A sudden, fearful death (48 page)

Hardie lifted his gavel, then let
it fall without sound.

Rathbone rose from his seat and
replaced Lovat-Smith on the floor of the court. His eyes met Lovat-Smith's for
an instant as they passed. He had lost the momentum, the brief ascendancy, and
they both knew it.

He stared up at the witness stand.

"You tried to disabuse
Prudence of this idea that her personal happiness lay with Sir Herbert
Stanhope?" he asked mildly.

"Of course," Geoffrey
replied. "It was absurd."

"Because Sir Herbert is
already married?" He put his hands in his pockets and stood very casually.

"Naturally," Geoffrey
replied. "There was no way whatsoever in which he could offer her
anything honorable except a professional regard. And if she persisted in
behaving as if there were more, then she would lose even that." His face
tightened, showing his impatience with Rathbone for pursuing something so
obvious, and so painful.

Rathbone frowned.

"Surely it was a remarkably
foolish and self-destructive course of action for her to have taken? It could
only bring embarrassment, unhappiness, and loss."

"Precisely," Geoffrey
agreed with a bitter curl to his mouth. He was about to add something further
when Rathbone interrupted him.

"You were very fond of Miss
Barrymore, and had known her over a period of time. Indeed, you also knew her
family. It must have distressed you to see her behaving in such a way?"

"Of course!" A flicker of
anger crossed Geoffrey's face and he looked at Rathbone with mounting
irritation.

"You could see danger, even
tragedy, ahead for her?" Rathbone pursued.

"I could. And so it has
transpired!"

There was a murmur around the room.
They also were growing impatient.

Judge Hardie leaned forward to
speak.

Rathbone ignored him and hastened
on. He did not want to lose what little attention he had by being interrupted.

"You were distressed," he
continued, his voice a tittle louder. "You had on several occasions asked
Miss Barrymore to marry you, and she had refused you, apparently in the
foolish belief that Sir Herbert had something he could offer her. Which, as you
say, is patently absurd. You must have felt frustrated by her perversity. It
was ridiculous, self-destructive, and quite unjust."

Geoffrey's fingers tightened again
on the railing of the witness box and he leaned farther forward.

The creaking and rustling of fabric
stopped as people realized what Rathbone was about to say.

"It would have made any man
angry," Rathbone went on silkily. "Even a man with a less violent
temper than yours. And yet you say you did not quarrel over it? It seems you do
not have a violent temper after all. In fact, it seems as if you have no temper
whatsoever. I can think of very few men, if any"—he pulled a very slight
face, not quite of contempt—"who would not have felt their anger rise over
such treatment."

The implication was obvious. His
honor and his manhood were in question.

There was not a sound in the room
except the scrape of Lovat-Smith's chair as he moved to rise, then changed his
mind.

Geoffrey swallowed. "Of course
I was angry," he said in a choked voice. "But I did not quarrel
violently. I am not a violent man."

Rathbone opened his eyes very wide.
There was total silence in the room except for Lovat-Smith letting out his
breath very slowly.

"Well of course violence is
all relative," Rathbone said smoothly. "But I would have thought your
attack upon Mr. Archibald Purbright, because he cheated you at a game of
billiards—frustrating, of course, but hardly momentous— that was violent, was
it not? If your friends had not restrained you, you would have done the man a
near-fatal injury."

Geoffrey was ashen, shock draining
him.

Rathbone gave him no time.

"Did you not lose your temper
similarly with Miss Barrymore when she behaved with such foolishness and
refused you yet again? Was that really so much less infuriating to you than
losing a game of billiards to a man everyone knew was cheating anyway?"

Geoffrey opened his mouth but no
coherent sound came.

"No." Rathbone smiled.
"You do not have to answer that! I quite see that it is unfair to ask you.
The jury will come to their own decisions. Thank you, Mr. Taunton. I have no
further questions."

Lovat-Smith rose, his eyes bright,
his voice sharp and clear.

"You do not have to answer it
again, Mr. Taunton," he said bitterly. "But you may if you chose to.
Did you murder Miss Barrymore?"

"No! No I did not!"
Geoffrey found speech at last. "I was angry, but I did her no harm
whatsoever! For God's sake." He glared across at the desk. "Stanhope
killed her. Isn't it obvious?"

Involuntarily everyone, even
Hardie, looked at Sir Herbert. For the first time Sir Herbert looked profoundly
uncomfortable, but he did not avert his eyes, nor did he blush. He looked back
at Geoffrey Taunton with an expression which seemed more like frustration and
embarrassment than guilt.

Rathbone felt a surge of admiration
for him, and in that moment a renewed dedication to seeing him acquitted.

"To some of us."
Lovat-Smith smiled patiently. "But not all—not yet. Thank you, Mr.
Taunton. That is all. You may be excused."

Geoffrey Taunton climbed down the
steps slowly, as if he were still uncertain if he should, or could add
something more. Then finally he realized the opportunity had slipped, if it was
ever there, and he covered the few yards of the floor to the public benches in
a dozen strides.

The first witness of the afternoon
was Berenice Ross Gilbert. Her very appearance caused a stir even before she
said anything at all. She was calm, supremely assured, and dressed
magnificently. It was a somber occasion, but she did not choose black, which
would have been in poor taste since she was mourning no one. Instead she wore a
jacket of the deepest plum shot with charcoal gray, and a huge skirt of a shade
similar but a fraction darker. It was wildly flattering to her coloring and her
age, and gave her an air both distinguished and dramatic. Rathbone could hear
the intake of breath as she appeared, and then the hush of expectancy as
Lovat-Smith rose to begin his questions. Surely such a woman must have
something of great import to say.

