A Sudden Fearful Death

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!"

"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.

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?"

She considered only a moment before replying. For the first time she looked across at Sir Herbert, just a glance, and away again.

"No-he was always as usual," she said to Rathbone. "Correct, dedicated to his work, and with little attention to people other than the patients, and of course the teaching of student doctors."

Rathbone smiled at her. He knew his smile was beautiful.

"I imagine men have been in love with you, possibly many men?"

She shrugged very slightly, a delicate gesture of amusement and concurrence.

"Had Sir Herbert treated you as he treated Prudence Barrymore, would you have supposed that he was in love with you? Or that he considered abandoning his wife and family, his home and reputation, in order to ask you to marry him?"

Her face lit with amusement.

"Good Heavens, no! It would be totally absurd. Of course not."

"Then for Prudence to imagine that he was in love with her was unrealistic, was it not? It was the belief of a woman who could not tell her dreams from reality?"

A shadow crossed her face, but it was impossible to read it.

"Yes-yes it was."

He had to press home the point.

"You said she had some medical skill, ma'am. Do you have any evidence that it was surgical skill of a degree where she was capable of performing amputations herself, unaided and successfully? Was she indeed not a mere nurse, but a surgeon?"

There was an unhappy murmur around the room and a confusion of emotions.

Berenice's eyebrows shot up.

"Good Heavens. Of course not! If you forgive me, Mr. Rathbone, you have no knowledge whatever of the medical world if you can ask such a question. A woman surgeon is absurd."

"Then in that respect also, she had lost the ability to distinguish between daydreams and reality?"

"If that is what she said, then most certainly she had. She was a nurse, a very good one, but certainly not a doctor of any sort. Poor creature, the war must have unhinged her. Perhaps we are at fault if we did not see it." She looked suitably remorseful.

"Perhaps the hardships she endured and the suffering she saw unbalanced her mind," Rathbone agreed. "And her wish to be able to help led her to imagine she could. We may never know." He shook his head. "It is a tragedy that such a fine and compassionate woman, with so intense a desire to heal, should have been strained beyond the point she could endure with safety to her own nature; and above all that she should end her life by such a means." He said that for the jury, not that it had any relevance to the evidence, but it was imperative to keep their sympathy. He had destroyed Prudence's reputation as a heroine; he must not take from her even the role of honorable victim.

Lovat-Smith's last witness was Monk.

He climbed the steps of the witness box stone-faced and turned to the court coldly. As before, he had caught snatches of what Rathbone had drawn from Berenice Ross Gilbert from those who were coming and going from the courtroom: press reporters, clerks, idlers. He was furious even before the first question.

"Mr. Monk," Lovat-Smith began carefully. He knew he had a hostile witness, but he also knew his evidence was incontestable. "You are no longer with the police force but undertake private inquiries, is that correct?"

"It is."

"Were you employed to inquire into the murder of Prudence Barrymore?"

"I was." Monk was not going to volunteer anything. Far from it losing the public's interest, they sensed antagonism and sat a little more upright in order not to miss a word or a look.

"By whom? Miss Barrymore's family?"

"By Lady Callandra Daviot."

In the dock Sir Herbert sat forward, his expression suddenly tense, a small vertical line between his brows.

"Was it in that capacity that you attended the funeral of Miss Barrymore?" Lovat-Smith pursued.

"No," Monk said tersely.

If Monk had hoped to disconcert Lovat-Smith, he succeeded only slightly. Some instinct, or some steel in Monk's face, warned him not to ask what his reason had been. He could not guarantee the answer. "But you were there?" he said instead, sidestepping the issue.

"I was."

"And Miss Barrymore's family knew your connection with the case?"

"Yes."

There was not a sound in the room now. Something of the rage in Monk, some power in his face, held the attention without a whisper or a movement.

"Did Miss Barrymore's sister, Mrs. Faith Barker, offer you some letters?" Lovat-Smith asked.

"Yes."

Lovat-Smith kept his evenness of expression and voice with difficulty.

"And you accepted them. What were they, Mr. Monk?"

"Letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister," Monk replied. "In a form close to a diary, and written almost every day for the last three and a half months of her life."

"Did you read them?"

"Naturally."

Lovat-Smith produced a sheaf of papers and handed them up to Monk.

"Are these the letters Mrs. Barker gave you?"

Monk looked at them, although there was no need. He knew them immediately.

"They are."

"Would you read to the court the first one I have marked with a red ribbon, if you please?"

