of what Rathbone had drawn from Berenice Ross Gilbert from those who were coming and going from the courtroom: press reporters, clerks, idlers. He was furious even before the first question.
“Mr. Monk,” Lovat-Smith began carefully. He knew he had a hostile witness, but he also knew his evidence was incontestable. “You are no longer with the police force but undertake private inquiries, is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Were you employed to inquire into the murder of Prudence Barrymore?”
“I was.” Monk was not going to volunteer anything. Far from it losing the public’s interest, they sensed antagonism and sat a little more upright in order not to miss a word or a look.
“By whom? Miss Barrymore’s family?”
“By Lady Callandra Daviot.”
In the dock Sir Herbert sat forward, his expression suddenly tense, a small vertical line between his brows.
“Was it in that capacity that you attended the funeral of Miss Barrymore?” Lovat-Smith pursued.
“No,” Monk said tersely.
If Monk had hoped to disconcert Lovat-Smith, he succeeded only slightly. Some instinct, or some steel in Monk’s face, warned him not to ask what his reason had been. He could not guarantee the answer. “But you were there?” he said instead, sidestepping the issue.
“I was.”
“And Miss Barrymore’s family knew your connection with the case?”
“Yes.”
There was not a sound in the room now. Something of the rage in Monk, some power in his face, held the attention without a whisper or a movement.
“Did Miss Barrymore’s sister, Mrs. Faith Barker, offer you some letters?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“Yes.”
Lovat-Smith kept his evenness of expression and voice with difficulty.
“And you accepted them. What were they, Mr. Monk?”
“Letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister,” Monk replied. “In a form close to a diary, and written almost every day for the last three and a half months of her life.”
“Did you read them?”
“Naturally.”
Lovat-Smith produced a sheaf of papers and handed them up to Monk.
“Are these the letters Mrs. Barker gave you?”
Monk looked at them, although there was no need. He knew them immediately.
“They are.”
“Would you read to the court the first one I have marked with a red ribbon, if you please?”
Obediently, in a tight hard voice, Monk read:
“My dearest Faith,
“What a marvelous day I have had! Sir Herbert performed splendidly. I could not take my eyes from his hands. Such skill is a thing of beauty in itself. And his explanations are so lucid I had not the slightest difficulty in following him and appreciating every point.
“He has said such things to me, I am singing inside with the sheer happiness of it. All my dreams hang in the balance, and he has it all in his power. I never thought I should find anyone with the courage. Faith, he truly is a wonderful man—a visionary—a hero in the best sense—not rushing around conquering other peoples who should be left alone, or battling to discover the source of some river or other—but crusading here at home for the great principles which will help tens of thousands. I cannot tell you how happy and privileged I am that he has chosen me!
“Until next time, your loving sister,
Prudence.”
“And the second one I have marked, if you will?” Lovat-Smith continued.
Again Monk read, and then looked up, no emotion in his eyes or his features. Only Rathbone knew him well enough to be aware of the revulsion inside him for the intrusion into the innermost thoughts of a woman he admired.
The room was in silence, every ear strained. The jury stared at Sir Herbert with undisguised distaste.
“Are the others in a similar vein, Mr. Monk?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“Some are,” Monk replied. “Some are not.”
“Finally, Mr. Monk, would you read the letter I have marked with a yellow ribbon.”
In a low hard voice, Monk read:
“Dear Faith,
“Just a note. I feel too devastated to write more, and so weary I could sleep with no desire to wake. It was all a sham. I can scarcely believe it even now, when he has told me face to face. Sir Herbert has betrayed me completely. It was all a lie—he only wished to use me—all his promises meant nothing. But I shall not let it rest at that. I have power, and I shall use it!
Prudence.”
There was a sigh of breath, a rustle as heads turned from Monk to stare up at the dock. Sir Herbert looked strained; his face showed the lines of tiredness and confusion. He did not look frightened so much as lost in a nightmare which made no sense to him. His eyes rested on Rathbone with something close to desperation.
Lovat-Smith hesitated, looking at Monk for several moments, then decided against asking him anything further. Again, he was not sufficiently certain of the answer.
