A sudden, fearful death (38 page)

Sir Herbert rose also. He was pale
and the marks of anxiety were plain in his face now that he had stopped concentrating
on specific questions. The gravity of his situation overwhelmed him, arid for
all the force of logic and Rathbone's assurances, if the verdict was against
him, he faced the rope, and the reality of that crowded out everything else.

He made as if to speak, and then
found no words.

Rathbone had stood in cells like
this more times than he could count, with all manner of both men and women,
each facing the fear in their own way. Some were openly terrified, others
masked their feelings with pride or anger. Sir Herbert was outwardly calm, but
Rathbone knew the sick anxiety he must feel inside, and was helpless to do
anything to help. Whatever he said, as soon as he was gone and the great door
closed behind him, Sir Herbert would be alone for the long dragging hours, to
swing from hope to despair, courage to terror. He must wait, and leave the
battle to someone else.

"I will put my best people
onto it," Rathbone said aloud, gripping Sir Herbert's hand in his own.
"In the meantime, try to think over any conversation with Miss Barrymore
that you can. It will be helpful to us to refute the interpretation they have
put upon your regard for her."

"Yes." Sir Herbert
composed his face into an expression of calm intelligence. "Of course.
Good day, Mr. Rathbone. I shall look forward to your next visit....".

"In two or three days'
time," Rathbone said in answer to the unasked question, then he turned to
the door and called for the jailer.

* * * * *

Rathbone had every intention of doing all he could to
find another suspect in the case. If Sir Herbert were innocent, then someone
else was guilty. There was no one in London better able to unearth the truth than
Monk. Accordingly he sent a letter to Monk's lodgings in Fitzroy Street,
stating his intention to call upon him that evening on a matter of business.
It never occurred to him that Monk might be otherwise engaged.

And indeed Monk was not. Whatever
his personal inclinations, he needed every individual job, and he needed
Rathbone's goodwill in general. Many of his most rewarding cases, both
professionally and financially, came through Rathbone.

He welcomed him in and invited him
to be seated in the comfortable chair, himself sitting in the one opposite and
regarding him curiously. There had been nothing in his letter as to the nature
of the present case.

Rathbone pursed his lips.

"I have an extremely difficult
defense to conduct," he began carefully, watching Monk's face. "I am
assuming my client is innocent The circumstantial evidence is poor, but the
evidence of motive is strong, and no other immediate suspect leaps to
mind."

"Any others possible?"
Monk interrupted.

"Oh indeed, several."

"With motive?"

Rathbone settled a little more
comfortably in his seat.

"Certainly, although there was
no proof that it is powerful enough to have precipitated the act. One may
deduce it rather than observe evidence of it."

"A nice distinction."
Monk smiled. "I presume your client's motive is rather more
evident?"

"I'm afraid so. But he is by
no means the only suspect, merely by some way the best."

Monk looked thoughtful. "He
denies the act. Does he deny the motive?"

"He does. He claims that the
perception of it is a misunderstanding, not intentional, merely somewhat...
emotionally distorted." He saw Monk's gray eyes narrow. Rathbone smiled.
"I perceive your thoughts. You are correct. It is Sir Herbert Stanhope. I
am quite aware that it was you who found the letters from Prudence Barrymore to
her sister."

Monk's eyebrows rose.

"And yet you ask me to help
you disprove their content?"

"Not disprove their
content," Rathbone argued. "Simply show that Miss Barrymore's infatuation
with Sir Herbert did not mean that he killed her. There are very credible other
possibilities, one of which may prove to be the truth."

"And you are content with the
possibility?" Monk asked. "Or do you wish me to provide proof of the
alternative as well?"

"Possibility first,"
Rathbone said dryly. "Then when you have that, of course an alternative
would be excellent. It is hardly satisfactory simply to establish doubt. It is
not certain a jury will acquit on it, and it assuredly will not save the man's
reputation. Without the conviction of someone else, he will effectively be
ruined."

"Do you believe him
innocent?" Monk looked at Rathbone with acute interest. "Or is that
something you cannot tell me?"

"Yes I do," Rathbone
answered candidly. "I have no grounds for it, but I do. Are you convinced
of his guilt?"

"No," Monk replied with
little hesitation. "I rather think not, in spite of the letters." His
face darkened as he spoke. "It seems she was infatuated with him, and he
may have been flattered and foolish enough to encourage her. But on
reflection—I have given it a great deal of thought—murder seems a somewhat
hysterical reaction to a young woman's emotions, no doubt embarrassing but not
dangerous to him. Even if she was intensely in love with him," he said the
words as though they were distasteful to him, "there was nothing she could
do that would do more than cause him a certain awkwardness." He seemed to
retreat inside himself and Rathbone was aware that the thoughts hurt him. "I
would have thought a man of his eminence, working very often with women,"
he continued, "must have faced similar situations before. I do not share
your certainty of his innocence, but I am sure there is more to the story than
we have discovered so far. I accept your offer. I shall be most interested to
see what else I can learn."

"Why were you involved in it
in the first place?" Rathbone asked curiously.

"Lady Callandra wished the
matter looked into. She is on the Board of Governors of the hospital and had a
high regard for Prudence Barrymore."

"And this answer satisfies
her?" Rathbone did not conceal his surprise. "I would have thought
as a governor of the hospital she would have been most eager to vindicate Sir
Herbert! He is unquestionably their brightest luminary; almost anyone could be
better spared than he."

A flicker of doubt darkened Monk's
eyes.

"Yes," he said slowly.
"She does seem to be well satisfied. She has thanked me, paid me, and
released me from the case."

Rathbone said nothing, his mind
filled with conjecture, conclusionless, one thought melting into another, but
worrying.

