A sudden, fearful death (46 page)

"I see," he said with
distinct chill. It was a relief not to have to pretend anymore.

"Oh no, you don't," she
retorted urgently. "Geoffrey beat poor Archie over the head and shoulders
with the billiard cue. He knocked him to the floor, and might have rendered him
senseless had not Bertie and George pulled him off. It was really quite
awful." There was a flush of excitement in her cheeks. "Archie was in
bed for four days, and of course they had to send for the doctor. They told him
Archie had fallen off his horse, but I don't think the doctor believed that for
an instant. He was too discreet to say so, but I saw the look on his face.
Archie said he'd sue, but he'd been cheating, and he knew we knew it, so
naturally he didn't. But neither of them were invited again." She smiled
up at him and shrugged her smooth shoulders. "So I daresay Nanette had a
great deal to think about. After all, a temper of that sort gives one cause for
consideration, however charming a man may be otherwise, don't you agree?"

"I do indeed, Mrs.
Waldemar," Monk said with sincerity. Suddenly she looked extremely
different. She was not stupid; on the contrary, she was very perceptive. She
did not prattle on; she recounted valuable and maybe extremely relevant
information. He looked back at her with profound appreciation. "Thank
you. Your excellent memory is most admirable and explains a great deal to me
that had previously been beyond my understanding. No doubt Miss Cuthbertson
was doing exactly as you say. Thank you so much for your time and
courtesy." He rose to his feet, backing away from her.

"Not at all." She rose
also, her skirts billowing around her with a soft sound of taffeta. "If I
can be of any further assistance, please feel able to call upon me."

"Indeed I shall." And
with such speed as grace allowed, he took his departure out into the darkening
streets, the lamplighter passing on his way, one light glowing into life after
another along the length of the pavement.

So Geoffrey had a violent temper,
even murderous. His step lightened. It was a small thing so far, but definitely
a break in the gloom around Sir Herbert Stanhope.

It did not explain Prudence's
dreams or their reality, and that still burdened him, but it was a beginning.

And it would be an acute
satisfaction to him to take it to Rathbone. It was something he had not found
for himself, and Monk could imagine the look of surprise—and obligation—in
Rathbone's clever, self-possessed face when he told him.

Chapter 10

As it happened, Rathbone was too
relieved to hear Monk's news of Geoffrey Taunton for his irritation to be more
than momentary. There was a flash of anger at the smoothly complacent look on
Monk's face, the tone of arrogant satisfaction in his voice, and then
Rathbone's brain concentrated on what he would do with the knowledge, how best
to use it.

When he went to see Sir Herbert
briefly before the day's session began, he found him pensive, an underlying
tension apparent in the nervous movement of his hands and the occasional
gesture to adjust his collar or straighten his waistcoat. But he had
sufficient control of himself not to ask how Rathbone thought the trial was
progressing.

"I have a little news,"
Rathbone said immediately the jailer left them alone.

Sir Herbert's eyes widened and for
a moment he held his breath. "Yes?" His voice was husky.

Rathbone felt guilty; what he
thought was not enough for real hope. It would need all his skill to make it
count.

"Monk has learned of a very
unfortunate incident in Geoffrey Taunton's recent past," he said calmly.
"A matter of catching an acquaintance cheating at billiards and becoming
seriously violent. Apparently he attacked the man and had to be hauled off him
before he injured him, perhaps mortally." He was overstating the case a
little, but Sir Herbert needed all the encouragement he could offer.

"He was in the hospital at the
time she was killed," Sir Herbert said with a quick lift in his voice, his
eyes alight. "And Heaven knows, he had motive enough. She must have
confronted him—the stupid woman." He looked at Rathbone intently.
"This is excellent! Why are you not better pleased? He is at least as
good a suspect as I!"

"I am pleased," Rathbone
said quietly. "But Geoffrey Taunton is not in the dock—not yet. I have a
great deal to do yet before I can put him there. I just wished you to know:
there is every hope, so keep your courage high."

Sir Herbert smiled. "Thank
you—that is very honest of you. I appreciate you cannot say more. I have been
in the same position with patients. I do understand."

As it chanced, Lovat-Smith
unwittingly played into Rathbone's hands. His first witness of the day was
Nanette Cuthbertson. She crossed the floor of the courtroom and mounted the
steps to the witness stand gracefully, maneuvering her skirts up the narrow
way with a single flick of her wrist. She turned at the top to face him, a calm
smile on her face. She was dressed in dark brown, which was at once very sober
and extremely flattering to her coloring and warm complexion. There was a
murmur of appreciation around the crowd, and several people sat up a little
straighten One of the jurors nodded to himself, and another straightened his
collar.

Their interest had been less sharp
this morning. The revelations they had expected were not forthcoming. They had
looked for their emotions to be torn one way and then another as piece after
piece of evidence was revealed, while Sir Herbert appeared one moment guilty,
the next innocent, and two giant protagonists battled each other across the
courtroom floor.

Instead it had been a rather
tedious procession of ordinary people offering their opinions that Prudence
Barry-more was an excellent nurse, but not a great heroine, and that she had
suffered the very ordinary feelings of many young women in that she had
imagined a man to be in love with her, when in fact he was merely being civil.
It was sad, even pathetic, but not the stuff of high drama. No one had yet
offered a satisfactory alternative murderer, and yet quite clearly she had been
murdered.

Now at last here was an interesting
witness, a dashing and yet demure young woman. They craned forward, eager to
see why she had been called.

"Miss Cuthbertson,"
Lovat-Smith began as soon as the necessary formalities had been completed. He
knew the anticipation and the importance of keeping the emotion high.
"You knew Prudence Barrymore from your childhood days together, did you
not?"

