A Sudden, Fearful Death

by Anne Perry

  Lovat-Smith did not bother to pursue them. He made something of a show of boredom, looking at the ceiling while Rathbone was speaking, and when it was his own turn, waiting several seconds before he began. He did not exactly say that their loyalty was totally predictable—and meaningless—but he implied it. It was a ploy to bore the jury and make them forget this impression of Sir Herbert, and Rathbone knew it. He could see from the jurors’ faces that they were still completely in sympathy with Sir Herbert, and further laboring of the point risked insulting their intelligence and losing their attention. He thanked the doctor at that moment on the stand and excused him, sending a message that no further colleagues would be required—except Kristian Beck.

  It would have been a startling omission had he not called him, but apart from that, he wished to sow in the jurors’ minds the strong possibility that it had been Beck himself who had murdered Prudence.

  Kristian took the stand without the slightest idea of what awaited him. Rathbone had told him only that he would be called to witness to Sir Herbert’s character.

  “Dr. Beck, you are a physician and surgeon, are you not?”

  “I am.” Kristian looked faintly surprised. It was hardly necessary for the validity of his testimony.

  “And you have practiced in several places, including your native Bohemia?” He wanted to establish in the jurors’ minds Beck’s foreignness, his very differentness from the essentially English, familiar Sir Herbert. It was a task he disliked, but the shadow of the noose forms strange patterns on the mind.

  “Yes,” Kristian agreed again.

  “But you have worked with Sir Herbert Stanhope for more than ten or eleven years, is that correct?”

  “About that,” Kristian agreed. His accent was almost indiscernible, merely a pleasant clarity to certain vowels. “Of course we seldom actually work together, since we are in the same field, but I know his reputation, both personal and professional, and I see him frequently.” His expression was open and candid, his intention to help obvious.

  “I understand,” Rathbone conceded. “I did not mean to imply that you worked side by side. What is Sir Herbert’s personal reputation, Dr. Beck?”

  A flash of amusement crossed Kristian’s face, but there was no malice in it.

  “He is regarded as pompous, a little overbearing, justifiably proud of his abilities and his achievements, an excellent teacher, and a man of total moral integrity.” He smiled at Rathbone. “Naturally he is joked about by his juniors, and guyed occasionally—I think that is the word—as we all are. But I have never heard even the most irresponsible suggest his behavior toward women was other than totally correct.”

  “It has been suggested that he was somewhat naive concerning women.” Rathbone lifted his voice questioningly. “Especially young women. Is that your observation, Dr. Beck?”

  “I would have chosen the word uninterested,” Kristian replied. “But I suppose naive would do. It is not something to which I previously gave any thought. But if you wish me to say that I find it extremely difficult to believe that he had any romantic interest in Nurse Barrymore, or that he would be unaware of any such feeling she might have had for him, then I can do so very easily. I find it harder to believe that Nurse Barrymore cherished a secret passion for Sir Herbert.” A pucker of doubt crossed his face, and he stared at Rathbone very directly.

  “You find that hard to believe, Dr. Beck?” Rathbone said very clearly.

  “I do.”

  “Do you consider yourself a naive or unworldly man?”

  Kristian’s mouth curled into faint self-mockery. “No—no, I don’t.”

  “Then if you find it surprising and hard to accept, is it hard to believe that Sir Herbert was also quite unaware of it?” Rathbone could not keep the ring of triumph out of his voice, although he tried.

  Kristian looked rueful, and in spite of what Rathbone had said, surprised.

  “No—no, that would seem to follow inevitably.”

  Rathbone thought of all the suspicions of Kristian Beck that Monk had raised to him: the quarrel overheard with Prudence, the possibilities of blackmail, the fact that Kristian Beck had been in the hospital all the night of Prudence’s death, that his own patient had died when he had been expected to recover—but it was all suspicion, dark thoughts, no more. There was no proof, no hard evidence of anything. If he raised it now he might direct the jury’s thoughts toward Beck as a suspect. On the other hand, he might only alienate them and betray his own desperation. It would look ugly. At the moment he had their sympathy, and that might just be enough to win the verdict. Sir Herbert’s life could rest on this decision.