Obediently, in a tight hard voice, Monk read:

"My dearest Faith,

"What a marvelous day I have had! Sir Herbert performed splendidly. I could not take my eyes from his hands. Such skill is a thing of beauty in itself. And his explanations are so lucid I had not the slightest difficulty in following him and appreciating every point.

"He has said such things to me, I am singing inside with the sheer happiness of it All my dreams hang in the balance, and he has it all in his power. I never thought I should find anyone with the courage. Faith, he truly is a wonderful man-a visionary-a hero in the best sense-not rushing around conquering other peoples who should be left alone, or battling to discover the source of some river or other-but crusading here at home for the great principles which will help tens of thousands. I cannot tell you how happy and privileged I am that he has chosen me!

"Until next time, your loving sister,

Prudence."

"And the second one I have marked, if you will?" Lovat-Smith continued.

Again Monk read, and then looked up, no emotion in his eyes or his features. Only Rathbone knew him well enough to be aware of the revulsion inside him for the intrusion into the innermost thoughts of a woman he admired.

The room was in silence, every ear strained. The jury stared at Sir Herbert with undisguised distaste.

"Are the others in a similar vein, Mr. Monk?" Lovat-Smith asked.

"Some are," Monk replied. "Some are not."

"Finally, Mr. Monk, would you read the letter I have marked with a yellow ribbon."

In a low hard voice, Monk read:

"Dear Faith,

"Just a note. I feel too devastated to write more, and so weary I could sleep with no desire to wake. It was all a sham. I can scarcely believe it even now, when he has told me face to face. Sir Herbert has betrayed me completely. It was all a lie-he only wished to use me-all his promises meant nothing. But I shall not let it rest at that. I have power, and I shall use it!

Prudence."

There was a sigh of breath, a rustle as heads turned from Monk to stare up at the dock. Sir Herbert looked strained; his face showed the lines of tiredness and confusion. He did not look frightened so much as lost in a nightmare which made no sense to him. His eyes rested on Rathbone with something close to desperation.

Lovat-Smith hesitated, looking at Monk for several moments, then decided against asking him anything further. Again, he was not sufficiently certain of the answer.

"Thank you," he said, looking toward Rathbone.

Rathbone racked his brains for something to say to mitigate what they had all just heard. He did not need to see Sir Herbert's white face as at last fear overtook the benign puzzlement he had shown so long. Whether he understood the letters or not, he was not naive enough to miss their impact on the jury.

Rathbone forced himself not to look at the jurors, but he knew from the nature of the silence, the reflected light on the pallor of their faces as they turned sideways to look up at the dock, that there was condemnation already in their minds.

What could he ask Monk? What could he possibly say to mitigate this? Nothing whatever came to him. He did not even trust Monk. Might his anger against Sir Herbert for having betrayed Prudence, however unintentionally, blind him now to any kinder interpretation? Even if it did not, what was his opinion worth?

"Mr. Rathbone?" Judge Hardie looked at him with pursed lips.

"I have no questions of this witness, thank you, my lord."

"That is the case for the prosecution, if you please, my lord," Lovat-Smith said with a faint, complacent smile.

"In that case, since it is growing late we will adjourn, and the defense may begin its case tomorrow."

* * * * *

Callandra had not remained in court after her testimony. Part of her wished to. She hoped desperately that Sir Herbert was guilty and would be proved so beyond any doubt whatsoever, reasonable or unreasonable. The terror inside her that it had been Kristian was like a physical pain filling her body. During the day she sought every possible duty to absorb her time and deny her mind the opportunity to return to gnaw at the anxiety, turn over the arguments again and again, trying uselessly to find the solution she wanted.

At night she fell into bed, believing herself exhausted, but after an hour or so of sleep she woke, filled with dread, and the slow hours of the morning found her tossing and turning, longing for sleep, afraid of dreams, and even more afraid of waking.

She wanted to see Kristian, and yet she did not know what to say to him. She had seen him so often in the hospital, shared all kinds of crises in other peoples' lives-and deaths-and yet she was now achingly aware how little she knew of him beyond the life of healing, labor, comfort, and loss. Of course she knew he was married, and that his wife was a chilly remote woman with whom he shared little tenderness or laughter, and none of the work into which he poured so much passion, none of the precious things of humor and understanding, small personal likes and dislikes such as the love of flowers, voices singing, the play of light on grass, early morning.

But how much else was there unknown to her? Sometimes in the long hours when they had sat, talking far longer than there was any need, he had told her of his youth, his struggle in his native Bohemia, the joy he had felt as the miraculous workings of the human physiology had been revealed in his studies. He had spoken of the people he had known and with whom he had shared all manner of experiences. They had laughed together, sat in sudden sweet melancholy remembering past losses, made bearable in the certain knowledge that the other understood.

