by Anne Perry
“Sir Herbert, you have been chief surgeon at the Royal Free Hospital for approximately the last seven years. During that time you must have been assisted by many nurses, probably even hundreds, would you say?”
Sir Herbert’s slight eyebrows rose in surprise.
“I never thought of counting,” he said frankly. “But, yes, I suppose so.”
“Of very varying degrees of skill and dedication?”
“I am afraid that is true.” Sir Herbert’s mouth curled almost imperceptibly in wry, self-mocking amusement.
“When did you first meet Prudence Barrymore?”
Sir Herbert concentrated in thought for a moment. The court was utterly silent, every eye in the room upon his face. There was no hostility in the jurors’ total attention, only a keen awaiting.
“It must have been in July of 1856,” he replied. “I cannot be more exact than that, I am afraid.” He drew breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.
Rathbone noted it with inner satisfaction. He was going to obey. Thank God for that! He affected innocence. “Do you recall the arrival of all the new nurses, Sir Herbert?”
“No, of course not. There are scores of them. Er …” Then again he stopped. A bitter amusement stirred Rathbone. Sir Herbert was obeying him so very precisely; it was a betrayal of the depth of the fear he was concealing. Rathbone judged he was not a man who obeyed others easily.
“And why did you note Miss Barrymore in particular?” he asked.
“Because she was a Crimean nurse,” Sir Herbert replied. “A gentlewoman who had dedicated herself to the care of the sick, at some considerable cost to herself, even risk of her own life. She did not come because she required to earn her living but because she wished to nurse.”
Rathbone was aware of a low murmur of agreement from the crowd and the open expressions of approval on the jurors’ faces.
“And was she as skilled and dedicated as you had hoped?”
“More so,” Sir Herbert replied, keeping his eyes on Rathbone’s face. He stood a little forward in the box, his hands on the rails, arms straight. It was an attitude of concentration and even a certain humility. If Rathbone had schooled him he could not have done better. “She was tireless in her duties,” he added. “Never late, never absent without cause. Her memory was phenomenal and she learned with remarkable rapidity. And no one ever had cause to question her total morality in any area whatsoever. She was altogether an excellent woman.”
“And handsome?” Rathbone asked with a slight smile.
Sir Herbert’s eyes opened wider in surprise. He had obviously not expected the question, or thought of an answer beforehand.
“Yes—yes I suppose she was. I am afraid I notice such things less than most men. In such circumstances I am more interested in a woman’s skills.” He glanced at the jury in half apology. “When you are dealing with the very ill, a pretty face is little help. I do recall she had very fine hands indeed.” He did not look down at his own beautiful hands resting on the witness box railing.
“She was very skilled?” Rathbone repeated.
“I have said so.”
“Enough to perform a surgical operation herself?”
Sir Herbert looked startled, opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped.
“Sir Herbert?” Rathbone prompted.
“She was an excellent nurse,” he said earnestly. “But not a doctor! You have to understand, the difference is enormous. It is an uncrossable gulf.” He shook his head. “She had no formal training. She knew only what she learned by experience and observation on the battlefield and in the hospital at Scutari.” He leaned a trifle farther forward, his face creased with concentration. “You have to understand the difference between such haphazardly gained knowledge, unorganized, without reference to cause and effect, to alternatives, possible complication—without knowledge of anatomy, pharmacology, the experience and case notes of other doctors—and the years of formal training and practice and the whole body of lateral and supplementary learning such education provides.” Again he shook his head, more vehemently this time. “No, Mr. Rathbone, she was an excellent nurse, I have never known better—but she was most certainly not a doctor. And to tell you the truth”—he faced Rathbone squarely, his eyes brilliantly direct—“I believe that the tales we have heard of her performing operations in the field of battle did not come in that form from her. She was not an arrogant woman, nor untruthful. I believe she must have been misunderstood, and possibly even misquoted.”