  Should he accuse Beck? He looked at his interesting, curious face with its sensuous mouth and marvelous eyes. There was too much intelligence in it—too much humor; it was a risk he dare not take. As it was, he was winning. He knew it—and Lovat-Smith knew it.

  “Thank you, Dr. Beck,” he said aloud. “That is all.”

  Lovat-Smith rose immediately and strode toward the center of the floor.

  “Dr. Beck, you are a busy surgeon and physician, are you not?”

  “Yes,” Kristian agreed, puckering his brows.

  “Do you spend much of your time considering the possible romances within the hospital, and whether one person or another may be aware of such feelings?”

  “No,” Kristian confessed.

  “Do you spend any time at all so involved?” Lovat-Smith pressed.

  But Kristian was not so easily circumvented.

  “It does not require thought, Mr. Lovat-Smith. It is a matter of simple observation one cannot avoid. I am sure you are aware of your colleagues, even when your mind is upon your profession.”

  This was so patently true that Lovat-Smith could not deny it. He hesitated a moment as if some argument were on the tip of his tongue, then abandoned it.

  “None of them is accused of murder, Dr. Beck,” he said with a gesture of resignation and vague half-rueful amusement. “That is all I have to ask you, thank you.”

  Hardie glanced at Rathbone.

  Rathbone shook his head.

  Kristian Beck left the witness stand and disappeared into the body of the court, leaving Rathbone uncertain whether he had just had a fortunate escape from making a fool of himself, or if he had just missed a profound opportunity he would not get again.

  Lovat-Smith looked across at him, the light catching in his brilliant eyes, making his expression unreadable.

  The following day Rathbone called Lady Stanhope, not that he expected her evidence to add anything of substance. Certainly she knew no facts germane to the case, but her presence would counter the emotional impact made by Mrs. Barrymore. Lady Stanhope also stood to lose not only her husband to a ghastly death, but her family to scandal and shame—and in all probability her home to a sudden and almost certainly permanent poverty and isolation.

  She mounted the stand with a little assistance from the clerk and faced Rathbone nervously. She was very pale and seemed to keep her posture only with difficulty. But she did stop and quite deliberately look up and across at her husband in the dock, meet his eyes, and smile.

  Sir Herbert blinked, gave an answering smile, and then looked away. One could only guess his emotions.

  Rathbone waited, giving the jury time to observe and remember, then he stepped forward and spoke to her courteously, very gently.

  “Lady Stanhope, I apologize for having to call you to testify at what must be a most distressing time for you, but I am sure you would wish to do everything possible to assist your husband to prove his innocence.”

  She swallowed, staring at him.

  “Of course. Anything …” She stopped, obviously also remembering his instruction not to say more than she was asked for.

  He smiled at her. “Thank you. I don’t have a great deal to ask you, simply a little about Sir Herbert and your knowledge of his life and his character.”

  She looked at him blankly, not knowing what to say.


  This was going to be extremely difficult. He must steer a course between catering to her so much he learned nothing and being so forceful he frightened her into incoherence. He had thought when he had originally spoken to her that she would be an excellent witness, now he was wondering if he had made an error in calling her. But if he had not, her absence would have been noticed and wondered upon.

  “Lady Stanhope, how long have you been married to Sir Herbert?”

  “Twenty-three years,” she replied.

  “And you have children?”

  “Yes, we have seven children, three daughters and four sons.” She was beginning to gain a little more confidence. She was on familiar ground.

  “Remember you are on oath, Lady Stanhope,” he warned gently, not for her but to draw the jury’s attention, “and must answer honestly, even if it is painful to you. Have you ever had cause to doubt Sir Herbert’s complete loyalty to you during that time?”

  She looked a little taken aback, even though he had previously ascertained that her answer would be in the negative or he would not have asked.