“Thank you,” he said, looking toward Rathbone.
Rathbone racked his brains for something to say to mitigate what they had all just heard. He did not need to see Sir Herbert’s white face as at last fear overtook the benign puzzlement he had shown so long. Whether he understood the letters or not, he was not naive enough to miss their impact on the jury.
Rathbone forced himself not to look at the jurors, but he knew from the nature of the silence, the reflected light on the pallor of their faces as they turned sideways to look up at the dock, that there was condemnation already in their minds.
What could he ask Monk? What could he possibly say to mitigate this? Nothing whatever came to him. He did not even trust Monk. Might his anger against Sir Herbert for having betrayed Prudence, however unintentionally, blind him now to any kinder interpretation? Even if it did not, what was his opinion worth?
“Mr. Rathbone?” Judge Hardie looked at him with pursed lips.
“I have no questions of this witness, thank you, my lord.”
“That is the case for the prosecution, if you please, my lord,” Lovat-Smith said with a faint, complacent smile.
“In that case, since it is growing late we will adjourn, and the defense may begin its case tomorrow.”
Callandra had not remained in court after her testimony. Part of her wished to. She hoped desperately that Sir Herbert was guilty and would be proved so beyond any doubt whatsoever, reasonable or unreasonable. The terror inside her that it had been Kristian was like a physical pain filling her body. During the day she sought every possible duty to absorb her time and deny her mind the opportunity to return to gnaw at the anxiety, turn over the arguments again and again, trying uselessly to find the solution she wanted.
At night she fell into bed, believing herself exhausted, but after an hour or so of sleep she woke, filled with dread, and the slow hours of the morning found her tossing and turning, longing for sleep, afraid of dreams, and even more afraid of waking.
She wanted to see Kristian, and yet she did not know what to say to him. She had seen him so often in the hospital, shared all kinds of crises in other peoples’ lives—and deaths—and yet she was now achingly aware how little she knew of him beyond the life of healing, labor, comfort, and loss. Of course she knew he was married, and that his wife was a chilly remote woman with whom he shared little tenderness or laughter, and none of the work into which he poured so much passion, none of the precious things of humor and understanding, small personal likes and dislikes such as the love of flowers, voices singing, the play of light on grass, early morning.
But how much else was there unknown to her? Sometimes in th
e long hours when they had sat, talking far longer than there was any need, he had told her of his youth, his struggle in his native Bohemia, the joy he had felt as the miraculous workings of the human physiology had been revealed in his studies. He had spoken of the people he had known and with whom he had shared all manner of experiences. They had laughed together, sat in sudden sweet melancholy remembering past losses, made bearable in the certain knowledge that the other understood.
In time she had told him of her husband, how fiercely alive he had been, full of hot temper, arbitrary opinions, sudden insights, uproarious wit, and such a wild vigor for life.
But what of Kristian’s present? All he had shared with her stopped fifteen or twenty years ago, as if the years from then until now were lost, not to be spoken of. When had the idealism of his youth been soured? When had he first betrayed the best in himself and then tarnished everything else by performing abortions? Did he really need more money so desperately?
No. That was unfair. She was doing it again, torturing herself by beginning that dreadful train of thought that led her eventually to Prudence Barrymore, and murder. The man she knew could not have done that. Everything she knew of him could not be an illusion. Perhaps what she had seen that day had not been what she thought? Maybe Marianne Gillespie had been suffering some complication? After all, the child within her was the result of rape. Perhaps she had been injured internally in some way, and Kristian had been repairing it—and not destroying the child at all.
Of course. That was a very possible solution. She must find out—and set all her fears at rest forever.
But how? If she were to ask him she would have to admit she had interrupted—and he would know she had suspected and indeed believed the worst.
And why should he tell her the truth? She could hardly ask him to prove it. But the very act of asking would damage forever the closeness they shared—and however fragile that was, however without hope of ever being more, it was unreasonably precious to her.
But the fear inside her, the sick doubt, was ruining it anyway. She could not meet his eyes or speak to him naturally as she used to. All the old ease, the trust, and the laughter were gone.
