A Sudden, Fearful Death

by Anne Perry

  Rathbone looked at Hester standing in the center of the floor.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said quietly. “But I’m going to do something. What you must do”—she smiled very slightly to soften the arrogance of what she was saying—“is keep the trial going as long as you can.”

  “How?” His eyebrows shot up. “I’ve finished!”

  “I don’t know! Call more character witnesses to say what a fine man he is.”

  “I don’t need them,” he protested.

  “I know you don’t. Call them anyway.” She waved a hand wildly. “Do something, anything—just don’t let the jury bring in a verdict yet.”

  “There’s no point—”

  “Do it!” she exploded, her voice tight with fury and exasperation. “Just don’t give up.”

  He smiled very slightly, merely a touch at the corners of his lips, but there was a shining admiration in his eyes, even if there was no hope at all.

  “For a while,” he conceded. “But there isn’t any point.”

  Callandra knew how the trial was progressing. She had been there on that last afternoon, and she saw Sir Herbert’s face, and the way he stood in the dock, calm-eyed and straight-backed, and she saw that the jurors were quite happy to look at him. There was not one who avoided his glance or whose cheeks colored when he looked toward them. It was plain they believed him not guilty.

  So someone else was—someone else had murdered Prudence Barrymore.

  Kristian Beck? Because he performed abortions and she knew it, and had threatened to tell the authorities?

  The thought was so sickening she could no longer keep it at the back of her mind. It poisoned everything. She tossed and turned in bed until long after midnight, then finally sat up hunched over with her hands around her knees, trying to find the courage to force the issue at last. She visualized facing him, telling him what she had seen. Over and over again she worded it and reworded it to find a way that sounded bearable. None did.

  She played in her mind all the possible answers he might give. He might simply lie—and she would know it was a lie and be heartsick. The hot tears filled her eyes and her throat at the thought of it. Or he might confess it and make some pathetic, self-serving excuse. And that would be almost worse. She thrust that thought away without finishing it.

  She was cold; she sat shivering on the bed with the covers tangled uselessly beside her.

  Or he might be angry and tell her to mind her own business, order her to get out. It might be a quarrel she could never heal—perhaps never really want to. That would be horrible—but better than either of the other two. It would be violent, ugly, but at least there would be a certain kind of honestly in it.

  Or there was a last possibility: that he would give her some explanation of what she had seen which was not abortion at all but some other operation—perhaps trying to save Marianne after a back-street butchery? That would be the best of all and he would have kept it secret for her sake.

  But was that really possible? Was she not deluding herself? And if he did tell her such a thing, would she believe it? Or would it simply return her to where she was now—full of doubt and fear, and with the awful suspicion of a crime far worse.

  She bent her head to her knees and sat crumpled without knowledge of time.

  Gradually she came to an understanding that was inescapable. She must face him and live with whatever followed. There was no other course which was tolerable.

  “Come in.”

  She pushed the door open firmly and entered. She was shaking, and there was no strength in her limbs, but neither was there indecision, that had been resolved and there was no thought of escape now.

  Kristian was sitting at his desk. He rose as soon as he saw her, a smile of pleasure on his face in spite of very obvious tiredness. Was that the sleeplessness of guilt? She swallowed, and her breath caught in her throat, almost choking her.

  “Callandra? Are you all right?” He pulled out the other chair for her and held it while she sat down. She had intended to stand, but found herself accepting, perhaps because it put off the moment fractionally.

  “No.” She launched into the attack without prevarication as he returned to his own seat. “I am extremely worried, and I have decided to consult you about it at last. I cannot evade it any longer.”

  The blood drained from his face, leaving him ashen. The dark circles around his eyes stood out like bruises. His voice when he spoke was very quiet and the strain was naked in it.

  “Tell me.”

  This was even worse than she had thought. He looked so stricken, like a man facing sentence.

  “You look very tired …” she began, then was furious with herself. It was a stupid observation, and pointless.

  The sad ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

  “Sir Herbert has been absent some time. I am doing what I can to care for his patients, but with them as well as my own it is hard.” He shook his head minutely. “But that is unimportant. Tell me what you can of your health. What pain do you have? What signs that disturb you?”

  How stupid of her. Of course he was tired—he must be exhausted, trying to do Sir Herbert’s job as well as his own. She had not even thought of that. Neither had any of the other governors, so far as she knew. What a group of incompetents they were! All they had spoken of when they met was the hospital’s reputation.

  And he had assumed she was ill—naturally. Why else would she consult him with trembling body and husky voice?

  “I am not ill,” she said, meeting his eyes with apology and pain. “I am troubled by fear and conscience.” At last it was said, and it was the truth, no evasions. She loved him. It eased her to admit it in words, without evasion at last. She stared at his face with all its intelligence, passion, humor, and sensuality. Whatever he had done, that could not suddenly be torn out. If it came out at all, it would leave a raw wound, like the roots of a giant tree ripping out of the soil, upheaving all the land around it.

  “By what?” he asked, staring at her. “Do you know something about Prudence Barrymore’s death?”

  “I don’t think so—I hope not….”

  “Then what?”

