A sudden, fearful death (47 page)

"I apologize," Rathbone
said insincerely. "But Sir Herbert is also in an impossible position,
ma'am, land one of considerably more peril to himself." He inclined his
head a little. "I require you to answer, because if you would not accept
Mr. Taunton, then that would indicate that you know of some reason why Prudence
Barrymore also might not have accepted him. Which would mean her behavior was
not so unreasonable, nor necessarily in any way connected with Sir Herbert, or
any hopes she may have entertained regarding him. Do you see?"

"Yes," she conceded
reluctantly. "Yes, I see."

He waited. At last the crowd on the
public benches was caught. He could hear the rustle of taffeta and bombazine as
they craned forward. They did not totally understand what was to come, but they
knew drama when they smelled it, and they knew fear.

Nanette took a deep breath.
"Yes—I would," she said in a strangled voice.

"Indeed." Rathbone
nodded. "So I had been led to believe." He walked a pace or two,
then turned to her again. "In fact, you are very fond of Mr. Taunton
yourself, are you not? Sufficiently so to have marred your affection for Miss
Barrymore when he persistently courted her in spite of her repeated refusal of
his offers?"

There was a mutter of anger around
the room. Several jurors shifted uncomfortably.

- Nanette was truly appalled. The
tide of scarlet ran right to the dark line of her hair, and she clung to the
rail of the witness box as if to support herself. The rustle of embarrassment
increased, but in no one did it exceed curiosity. No one looked away.

"If you suggest that I lie,
sir, you are mistaken," Nanette said at length.

Rathbone was politeness itself.

"Not at all, Miss Cuthbertson.
I suggest that your perception of the truth, like that of most of us in the
grip of extreme emotion, is likely to be colored by our own imperatives. That
is not to lie, simply to be mistaken."

She glared at him, confused and
wretched, but not able to think of a retaliation.

But Rathbone knew the tone of drama
would pass and reason reassert itself. He had achieved little to help Sir Herbert
yet.

"You cared for him enough not
to be dissuaded by his violent temper, Miss Cuthbertson?" he resumed.

Now suddenly she was pale.

"Violent temper?" she
repeated. "That is nonsense, sir. Mr. Taunton is the gentlest of
men."

But the crowd watching her intently
had seen the difference between disbelief and shock. They knew from the
tightness of her body beneath its fashionable gown and huge skirts that she was
perfectly aware what Rathbone alluded to. Her confusion was to hide it, not to
understand it.

"If I were to ask Mr.
Archibald Purbright, would he agree with me?" Rathbone said smoothly.
"I doubt Mrs. Waldemar would think so."

Lovat-Smith shot to his feet, his
voice husky with assumed bewilderment.

"My lord, who is Archibald
Purbright? My learned friend has made no previous mention of such a person. If
he has evidence he must testify to it here, where the Crown may question him
and weigh its validity. We cannot accept—"

"Yes, Mr. Lovat-Smith,"
Hardie interrupted him. "I am quite aware that Mr. Purbright has not been
called." He turned to Rathbone, eyebrows raised inquiringly. "Perhaps
you had better explain yourself?"

"I do not intend to call Mr.
Purbright, my lord, unless Miss Cuthbertson should make it necessary." It
was a bluff. He had no idea where to find Archibald Purbright.

Hardie turned to Nanette.

She stood stiffly, white-faced.

"It was a solitary incident,
and some time ago." She almost choked on her words. "The man had
been cheating. I regret having to say so, but it is true." She shot a look
of loathing at Rathbone. "And Mrs. Waldemar would bear me out on
that!"

The moment's tension evaporated.
Lovat-Smith smiled.

"And Mr. Taunton was no doubt
quite understandably extremely frustrated and felt a burning sense of
injustice," Rathbone agreed. "As would we all. To have done your
best, to feel you deserve to win because you are the better player, and to be
constantly cheated out of your victory would be enough to try the temper of most
of us."