"I did," Nanette replied
candidly, her chin lifted, her eyes downcast.

"You knew her well?"

"Very well."

No one was bothering to look at Sir
Herbert. They all stared at Nanette, waiting for the evidence for which she had
been called.

Only Rathbone surreptitiously
glanced sideways and up toward the dock. Sir Herbert was sitting well forward,
peering at the witness stand in profound concentration. His face had a look on
it almost of eagerness.

"Was she a romantic?"
Lovat-Smith asked.

"No, not in the
slightest." Nanette smiled ruefully. "She seemed of an extremely
practical turn of mind. She took no trouble to be charming or to attract
gentlemen." She covered her eyes, then looked up again. "I dislike
speaking ill of one who is not here to answer for herself, but for the sake of
preventing injustice, I must say what is true."

"Of course. I am sure we all
understand," Lovat-Smith said a trifle sententiously. "Have you any
knowledge of her ideas in the matter of love, Miss Cuthbertson? Young ladies
sometimes confide in each other from time to time."

She looked suitably modest at
mention of such a subject.

"Yes. I am afraid she would
not look at anyone else but Sir Herbert Stanhope. There were other, eminently
suitable and quite dashing gentlemen who admired her, but she would have none
of them. All the time she spoke only of Sir Herbert, his dedication, his skill,
how he had helped her and shown her great care and attention." A frown
crossed her face, as if what she was about to say both surprised and angered
her, but never once did she lift her eyes to look at the dock. "She said
over and over that she believed he was going to make all her dreams come true.
She seemed to light up with excitement and a sort of inner life when she spoke
his name."

Lovat-Smith stood in the very
center of the floor, his gown less than immaculate. He had little of the grace
of Rathbone, and yet he was so vibrant with suppressed energy that he
commanded everyone's attention. Even Sir Herbert was temporarily forgotten.

"And did you gather, Miss
Cuthbertson," he asked, "that she was in love with him and believed
him to be in love with her, and that he would shortly make her his wife?"

"Of course," Nanette
agreed, her eyes wide. "What other possible meaning could there have
been?"

"Indeed, none that I know
of," Lovat-Smith agreed. "Were you aware of the change in her
beliefs, a time when she realized that Sir Herbert did not return her feelings
after all?"

"No. No I was not."

"I see." Lovat-Smith
walked away from the witness stand as if he were concluded. Then he turned on
his heel and faced her again. "Miss Cuthbertson, was Prudence Barrymore a
woman of determination and resolve? Had she great strength of will?"

"But of course," Nanette
said vehemently. "How else would she have gone to the Crimea, of all
places? I believe it was quite dreadful. Oh certainly, when she had set her
heart upon something, she did not give up."

"Would she have given up her
hope of marrying Sir Herbert without a struggle, in your estimation?"

Nanette answered before Judge
Hardie could lean forward and intervene, or Rathbone could voice his protest.
"Never!"

"Mr. Lovat-Smith," Hardie
said gravely. "You are leading the witness, as you know full well."

"I apologize, my lord,"
Lovat-Smith said without a trace of remorse. He shot a sideways glance at
Rathbone, smiling. "Your witness, Mr. Rathbone."

"Thank you." Rathbone
rose to his feet, smooth and graceful. He walked over to the witness stand and
looked up at Nanette. "I regret this, ma'am, but there are many questions
I need to ask you." His voice was a beautiful instrument and he knew how
to use it like a master. He was at once polite, even deferential, and
insidiously menacing.

Nanette looked down at him without
any awareness of what was to come, her eyes wide, her expression bland.

"I know it is your job, sir,
and I am perfectly prepared."

One of the jurors smiled, another
nodded in approval. There was a murmur around the public benches.

"You knew Prudence Barrymore
since childhood, and knew her well," Rathbone began. "You told us
that she confided many of her inner feelings to you, which is quite natural, of
course." He smiled up at her and saw an answering flicker touch her lips
only sufficient to be civil. She did not like him because of who he
represented. "You also spoke of another admirer, whose attentions she
rejected," he continued. "Were you referring to Mr. Geoffrey
Taunton?"

A pinkness colored her cheeks, but
she kept her composure. She must have been aware that question would come.

"I was."

"You considered her foolish
and unreasonable not to have accepted him?"

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.
"We have already covered that subject, my lord. The witness has said as
much. I fear in his desperation, my learned friend is wasting the court's
time."

Hardie looked at Rathbone
inquiringly.

"Mr. Rathbone, have you some
point, other than to give yourself time?"

"Indeed I have, my lord,"
Rathbone replied.

"Then proceed to it,"
Hardie directed.

Rathbone inclined his head, then
turned back to Nanette.

"You know Mr. Taunton well
enough to judge that he is an admirable young man?"

The pink flushed her cheeks again.
It was becoming, and possibly she knew it.

"I do."

"Indeed? You know of no reason
why Prudence Barry-more should not have accepted him?"

"None whatever." This
time there was some defiance in her voice and she lifted her chin a trifle
higher. She was beginning to feel she had the measure of Rathbone. Even in the
body of the court attention was waning. This was tedious, verging on pitiful.
Sir Herbert in the dock lost his sharp interest and began to look anxious.
Rathbone was achieving nothing. Only Lovat-Smith sat with a guarded expression
on his face.

"Would you yourself accept
him, were he to offer?" Rathbone asked mildly. "The question is
hypothetical, of course," he added before Hardie could interrupt.

The blood burned up Nanette's
cheeks. There was a hiss of breath around the room. One of the jurors in the
back row cleared his throat noisily.

"I ..." Nanette stammered
awkwardly. She could not deny it, or she would effectively be refusing him, the
last thing on earth she wished. "I—you ..." She composed herself with
difficulty. "You place me in an impossible position, sir!"