In time she had told him of her husband, how fiercely alive he had been, full of hot temper, arbitrary opinions, sudden insights, uproarious wit, and such a wild vigor for life.

But what of Kristian's present? All he had shared with her stopped fifteen or twenty years ago, as if the years from then until now were lost, not to be spoken of. When had the idealism of his youth been soured? When had he first betrayed the best in himself and then tarnished everything else by performing abortions? Did he really need more money so desperately?

No. That was unfair. She was doing it again, torturing herself by beginning that dreadful train of thought that led her eventually to Prudence Barrymore, and murder. The man she knew could not have done that. Everything she knew of him could not be an illusion. Perhaps what she had seen that day had not been what she thought? Maybe Marianne Gillespie had been suffering some complication? After all, the child within her was the result of rape. Perhaps she had been injured internally in some way, and Kristian had been repairing it-and not destroying the child at all.

Of course. That was a very possible solution. She must find out-and set all her fears at rest forever.

But how? If she were to ask him she would have to admit she had interrupted-and he would know she had suspected and indeed believed the worst.

And why should he tell her the truth? She could hardly ask him to prove it. But the very act of asking would damage forever the closeness they shared-and however fragile that was, however without hope of ever being more, it was unreasonably precious to her.

But the fear inside her, the sick doubt, was ruining it anyway. She could not meet his eyes or speak to him naturally as she used to. All the old ease, the trust, and the laughter were gone.

She must see him. Win or lose, she must know.

The opportunity came the day Lovat-Smith concluded his case. She had been discussing a pauper who had just been admitted and had persuaded the governors that the man was deserving and in great need. Kristian Beck was the ideal person to treat him. The case was too complex for the student doctors, the other surgeons were fully occupied, and of course Sir Herbert was absent for an unforeseeable time- perhaps forever.

She knew Kristian was in his rooms from Mrs. Flaherty. She went to his door and knocked, her heart beating so violently she imagined her whole body shook. Her mouth was dry. She knew she would stumble when she spoke.

She heard his voice invite her to enter, and suddenly she wanted to run, but her legs would not move.

He called again.

This time she pushed the door and went in.

His face lit with pleasure as soon as he saw her and he rose from his seat behind the table.

"Callandra! Come in-come in! I have hardly seen you for days." His eyes narrowed a little as he looked at her more closely. There was nothing critical in him, just a gentleness that sent her senses lurching with the power of her own feelings. "You look tired, my dear. Are you not well?"

It was on her lips to tell him the truth, as she always had, most particularly to him, but it was the perfect excuse to evade.

"Not perhaps as I would like to be. But it is of no importance." Her words came in a rush, her tongue fumbling. "I certainly don't need a doctor. It will pass."

"Are you sure?" He looked anxious. "If you'd prefer not to see me, then ask Allington. He is a good man, and here today."

"If it persists, I will," she lied. "But I have come about a man admitted today who most certainly does need your help." And she described the patient in detail, hearing her own voice going on and on as if it were someone else's.

After several moments he held up his hand.

"I understand-I will see him. There is no need to persuade me." Again he looked at her closely. "Is something troubling you, my dear? You are not at all yourself. Have we not trusted one another sufficiently that you can allow me to help?"

It was an open invitation, and she knew that by refusing she would not only close the door and make it harder to open again next time, but she would hurt him. His emotion was there in his eyes, and it should have made her heart sing.

Now she felt choked with unshed tears. All the loneliness of an uncounted span, long before her husband had died, times when he was brisk, full of his own concerns-not unkind, simply unable to bridge a gulf of difference between them-all the hunger for intimacy of the heart was wide and vulnerable within her.

"It's only the wretched business of the nurse," she said, looking down at the floor. "And the trial. I don't know what to think, and I am allowing it to trouble me more than I should... I am sorry. Please forgive me for burdening everyone else with it when we all have sufficient to bear for ourselves."

"Is that all?" he said curiously, his voice lifted a little in question.

"I was fond of her," she replied, looking up at him because that at least was totally true. "And she reminded me of a certain young woman I care about even more. I am just tired. I wiD be much better tomorrow." And she forced herself to smile, even though she felt it must look ghastly.

He smiled back, a sad, gentle look, and she was not sure whether he had believed anything she had said. One thing was certain, she could not possibly ask him about Marianne Gillespie. She could not bear to hear the answer.

She rose to her feet, backing toward the door.

"Thank you very much for accepting Mr. Burke. I was sure you would." And she reached for the door handle, gave him another brief, sickly smile, and escaped.