  “No, most certainly not!” She flushed faintly and looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. I am quite aware that many women are not so fortunate. But no, he has never given me cause for distress or anxiety in that way.” She took a breath and smiled very slightly, looking at Rathbone. “You must understand, he is devoted to his profession. He is not a great deal interested in personal affection of that sort. He loves his family, he likes to be comfortable with people, to be able, if you understand what I mean, to take them for granted.” She smiled apologetically, looking steadily at Rathbone and keeping her eyes from everyone else. “I suppose you might say that is lazy, in a sort of way, but he puts all his energy into his work. He has saved the lives of so many people—and surely that is more important than making polite conversation, flattering people and playing little games of etiquette and manners? Isn’t it?” She was asking him for reassurance, and already he was conscious of the sounds of sympathy and agreement from the crowd, little murmurs, shiftings and nods, matters of affirmation.

  “Yes, Lady Stanhope, I believe it is,” he said gently. “And I am sure there are many thousands of people who will agree with you. I don’t think I have anything further to ask you, but my learned friend may. Please would you remain there, just in case.”

  He walked slowly back to his seat, meeting Lovat-Smith’s glance as he did so, and knowing his opponent was weighing up what he might gain or lose by questioning Lady Stanhope. She had the jury’s sympathy. If he appeared to embarrass or fluster her he might jeopardize his own position, even if he discredited her testimony. How much of the jurors’ verdict would rest on fact, how much on anticipation, emotion, prejudice, whom they believed or liked, and whom they did not?

  Lovat-Smith rose and approached the witness stand with a smile. He did not know how to be humble, but he understood charm perfectly.

  “Lady Stanhope, I also have very little to ask you and shall not keep you long. Have you ever been to the Royal Free Hospital?”

  She looked surprised. “No—no I have never had the need, fortunately. All my confinements have been at home, and I have never required an operation.”

  “I was thinking rather more of a social visit, ma’am, not as a patient. Perhaps out of interest in your husband’s profession?”

  “Oh no, no, I don’t think that would be at all necessary, and really not suitable, you know?” She shook her head, biting her lip. “My place is in the home, with my family. My husband’s place of work is not—not appropriate …” She stopped, uncertain what else to add.

  In the gallery two elderly women glanced at each other and nodded approvingly.

  “I see.” Lovat-Smith turned a little sideways, glancing at the jury, then back at Lady Stanhope. “Did you ever meet Nurse Prudence Barrymore?”

  “No.” Again she was surprised. “No, of course not.”

  “Do you know anything about the way in which a skilled nurse normally works with a surgeon caring for a patient?”

  “No.” She shook her head, frowning with confusion. “I have no idea. It is—it is not anything that occurs to me. I care for my house and my children.”

  “Of course, and most commendable,” Lovat-Smith agreed with a nod of his head. “That is your vocation and your skill.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you really are not in a position to say whether your husband’s relationship with Miss Barrymore was unusual, or personal, or whether it was not—are you?”

  “Well—I …” She looked unhappy. “I—I don’t know.”

  “There is no reason why you should, ma’am,” Lovat-Smith said quietly. “Neither would any other lady in your position. Thank you. That is all I have to ask you.”

  A look of relief crossed her face, and she glanced up at Sir Herbert. He smiled at her briefly.

  Rathbone rose again.

  “Lady Stanhope, as my learned friend has pointed out, you know nothing about the hospital or its routines and practices. But you do know your husband and his personality, and you have for nearly a quarter of a century?”

  She looked relieved. “Yes, yes I do.”

  “And he is a good, loyal, and affectionate husband and father, but dedicated to his career, not socially skilled, not a ladies’ man, not sensitive or aware of the emotions and daydreams of young women?”

  She smiled a little ruefully, looked up at the dock as if uncertain, apology plain in her face. “No sir, not at all, I am afraid.”

  A shadow of relief, almost satisfaction, touched Sir Herbert. It was a complex emotional expression, and the jury noticed it with approval.