There were quite audible murmurs of approval from the body of the court, several people nodded and glanced at neighbors, and on the jury benches two members actually smiled.
It had been a brilliant move emotionally, but tactically it made Rathbone’s next question more difficult to frame. He debated whether to delay it, and decided it would be seen as evasive.
“Sir Herbert …” He walked a couple of steps closer to the witness box and looked up. “The prosecution’s evidence against you was a number of letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister in which she writes of her profound feelings toward you, and the belief that you returned those feelings and would shortly make her the happiest of women. Is this a realistic view, a practical and honest one? These are her own words, and not misquoted.”
Sir Herbert shook his head, his face creased with confusion.
“I simply cannot understand it,” he said ruefully. “I swear before God, I have never given her the slightest cause to think I held her in that kind of regard, and I have spent hours, days, trying to think of anything I could have said or done that could give her such an impression, and I honestly can think of nothing.”
He shook his head again, biting his lip. “Perhaps I am casual in manner, and may have allowed myself to speak informally to those with whom I work, but I truly cannot see how any person would have interpreted my remarks as statements of personal affection. I simply spoke to a trusted colleague in whom I had the utmost confidence.” He hesitated. Several jurors nodded in sympathy and understanding. From their faces it seemed they too had had such experiences. It was all eminently reasonable. A look of profound regret transformed his features.
“Perhaps I was remiss?” he said gravely. “I am not a romantic man. I have been happily married for over twenty years to the only woman whom I have ever regarded in that light.” He smiled self-consciously.
Above in the gallery women nudged each other understandingly.
“She would tell you I have little imagination in that region of my life,” Sir Herbert continued. “As you may see, I am not a handsome or dashing figure. I have never been the subject of the romantic attentions of young ladies. There are far more …” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “More charming and likely men for such a role. We have a number of medical students, gifted, young, good-looking, and with fine futures ahead of them. And of course there are other senior doctors as well, with greater gifts than mine in charm and appealing manner. Quite frankly, it never occurred to me that anyone might view me in that light.”
Rathbone adopted a sympathetic stance, although Sir Herbert was doing so well he hardly needed help.
“Did Miss Barrymore never say anything which struck you as more than usually admiring, nothing personal rather than professional?” he asked. “I imagine you are used to the very considerable respect of your staff and the gratitude of your patients, but please think carefully, with the wisdom of hindsight.”
Sir Herbert shrugged and smiled candidly and apologetically.
“Believe me, Mr. Rathbone, I have tried, but on every occasion on which I spent time, admittedly a great deal of time, with Nurse Barrymore, my mind was on the medical case with which we were engaged. I never saw her in any other connection.” He drew his brows together in an effort of concentration.
“I thought of her with respect, with trust, with the utmost confidence in her dedication and her ability, but I did not think of her personally.” He looked down. “It seems I was grievously i
n the wrong in that, which I profoundly regret. I have daughters of my own, as you no doubt know, but my profession has kept me so fully occupied that their upbringing has been largely left to their mother. I do not really know the ways of young women as well as I might, as well as many men whose personal lives allow them more time in their homes and with their families than does mine.”
There was a whisper and rustle of sympathy around the court.
“It is a price I do not pay willingly.” He bit his lip. “And it seems perhaps it may have been responsible for a tragic misunderstanding by Nurse Barrymore. I—I cannot think of any specific remarks I may have made. I really thought only of our patients, but this I do know.” His voice dropped and became hard and intense. “I at no time whatever entertained any romantic notions about Miss Barrymore, or said or did anything whatever that was improper or could be construed by an unbiased person to be an advance or expression of romantic intent. Of that I am as certain as I am that I stand here before you in this courtroom.”
It was superb. Rathbone himself could not have written anything better.