"Hester does not believe it is
the answer," Monk continued after a moment or two.

Rathbone's attention was jerked
back by the sound of her name. "Hester? What has she to do with it?"

Monk smiled with a downturn of the
corners of his mouth. He regarded Rathbone with amusement, and Rathbone had the
most uncomfortable sensation that his uneasy and very personal feelings for
Hester were transparent in his face. Surely she would have had confided in
Monk? That would be too—no, of course she would not. He dismissed the thought.
It was disturbing and offensive.

"She knew Prudence in the
Crimea," Monk replied. The easy use of Nurse Barrymore's given name
startled Rathbone. He had thought of her as the victim; his concern had been
entirely with Sir Herbert. Now suddenly her reality came to him with a painful
shock. Hester had known her, perhaps cared for her. With chilling clarity he
saw again how like Hester she must have been. Suddenly he was cold inside.

Monk perceived the shock in him.
Surprisingly there was none of the ironic humor Rathbone expected, instead only
a pain devoid of adulteration or disguise.

"Did you know her?" he
asked before his brain censored the words. Of course Monk had not known her.
How could he?

"No," Monk replied
quietly, his voice full of hurt. "But I have learned a great deal about
her." His gray eyes hardened, cold and implacable. "And I intend to
see the right man with the noose around his neck for this." Then suddenly
the ruthless, bitter smile was there on his lips. "I don't only mean in
order to avoid a miscarriage of justice. Of course I don't want that—but
neither do I intend to see Stanhope acquitted and no one in his place. I won't
allow them to let this one go unresolved."

Rathbone looked at him closely,
studying the passion so plain in his face.

"What did you learn of her
which moves you this profoundly?"

"Courage," Monk answered.
"Intelligence, dedication to learning, a will to fight for what she
believed and what she wanted. She cared about people, and there was no equivocation
or hypocrisy in her."

Rathbone had a sudden vision of a
woman not unlike Monk himself, in some ways strange and complex, in others
burningly simple. He was not surprised that Monk cared so much that she was
dead, even that he felt an identity with her loss.

"She sounds like a woman who
could have loved very deeply," Rathbone said gently. "Not one who
would have accepted rejection without a struggle."

Monk pursed his lips, doubt in his
eyes, reluctant and touched with anger.

"Nor one to resort to pleading
or blackmail," he said, but his voice held more hurt than conviction.

Rathbone rose to his feet.

"If there is another story we
have not touched yet, find it. Do whatever you can that will ekpose other
motives. Someone killed her."

Monk's face set hard. "I
will," he promised, not to Rathbone but to himself. His smile was sour.
"I assume Sir Herbert is paying for this?"

"He is," Rathbone
replied. "If only we could unearth a strong motive in someone else! There
is a reason why someone killed her, Monk." He stopped. "Where is
Hester working now?'

Monk smiled, the amusement going
all the way to his eyes. "In the Royal Free Hospital."

"What?" Rathbone was
incredulous. "In a hospital? But I thought she ..." He stopped. It
was none of Monk's business that Hester had been dismissed before, although of
course he knew it. The thoughts, the amusement, the anger, and the instinct to
defend, in spite of himself, were all there in his eyes as Rathbone stared at
him.

There were times when Rathbone felt
uniquely close to Monk, and both liked and disliked him intensely with two
warring parts of his nature.

"I see," he said aloud.
"Well, I suppose it could prove useful. Please keep me informed."

"Of course," Monk agreed
soberly. "Good day."

Rathbone never doubted that he
would also go to see Hester. He argued with himself, debating the reasons for
and against such a move, but he did it with his brain, even while his feet were
carrying him toward the hospital. It would be difficult to find her; she would
be busy working. Quite possibly she knew nothing helpful about the murder
anyway. But she had known Prudence Barrymore. Perhaps she also knew Sir
Herbert. He could not afford to ignore her opinion. He could hardly afford to
ignore anything!

He disliked the hospital. The very
smell of the place offended his senses, and his consciousness of the pain and
the distress colored all his thoughts. The place was in less than its normal
state of busy, rather haphazard order since Sir Herbert's arrest. People were
confused, intensely partisan over the issue of his innocence or guilt.

He asked to see Hester, explaining
who he was and his purpose, and he was shown into a small, tidy room and requested
to wait. He was there, growing increasingly impatient and short-tempered, for
some twenty minutes before the door opened and Hester came in.

It was over three months since he
had last seen her, and although he had thought his memory vivid, he was still
taken aback by her presence. She looked tired, a little pale, and there was a
splash of blood on her very plain gray dress. He found the sudden feeling of
familiarity both pleasant and disturbing.

"Good afternoon, Oliver,"
she said rather formally. "I am told you are defending Sir Herbert and
wish to speak to me on the matter. I doubt I can help. I was not here at the
time of the murder, but of course I shall do all I can." Her eyes met his
directly with none of the decorum he was used to in women.

In that instant he was powerfully
aware that she had known and liked Prudence Barrymore, and that her emotions
would crowd her actions in the matter. It both pleased and displeased him. It would
be a nuisance professionally. He needed clarity of observation. Personally, he
found indifference to death a greater tragedy than the death itself, and
sometimes a more offensive sin than many of the other lies, evasions, and
betrayals that so often accompanied a trial.

"Monk tells me you knew
Prudence Barrymore," he said bluntly.

Her face tightened.
"Yes."

"Are you aware of the content
of the letters she wrote to her sister?"

"Yes. Monk told me." Her
expression was guarded, unhappy. He wondered whether it was at the intrusion
into privacy or at the subject matter of the letters themselves.