He hesitated, taking a step or two
casually and turning. "And in this instance, Mr. Taunton lashed out with
such extreme violence that he was only prevented from doing Mr. Purbright a
serious, perhaps fatal, injury by the overpowering strength of two of his
friends."

Suddenly the tension was back
again. Gasps of shock were clearly audible amid rustles of movement, scrapings
of shoes as people sat sharply upright. In the dock Sir Herbert's lips curled
in the very smallest smile. Even Hardie stiffened.

Lovat-Smith hid his surprise with
difficulty. It was there on his face only for an instant, but Rathbone saw it.
Their eyes met, then Rathbone looked back at Nanette.

"Do you not think it is
possible, Miss Cuthbertson— indeed, do you not in your heart fear—that Mr.
Taunton may have felt just the same sense of frustration and injustice with
Miss Barrymore for persistently refusing him when she had no other admirer at
hand, and no justifiable reason, in his view, for her actions?" His voice
was calm, even solicitous. "Might he not have lashed out at her, if
perhaps she were foolish enough to have mocked him or in some way slighted him
to make her rejection plain? There were no friends to restrain him in the
hospital corridor at that early hour of the morning. She was tired after a long
night nursing the sick, and she would not expect violence—"

"No!" Nanette exploded
furiously, leaning over the railing toward him, her face flushed again.
"No! Never! It is quite monstrous to say such a thing! Sir Herbert
Stanhope killed her"—she shot a look of loathing across at the dock and
the jurors followed her eyes—"because she threatened to expose his affair
with her," she said loudly. "We all know it It wasn't Geoffrey. You
are simply saying that because you are desperate to defend him." She
directed another blazing glance at the dock, and even Sir Herbert seemed
discomfited. "And you have nothing else," she accused him. "You
are despicable, sir, to slander a good man for one miserable mistake."

"One miserable mistake is all
it needs, ma'am," Rathbone said very levelly, his voice hushing the sudden
murmur and movement in the room. "A strong man can strangle a woman to
death in a very few moments." He held up his hands, fine, beautiful hands
with long fingers. He made a quick, powerful wrenching movement with them, and
heard a woman gasp and the rattle of taffeta as she collapsed somewhere behind
him.

Nanette looked as if she too might
faint.

Hardie banged sharply with his
gavel, his face hard.

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet, and
then subsided again.

Rathbone smiled. "Thank you,
Miss Cuthbertson. I have nothing further to ask you."

Geoffrey Taunton was a different
matter. Rathbone knew from Lovat-Smith's stance as he took the floor that he
was in two minds as to whether he should have called Taunton at all. Should he
leave bad alone rather than risk making it worse, or should he, try to retrieve
it with a bold attack? He was a brave man. He chose the latter, as Rathbone had
been sure he would. Of course Geoffrey Taunton had been outside, as
prospective witnesses always were, in case a previous testimony should color
theirs, so he had no idea what had been said of him. Nor had he noticed Nanette
Cuthbertson, now seated in the public gallery, her face tense, her body rigid
as she strained to catch every word, at once dreading it, and yet unable to
warn him in any way.

"Mr. Taunton,"
Lovat-Smith began, a note of confidence ringing in his voice to belie what
Rathbone knew he felt. "You were well acquainted with Miss Barrymore and
had been for many years," he went on. "Had you any reason to know her
feelings for Sir Herbert Stanhope? I would ask you not to speculate, but to
tell us only what you observed for yourself, or what she told you."

"Of course," Geoffrey
agreed, smiling very slightly and perfectly confident. He was serenely unaware
of the reason people were staring at him with such intensity, or why all the
jurors looked but avoided his eyes. "Yes, I was aware for some years of
her interest in medicine, and I was not surprised when she chose to go to the
Crimea to help our wounded men in the hospital at Scutari." He rested his
hands on the railing in front of him. He looked quite casual and fresh.