“Thank you, Sir Herbert. You have explained this tragic situation in a manner I believe we can all understand.” He looked at the jury with a rueful gesture. “I myself have experienced embarrassing encounters, and I daresay the gentlemen of the jury may have also. The dreams and priorities in life of young women are at times different from ours, and perhaps we are dangerously, even tragically, insensitive to them.” He turned back to the witness stand. “Please remain where you are. I have no doubt my learned friend will have questions to ask you.”
He smiled at Lovat-Smith as he walked back to the table and resumed his seat.
Lovat-Smith stood up and straightened his gown before moving across to the center of the floor. He did not look to right or left, but directly up at Sir Herbert.
“In your own words, Sir Herbert, you are not a ladies’ man, is that correct?” His voice was courteous, even smooth. There was no hint of panic or defeat in it, just a deference toward a man held in public esteem.
Rathbone knew he was acting. Lovat-Smith was as well aware as he himself how excellent Sir Herbert’s testimony had been. All the same his confidence gave Rathbone a twinge of unease.
“No,” Sir Herbert said carefully, “I am not.”
Rathbone shut his eyes. Please Heaven Sir Herbert would remember his advice now. Say nothing more! Rathbone said over and over to himself. Add nothing. Offer nothing. Don’t be led by him. He is your enemy.
“But you must have some considerable familiarity with the ways of women …” Lovat-Smith said, raising his eyebrows and opening his light blue eyes very wide.
Sir Herbert said nothing.
Rathbone breathed out a sigh of relief.
“You are married, and have been for many years,” Lovat-Smith pointed out. “Indeed you have a large family, including three daughters. You do yourself an injustice, sir. I have it on excellent authority that your family life is most contented and well ordered, and you are an excellent husband and father.”
“Thank you,” Sir Herbert said graciously.
Lovat-Smith’s face tightened. There was a faint titter somewhere in the body of the court, instantly suppressed.
“It was not intended as a compliment, sir,” Lovat-Smith said sharply. Then he hurried on before there was more laughter. “It was to point out that you are not as unacquainted with the ways of women as you would have us believe. Your relationship with your wife is excellent, you say, and I have no reason to doubt it. At least it is undeniably long and intimate.”
Again a titter of amusement came from the crowd, but it was brief and stifled almost immediately. Sympathy was with Sir Herbert; Lovat-Smith realized it and would not make that mistake again.
“Surely you cannot expect me to believe you are an innocent in the nature and affections of women, in the way which they take flattery or attention?”
Now Sir Herbert had no one to guide him as Rathbone had done. He was alone, facing the enemy. Rathbone gritted his teeth.
Sir Herbert remained silent for several minutes.
Hardie looked at him inquiringly.
Lovat-Smith smiled.
“I do not think,” Sir Herbert answered at last, lifting his eyes and looking squarely at Lovat-Smith, “that you can reasonably liken my relationship with my wife to that with my nurses, even the very best of them, which undoubtedly Miss Barrymore was. My wife knows me and does not misinterpret what I say. I do not have to be watchful that she has read me aright. And my relationship with my daughters is hardly of the nature we are discussing. It does not enter into it.” He stopped abruptly and stared at Lovat-Smith.
Again jurors nodded, understanding plain in their faces.
Lovat-Smith shifted the line of his attack slightly.
“Was Miss Barrymore the only young woman of good birth with whom you have worked, Sir Herbert?”
Sir Herbert smiled. “It is only very recently that such young women have taken an interest in nursing, sir. In fact, it is since Miss Nightingale’s work in the Crimea has become so famous that other young women desired to emulate her. And of course there are those who served with her, such as Miss Barrymore, and my present most excellent nurse, Miss Latterly. Previously to that, the only women of gentle birth who had any business in the hospital—one could not call it work in the same sense—were those who served in the Board of Governors, such as Lady Ross Gilbert and Lady Callandra Daviot. And they are not romantically impressionable young ladies.”
Rathbone breathed out a sigh of relief. He had negotiated it superbly. He had even avoided saying offensively that Berenice and Callandra were not young.
Lovat-Smith accepted rebuff gracefully and tried again.