  This was the moment.

  “A short while ago,” she began, “I accidentally intruded on you while you were performing an operation. You did not see or hear me, and I left without speaking.” He was watching her with a small pucker of concern between his brows. “I recognized the patient,” she went on. “It was Marianne Gillespie, and I fear that the operation was to abort the child she was carrying.” She did not need to go on. She knew from his face, the total lack of surprise or horror in it, that it was true. She tried to numb herself so she would not feel the pain inside. She must distance herself from him, realize that she could not love a man who had done such things, not possibly. This abominable hurt would not last!

  “Yes it was,” he said, and there was neither guilt nor fear in his eyes. “She was with child as a result of rape by her brother-in-law. She was in the very early stages, less than six weeks.” He looked sad and tired, and there was fear of hurt in his face, but not shame. “I have performed abortions on several occasions before,” he said quietly, “when I have been consulted early enough, in the first eight or ten weeks, and the child is a result of violence or the woman is very young indeed, sometimes even less than twelve years old—or if she is in such a state of ill health that to bear the child would, in my judgment, cost her her own life. Not in any other circumstances and not ever for payment.” She wanted to interrupt him and say something, but her throat was too tight, her lips stiff. “I am sorry if that is abhorrent to you.” A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Very sorry indeed. You must know how deeply I care for you, although it has never been right that I should tell you, since I am not free to offer you anything honorable—but whatever you feel about it, I have thought long and deeply. I have even prayed.” Again the self-mocking humor flashed and disappeared. “And I believe it to be
right—acceptable before God. I believe in those cases a woman has the right to choose. I cannot change that, even for you.”

  Now she was terrified for him. He would be caught, and that would mean professional ruin and imprisonment. She was aching inside with the tension of fear.

  “Victoria Stanhope,” she said huskily, her heart full of memories of a girl in a pink dress, her face drawn, her eyes full of hope, and then despair. She had to know this one last thing, and then dismiss it forever. “Did you operate on her?”

  His face shadowed with grief.

  “No. I would have, since the child was the result of both incest and seduction—her brother Arthur, God help him—but she was only four months from term. It was too late. There was nothing I could do. I wish there had been.”

  Suddenly the whole picture was different. It was not abortion for money but an attempt to help some of the weakest and most desperate people to cope with a situation beyond their bearing. Should he have? Or was it still a sin?

  Surely not? Surely it was compassion—and wisdom?

  She stared at him, unable to grasp the joy of it, the immeasurable relief that washed over her. Her eyes were prickling with tears and her voice was trapped somewhere in her throat.

  “Callandra?” he said gently.

  She smiled, a ridiculous, radiant smile, meeting his eyes with such intensity it was like a physical touch.

  Very slowly he began to smile too. He reached out his hand across the desktop and took hers. If it occurred to him that she had thought also that he had killed Prudence, he did not say so. Nor did he ask her why she had not told the police. She would have told him it was because she loved him fiercely, unwillingly and painfully, but it was far better for all that such things be unsaid. It was known between them, and understood, with all the other impossibilities which did not need words now.

  For several minutes they sat in silence, hands clasped, staring across the desk and smiling.

  Rathbone entered court in a white-hot anger. Lovat-Smith sat somberly at his table, knowing he had lost. He looked up at Rathbone without interest, then saw his expression and stiffened. He glanced up at the dock. Sir Herbert was standing with a faint smile on his lips and an air of calm confidence, nothing so vulgar or ill-judged as jubilation, but unmistakable nonetheless.

  “Mr. Rathbone?” Judge Hardie looked at him questioningly. “Are you ready to present your closing argument?”

  Rathbone forced his voice to sound as level as he could.

  “No, my lord. If it please the court, I have one or two further witnesses I should like to call.”

  Hardie looked surprised, and Lovat-Smith’s eyes widened. There was a faint rustle around the public benches. Several of the jurors frowned.

  “If you think it necessary, Mr. Rathbone,” Hardie said doubtfully.

  “I do, my lord,” Rathbone replied. “To do my client complete justice.” As he said it he glanced up at the dock and saw Sir Herbert’s smile fade just a fraction and a tiny furrow mark his brows. But it did not last. The smile reappeared; he met Rathbone’s eyes with confidence and a brilliance which only the two of them knew was contempt.

  Lovat-Smith looked curious, shifting his glance from Rathbone to the dock and back again, sitting up a little straighter at his table.

  “I would like to call Dr. James Cantrell,” Rathbone said clearly.

  “Call Dr. James Cantrell,” the usher repeated in a loud voice.

  After several seconds he duly appeared, young, thin, his chin and throat spotted with blood where he had cut himself shaving in his nervousness. He was a student doctor and his career hung in the balance. He was sworn in and Rathbone began to ask him long, detailed questions about Sir Herbert’s immaculate professional behavior.

  The jury was bored, Hardie was growing irritated, and Lovat-Smith was quite candidly interested. The smile never faltered on Sir Herbert’s face.

  Rathbone struggled on, feeling more and more absurd—and hopeless—but he would give Monk all the time he could.