"Lady Ross Gilbert,"
Lovat-Smith began. He did not know how to be deferential—something in his
character mocked the very idea—but there was respect in his voice, whether for
her or for the situation. "You are on the Board of Governors of the
hospital. Do you spend a considerable time there?"

"I do." Her voice was
vibrant and very clear. "I am not there every day, but three or four in
the week. There is a good deal to be done."

"I am sure. Most admirable.
Without the generous gift of service of people like yourself, such places would
be in a parlous state," Lovat-Smith acknowledged, although whether that
was true was debatable. He spent no further effort on the thought. "Did
you see Prudence Barrymore often?"

"Of course. The moral welfare
and the standards and duties of nurses were a matter I was frequently asked to
address. I saw poor Prudence on almost every occasion I was there." She
looked at him and smiled, waiting for the next obvious question.

"Were you aware that she
worked very frequently with Sir Herbert Stanhope?"

"Of coarse." There were
the beginnings of regret in her voice. 'To begin with I assumed it was merely
coincidence, because she was an excellent nurse."

"And later?" Lovat-Smith
prompted.

She lifted one shoulder in an
eloquent posturei "Later I was forced to realize that she was devoted to
him."

"Do you mean more than could
be accounted by the duties that would fall to her because of her skill?"
Lovat-Smith phrased the question carefully, avoiding any slip that would allow
Rathbone to object.

"Indeed," Berenice said
with a modest share of reluctance. "It became obvious that her admiration
for him was intense. He is a fine surgeon, as we all know, but Prudence's
devotion to him, the extra duties she performed of her own volition, made it
unmistakable that her feelings were more than merely professional, no matter
how dedicated and conscientious."

"Did you see evidence that she
was hi love with Sir Herbert?" Lovat-Smith asked it with a gentle,
unassuming voice, but his words carried to the very back of the room in the
total silence.

"Her eyes lit at mention of
him, her skin glowed, she gained an extra, inward energy." Berenice smiled
and pulled a slightly rueful face. "I can think of no other explanation
when a woman behaves so."

"Nor I," Lovat-Smith
admitted. "Given the moral welfare of nurses was your concern, Lady Ross
Gilbert, did you address her on the subject?"

"No," she said slowly, as
if still giving the matter thought. 'To be frank I never saw evidence that her
morality was in jeopardy. To fall in love is part of the human
condition." She looked quizzically beyond Lovat-Smith to the public benches.
"If it is misplaced, and hopeless of any satisfactory conclusion, it is
sometimes safer for the morals than if it is returned." She hesitated,
affecting discomfort. "Of course at that time I had no idea the whole
affair would end as it has."

Not once had she looked at Sir
Herbert opposite in the dock, although his eyes never left her face.

"You say that Prudence's love
was misplaced." Lovat-Smith was not yet finished. "Do you mean by
that that Sir Herbert did not return her feelings?"

Berenice hesitated, but it appeared
it was a pause to find exactly the right words rather than because she was
uncertain of her belief.

"I am less skilled at reading
the emotions of men than of women, you understand...."

There was a murmur around the room,
whether of belief or doubt it was impossible to say. A juror nodded sagely.

Rathbone had the distinct
impression she was savoring the moment of drama and her power to hold and
control her audience.

Lovat-Smith did not interrupt.

"He asked for her on every
occasion he required a skilled nurse," she said slowly, each word falling
distinctly into the bated hush. "He worked closely with her over long
hours, and at times without any other person present." She spoke without
ever looking across at him, her eyes fixed on Lovat-Smith.

"Perhaps he was unaware of her
personal emotions toward him?" Lovat-Smith suggested without a shred of
conviction. "Is he a foolish man, in your experience?"

"Of course not! But—"

"Of course not," he
agreed, cutting her off before she could add her explanation. "Therefore
you did not consider it necessary to warn him?"

"I never thought of it,"
she confessed with irritation. "It is not my place to make suggestions on
the lives of surgeons, and I did not think I could tell him anything of which
he was not already perfectly aware and would deal with appropriately. Looking
back now I can see that I was—"

"Thank you," he
interrupted. "Thank you, Lady Ross Gilbert. That is all I have to ask you.
But my learned friend ... may." He left it a delicate suggestion that
Rathbone's cause was broken, and he might already have surrendered to the
inevitable.

And indeed Rathbone was feeling
acutely unhappy. She had undone a great deal, if not all, of the good he had accomplished
with Nanette and with Geoffrey Taunton. At best all he had raised was a
reasonable doubt. Now even that seemed to be slipping away. The case was hardly
an ornament to his career, and it was looking increasingly as if it might not
even save Sir Herbert's life, let alone his reputation.

He faced Berenice Ross Gilbert with
an air of casual confidence he did not feel. Deliberately he stood at ease. The
jury must believe he had some tremendous revelation in hand, some twist or barb
that would at a stroke destroy Lovat-Smith's case.

"Lady Ross Gilbert," he
began with a charming smile. "Prudence Barrymore was an excellent nurse,
was she not? With far above the skills and abilities of the average?"

"Most certainly," she
agreed. "She had considerable actual medical knowledge, I believe."

"And she was diligent in her
duties?"

"Surely you must know
this?"

"I do." Rathbone nodded.
"It has already been testified to by several people. Why does it surprise
you, then, that Sir Herbert should have chosen her to work with him in a large
number of his surgical cases? Would that not be in the interest of his
patients?"

"Yes—of course it would."

"You testified that you
observed in Prudence the very recognizable signs of a woman in love. Did you
observe any of these signs in Sir Herbert, when in Prudence's presence, or
anticipating it?"

"No I did not," she
replied without hesitation.

"Did you observe any change in
his manner toward her, any departure from that which would be totally proper
and usual between a dedicated surgeon and his best and most responsible
nurse?"