“Do I understand correctly, Sir Herbert, that you are very used to admiration?”
Sir Herbert hesitated. “I would prefer to say ‘respect,’ ” he said, deflecting the obvious vanity.
“I daresay.” Lovat-Smith smiled at him, showing sharp, even teeth. “But admiration is what I meant. Do not your students admire you intensely?”
“You were better to ask them, sir.”
“Oh come now!” Lovat-Smith’s smile widened. “No false modesty, please. This is not a withdrawing room where pretty manners are required.” His voice hardened suddenly. “You are a man accustomed to inordinate admiration, to people hanging upon your every word. The court will find it difficult to believe you are not well used to telling the difference between overenthusiasm, sycophancy, and an emotional regard which is personal, and therefore uniquely dangerous.”
“Student doctors are all young men,” Sir Herbert answered with a frown of confusion. “The question of romance does not arise.”
Two or three of the jurors smiled.
“And nurses?” Lovat-Smith pursued, eyes wide, voice soft.
“Forgive me for being somewhat blunt,” Sir Herbert said patiently. “But I thought we had already covered that. Until very recently they have not been of a social class where a personal relationship could be considered.”
Lovat-Smith did not look in the least disconcerted. He smiled very slightly, again showing his teeth. “And your patients, Sir Herbert? Were they also all men, all elderly, or all of a social class too low to be considered?”
A slow flush spread up Sir Herbert’s cheeks.
“Of course not,” he said very quietly. “But the gratitude and dependence of a patient are quite different. One knows to accept it as related to one’s skills, to the patient’s natural fear and pain, and not as a personal emotion. Its intensity is transient, even if the gratitude remains. Most men of medicine experience such feelings and know them for what they are. To mistake them for love would be quite foolish.”
Fine, Rathbone thought. Now stop, for Heaven’s sake! Don’t spoil it by going on.
Sir Herbert opened his mouth and then, as if silently hearing Rathbone’s thoughts, closed it again.
Lovat-Smith stood in the center o
f the floor, staring up at the witness box, his head a little to one side. “So in spite of your experience with your wife, your daughters, your grateful and dependent patients, you were still taken totally by surprise when Prudence Barrymore expressed her love and devotion toward you? It must have been an alarming and embarrassing experience for you—a happily married man as you are!”
But Sir Herbert was not so easily tripped.
“She did not express it, sir,” he replied levelly. “She never said or did anything which would lead me to suppose her regard for me was more than professional. When her letters were read to me it was the first I knew of it.”
“Indeed?” Lovat-Smith said with heavy disbelief, giving a little shake of his head. “Do you seriously expect the jury to believe that?” He indicated them with one hand. “They are all intelligent, experienced men. I think they would find it hard to imagine themselves so … naive.” He turned from the witness stand and walked back to his table.
“I hope they will,” Sir Herbert said quietly, leaning forward over the railing with hands clasping it. “It is the truth. Perhaps I was remiss, perhaps I did not look at her as a young and romantic woman, simply as a professional upon whom I relied. And that may be a sin—for which I shall feel an eternal regret. But it is not a cause to commit murder!”
There was a brief murmur of applause from the court. Someone called out, “Hear, hear!” and Judge Hardie glanced at them. One of the jurors smiled and nodded.
“Do you wish to reexamine your witness, Mr. Rathbone?” Hardie asked.
“No thank you, my lord,” Rathbone declined graciously.
Hardie excused Sir Herbert, who walked with dignity, head high, back to his place in the dock.
Rathbone called a succession of Sir Herbert’s professional colleagues. He did not ask them as much as he had originally intended; Sir Herbert’s impression upon the court in general had been too powerful for him to want to smother it with evidence which now seemed largely extraneous. He asked them briefly for their estimation of Sir Herbert as a colleague and each replied unhesitatingly of his great skill and dedication. He asked of his personal moral reputation and they spoke equally plainly that he was beyond reproach.