  Hester had arranged with another nurse to take care of her duties for a few hours, promising to return the favor in due course at double the hours. She met Monk at his lodgings at six in the morning. Every minute must be made use of. Already the sun was high, and they did not know how long Rathbone could give them.

  “Where shall we begin?” she asked. “I have been thinking, and I confess I do not feel nearly as optimistic as I did before.”

  “I was never optimistic,” he said savagely. “I’m just certain I’m not going to let that bastard walk away.” He smiled at her bleakly, but there was something in it which was not warmth—he was too angry for that—but even deeper. It was total trust, the certainty that she understood and, without explanation, shared his feeling. “He didn’t advertise and he didn’t tout for business. Somewhere there is a man or woman who did that for him. He will not have accepted women without money, so that means society—old or new—”

  “Probably old,” she interrupted wryly. “Trade, which is new society, comes from the genteel upper working classes with social ambitions—like Runcorn. Their morals are usually very strict. It’s the older money, which is sure of itself, which flouts convention and is more likely to need abortions—or to feel unable to cope with above a certain number of children.”

  “Poor women are even less able to manage,” Monk said with a frown.

  “Of course,” she agreed. “But can you see them affording Sir Herbert’s prices? They’ll go to the women in the back streets, or try to do it themselves.”

  A look of irritation crossed his face—at his own stupidity, not hers. He stood by the mantel shelf, his foot on the fender.

  “So how would a society lady find herself an abortionist?” he demanded.

  “Word of mouth, I suppose,” she said thoughtfully. “But who would she dare ask?”

  He remained silent, watching her and waiting.

  She continued, thinking aloud. “Someone her husband would not know—or her father, if she is unmarried—or possibly her mother also. Where does she go alone without causing comment?” She sat down in the high chair and rested her chin on her hands. “Her dressmaker—her milliner,” she answered herself. “She might trust a friend, but unlikely. It is the sort of thing you don’t want your friends to know—it is their opinion you are guarding against.”

  “Then those are the people we must try,” he said swiftly. “But what can I do? I’m not standing here waiting for you!”

  “You are trying the milliners and dressmakers,” she replied with decision, rising to her feet. “I am going to try the hospital. Someone there must know. He was assisted, even if it was by a different nurse each time. If I read Prudence’s letters again for dates and names”—she straightened her skirts—“I may be able to trace it back to particular people. She left initials. One of them may be prepared to testify as to the middle man … or woman.”

  “You can’t do that—it’s too dangerous,” he said instantly. “Besides, they won’t tell you anything.”

  She looked at him with disgust. “I’m not going to ask them outright, for Heaven’s sake. And we haven’t got time to be squeamish. Oliver will be able to protract the trial not more than another day or two at the very best.”

  Protests rose to his lips and died unspoken.

  “What time do milliners open?” he asked. “And what in God’s name am I going to go into a milliner’s for?”

  “Hats,” she said bluntly, clasping her reticule, ready to leave.

  He glared at her.

  “For your sister, your mother, your aunt. Anybody you like.”

  “And what am I going to do with two dozen women’s hats? And if you give me an impertinent answer …”

  “You don’t have to buy any! Just say you will consider it and then …” She stopped.

  “Ask if they can guide me to a good abortionist,” he finished.

  She raised her chin sharply.

  “Something like that.” />
  He gave her a filthy look, then opened the door for her to leave. It was now quarter to seven. On the step she turned to meet his eyes in a long, steady gaze, then smiled a little, just turning up the corners of her mouth. It was a gesture of courage rather than humor or hope.

  He watched her leave without the sense of despair he ought to have felt, considering how totally absurd their venture was.

  His first attempt was ghastly. The establishment opened for business at ten o’clock, although the flowermakers, stitchers, ribboners, and pressers had been there since seven. A middle-aged woman with a hard, watchful face welcomed him in and inquired if she might be of service.

  He asked to see a hat suitable for his sister, avoiding looking at the displays of any manner of hats in straw, felt, linen, feather, flowers, ribbons, and lace stacked in several corners of the room and along shelves to the sides.

  With a supercilious air she asked him to describe his sister and the type of occasion for which the hat was required.

  He made an attempt to tell her of Beth’s features and general aspect.

  “Her coloring, sir,” she said with ill-concealed weariness. “Is she dark like yourself, or fair? Does she have large eyes? Is she tall or small?”

  He seized on something definite, cursing Hester for having sent him on this idiot’s venture.

  “Light brown hair, large blue eyes,” he replied hastily. “About your height.”

  “And the occasion, sir?”

  “Church.”

  “I see. Would that be a London church, sir, or somewhere in the country?”

  “Country.” Did his Northumbrian heritage show so transparently? Even after his years of careful diction to eradicate it? Why had he not said London: it would have been so much easier, and it did not matter. He was not going to buy a hat anyway.

  “I see. Perhaps you would care to look at a few of these?” She led him to several very plain shapes in straw and fabric. “We can, of course trim them as you please,” she added, seeing the look on his face.

  The color rose up his cheeks. He felt like a complete fool. Again he cursed Hester. Nothing except his rage against Sir Herbert would have kept him here. “What about something in blue?”