"However, I admit it took me
aback when she insisted in pursuing the course of working in the Royal Free
Hospital in London. She was no longer needed in the same way. There are
hundreds of other women perfectly able and willing to do the sort of work in
which she was involved, and it was totally unsuited to a woman of her birth and
background."

"Did you point that out to her
and try to dissuade her?" Lovat-Smith asked.

"I did more than that, I
offered her marriage." There was only the faintest touch of pink in his
cheeks. "However, she was set upon her course." His mouth tightened.
"She had very unrealistic ideas about the practice of medicine, and I
regret to say it of her, but she valued her own abilities quite out of
proportion to any service she might have been able to perform. I think her
experiences during the war gave her ideas that were impractical at home in
peacetime. I believe she would have come to realize that, with good
guidance."

"Your own guidance, Mr.
Taunton?" Lovat-Smith said courteously, his blue eyes wide.

"And that of her mother,
yes," Geoffrey agreed.

"But you had not yet
succeeded?"

"No, I regret we had
not."

"Do you have any knowledge as
to why?"

"Yes I do. Sir Herbert
Stanhope encouraged her." He shot a look of contempt at the dock.

Sir Herbert stared at him quite
calmly, not a shadow of guilt or evasion in his face.

A juror smiled to himself. Rathbone
saw it, and knew the elation of a small victory.

"Are you quite sure?"
Lovat-Smith asked. "That seems an extraordinary thing to do. He, of all
people, must surely have known that she had no abilities and no chance whatever
of acquiring any beyond those of an ordinary nurse: to
fetch and carry, to empty slops, prepare poultices, to
change linen and bandages." He enumerated the points on his short strong
hands, waving them with natural energy and expression. "To watch patients
and call a doctor in case of distress, and to administer medicines as
directed. What else could she conceivably do here in England? We have no field
surgeries, no wagon loads of wounded."

"I have no idea,"
Geoffrey said with acute distaste twisting his features. "But she told me
quite unequivocally that he had said there was a future for her, with
advancement." Again the anger and disgust filled him as he glanced across
at Sir Herbert.

This time Sir Herbert winced and
shook his head a little, as if, even bound to silence, he could not bear to let
it pass undenied.

"Did she speak of her personal
feelings for Sir Herbert?" Lovat-Smith pursued.

"Yes. She admired him
intensely and believed that all her future happiness lay with him. She told me
so—in just those words."

Lovat-Smith affected surprise.

"Did you not attempt to
disabuse her, Mr. Taunton? Surely you must have been aware that Sir Herbert
Stanhope is a married man." He waved one black-clad arm toward the dock.
"And could offer her nothing but a professional regard, and that only as a
nurse, a position immeasurably inferior to his own. They were not even
colleagues, in any equal sense of the term. What could she have hoped
for?"

"I have no idea." He
shook his head, his mourn twisted with anger and pain. "Nothing of any
substance at all. He lied to her—that is the least of his offenses."

"Quite so," Lovat-Smith
agreed sagely. "But that is for the jury to decide, Mr. Taunton. It would
be improper for us to say more. Thank you, sir. If you will remain there, no
doubt my learned friend will wish to question you." Then he stopped,
turning on his heel and looking back at the witness stand. "Oh! While you
are here, Mr. Taunton: were you in the hospital on the morning of Nurse
Banymore's death?" His voice was innocuous, as if the questions were
merely by the way.

"Yes," Geoffrey said
guardedly, his face pale and stiff.

Lovat-Smith inclined his head.
"We have heard that you have a somewhat violent temper when you are
provoked beyond endurance." He said it with a half smile, as if it were a
foible, not a sin. "Did you quarrel with Prudence and lose control of
yourself that morning?"

"No!" Geoffrey's hands
were white-knuckled on the railing.

"You did not murder her?"
Lovat-Smith added, eyebrows raised, his voice with a slight lift in it.

"No I did not!" Geoffrey
was shaking, emotion naked in his face.

There was a ripple of sympathy from
somewhere in the gallery, and from another quarter a hiss of disbelief.