  “Thank you, Lady Stanhope,” Rathbone said with rising confidence. “Thank you very much. That is all.”

  Rathbone’s last witness was Faith Barker, Prudence’s sister, recalled now for the defense. When he had first spoken to her she had been utterly convinced that Sir Herbert was guilty. He had murdered her sister, and for her that was a crime for which there was no forgiveness. But Rathbone had spoken to her at length, and finally she had made pronounced concessions. She was still uncertain, and there was no mercy in her for Sir Herbert, but on one point at least she was adamant, and he felt the risk of what else she might say was worth it.

  She took the stand with her head high, face pale, and marked with the depth of grief. Her anger also was unmistakable, and she shot Sir Herbert in the dock opposite her a look of unsuppressed loathing. The jury saw it and were distinctly uncomfortable; one man coughed and covered his mouth in a gesture of embarrassment. Rathbone saw it with a rising heart. They believed Sir Herbert; Faith Barker’s grief made them uncomfortable. Lovat-Smith saw it also. His jaw tightened and he pursed his lips.

  “Mrs. Barker,” Rathbone began clearly and very politely. “I know that you are here at least in part against your will. However, I must direct you to exercise all your fairness of mind, that integrity which I am sure you have in common with your sister, and answer my questions only with what is asked. Do not offer your own opinions or emotions. At such a time they cannot but be profound and full of pain. We sympathize with you, but we sympathize also with Lady Stanhope and her family, and all other people this tragedy has touched.”

  “I understand you, Mr. Rathbone,” she replied stiffly. “I shall not speak out of malice, I swear to you.”

  “Thank you. I am sure you will not. Now please, if you would consider this matter of your sister’s regard for Sir Herbert and what you know of her character. What we have heard of her from witnesses of very different natures, and different circumstances in which they knew her, all paints the picture of a woman of compassion and integrity. We have not heard from anyone of a single cruel or selfish act on her part. Does that sound like the sister you knew?”

  “Certainly,” Faith agreed without hesitation.

  “An excellent woman?” Rathbone added.

  “Yes.”

  “Without fault?” He r
aised his eyebrows.

  “No, of course not.” She dismissed the idea with a faint smile. “None of us is without fault.”

  “Without being disloyal, I am sure you can tell us in which general area her flaws lay?”

  Lovat-Smith rose to his feet. “Really, my lord, this is hardly enlightening, and surely not relevant? Let the poor woman rest in as much peace as is possible, considering the manner of her death.”

  Hardie looked at Rathbone.

  “Is this as totally pointless and tasteless as it seems, Mr. Rathbone?” he said with disapproval sharp in his lean face.

  “No, my lord,” Rathbone assured him. “I have a very definite purpose in asking Mrs. Barker such a question. The prosecution’s charge against Sir Herbert rests on certain assumptions about Miss Barrymore’s character. I must have the latitude to explore them if I am to serve him fairly.”

  “Then arrive at your point, Mr. Rathbone,” Hardie instructed, his expression easing only slightly.

  Rathbone turned to the witness stand.

  “Mrs. Barker?”

  She took a deep breath. “She was a little brusque at times. She did not suffer fools graciously, and since she was of extraordinary intelligence, to her there were many who fell into that category. Do you need more?”

  “If there is more?”

  “She was very brave, both physically and morally. She had no time for cowards. She could be hasty in her judgment.”

  “She was ambitious?” he asked.

  “I do not see that as a flaw.” She looked at him with undisguised dislike.

  “Nor I, ma’am. It was merely a question. Was she ruthless in reaching after her ambitions, regardless of the cost or consequences to others?”

  “If you mean was she cruel or dishonest, no, never. She did not expect or wish to gain her desires at someone else’s expense.”

  “Have you ever known her to force or coerce anyone into a gesture or act they did not wish?”

  “No, I have not!”

  “Or to use privileged knowledge to exert pressure upon people?”