A sudden, fearful death (64 page)

"It did not seem to be
relevant," she replied, her voice trembling a little. "The
prosecution charged that Nurse Barrymore had tried to force Sir Herbert into
marrying her. I know that was absurd. She would never have done anything of
the sort. Nor would he have behaved in such a way. I knew it then, and I know
it now."

In the dock Sir Herbert was ashen,
looking desperately at Rathbone.

Hardie pursed his lips.

Lovat-Smith stared from Hardie to
Berenice, then to Rathbone. He still was not totally sure what was happening.

Rathbone clenched his fists so
tightly his nails bit into his flesh. It was slipping away again. He was guilty
of murder. And he could not be tried for it twice.

He strode forward a couple of
paces.

"Ah! Then you are not for an
instant suggesting that Prudence Barrymore knew of this and was blackmailing
Sir Herbert? You are not saying that—are you!" It was a challenge, hard
and defiant.

Lovat-Smith rose very slightly to
his feet, still confused.

"My lord, would you please
instruct my learned friend to allow the witness to answer for herself and to not
interpret for her what she has, or has not, said?"

Rathbone could hardly endure the
tension. He dared not interrupt again. He must not be seen to condemn his own
client. He turned to Berenice. Please God she would take her opportunity!

"Lady Ross Gilbert?"
Hardie prompted.

"I—I don't recall the
question," she said wretchedly.

Rathbone answered before Hardie
could reword it and make it innocuous.

"You are not saying that
Prudence Barrymore was blackmailing Sir Herbert, are you?" he demanded,
his voice louder and sharper than he had intended.

"Yes," she said quietly.
"Yes, she was blackmailing him."

"But," Rathbone
protested, as if horror-stricken, "but you said—why, for God's sake? You
said yourself she had no wish whatever to marry him!"

Berenice stared at him with
unmitigated hatred.

"She wanted him to help her
gain medical training. I know that from deduction—not observation. You cannot
charge me with concealing it."

"Ch—charge you?" Rathbone
stammered.

"For God's sake!" She
leaned over the witness stand railing, her face twisted with fury. "You
know he killed her! You just have to go through this charade because you are
supposed to defend him. Get on with it! Get it done!"

Rathbone turned to her very
slightly, then away again to look up at Sir Herbert in the dock.

His face was gray, his mouth slack
with disbelief, his eyes bright with sick panic.

There was only the faintest,
thinnest flicker of hope. Very slowly he turned from Rathbone to the jury. He
looked at one, then another, then another, right to the last. Then he knew it
was defeat ... final and absolute.

There was silence in the room. Not
even a pencil moved.

Philomena Stanhope looked up at the
dock steadily, and there was something in her face very close to pity.

Lovat-Smith held out his hand to Rathbone, his face
burning with admiration.