* * * * *

Sir Herbert turned the moment Rathbone came in the cell door. Seen from the floor of the courtroom at all but a few moments, he had looked well in command of himself, but closer to, in the hard daylight of the single, high window, he was haggard. The flesh of his face was puffy except around the eyes, where the shadows were dark, as if he had slept only fitfully and without ease. He was used to decisions of life or death, he was intimately acquainted with all the physical frailty of man and the extremity of pain and death. But he was also used to being in command; the one who took the actions, or refrained; the one who made the judgments on which someone else's fate was balanced. This time he was helpless. It was Rathbone who had control, not he, and it frightened him. It was in his eyes, in the way he moved his head, something even in the smell of the room.

Rathbone was used to reassuring people without actually promising anything. It was part of his profession. With Sir Herbert it was more difficult than usual. The accepted phrases and manners were ones with which he was only too familiar himself. And the cause for fear was real.

"It is not going well-is it?" Sir Herbert said without prevarication, his eyes intent on Rathbone's face. There was both hope and fear in him.

"It is early yet." Rathbone moderated, but he would not lie. "But it is true that we have so far made no serious inroads into his case."

"He cannot prove I killed her." There was the very faintest note of panic in Sir Herbert's voice. They both heard it. Sir Herbert blushed. "I didn't. This business of having a romantic liaison with her is preposterous. If you'd known the woman you would never have entertained the idea. She simply wasn't-wasn't remotely of that turn of mind. I don't know how to make it plainer."

"Can you think of another explanation of her letters?" Rathbone asked with no real hope.

"No! I can't. That is what is so frightening! It is like an absurd nightmare." His voice was rising with fear, growing sharper. Looking at his face, his eyes, Rathbone believed him entirely. He had spent years refining his judgment, staking his professional reputation upon it. Sir Herbert Stanhope was telling the truth. He had no idea what Prudence Barrymore had meant, and it was his very confusion and ignorance which frightened him most, the complete loss of reality, events he could neither understand nor control sweeping him along and threatening to carry him all the way to destruction.

"Could it be some sort of malicious joke?" Rathbone asked desperately. "People write strange things in their diaries. Could she be using your name to protect someone else?"

Sir Herbert looked startled, then a flicker of hope brightened his face. "I suppose it is conceivable, yes. But I have no idea whom. I wish to God I had! But why would she do such a thing? She was only writing to her sister. She cannot have expected the letters ever to be public."

"Her sister's husband, perhaps?" Rathbone suggested, knowing it was foolish even as the words were out.

"An affair with her sister's husband?" Sir Herbert was both shocked and skeptical.

"No," Rathbone replied patiently. "It is possible her sister's husband might read the letters. It is not unknown for a man to read his wife's letters."

"Oh!" Sir Herbert's face cleared. "Yes of course. That would be perfectly natural. I have done that from time to time myself. Yes-that is an explanation. Now you must find who the man is that she means. What about that man Monk? Can't he find him?" Then the moment's ease slipped away from him. "But there is so little time. Can you ask for an adjournment, a continuance, or whatever it is called?"

Rathbone did not answer.

"It gives me much more ammunition with which to question Mrs. Barker," he replied instead, then remembered with a chill that it was Faith Barker who had offered the letters to Monk in the conviction they would hang Sir Herbert. Whatever Prudence had meant, her sister was unaware of any secret the letters contained. He struggled to keep his disillusion from his face, and knew he failed.

"There is an explanation," Sir Herbert said desperately, his fists clenched, his powerful jaw gritted tight. "God damn it-I never had the slightest personal interest in the woman! Nor did I ever say anything which could..." Suddenly sheer, blind horror filled him. "Oh God!" He stared at Rathbone, terror in his eyes.

Rathbone waited, teetering on the edge of hope.

Sir Herbert swallowed. He tried to speak, but his lips were dry. He tried again.

"I praised her work! I praised it a great deal. Do you think she could have misinterpreted that as admiration for her person? I praised her often!" There was a fine sweat of fear on his lip and brow. "She was the finest nurse I ever had. She was intelligent, quick to learn, precise to obey, and yet not without initiative. She was always immaculately clean. She never complained of long hours, and she fought like a tiger to save a life." His eyes were fixed on Rathbone's. "But I swear before God, I never meant anything personal by my praise for her-simply what I said. No more, never more!" He put his head in his hands. "God preserve me from working with young women-young women of good family who expect and desire suitors."

Rathbone had a very powerful fear that he was going to get his wish-and be preserved from working with anyone at all-although he doubted God had anything to do with it.

"I will do everything I can," he said with a voice far firmer and more confident than he felt. "Keep your spirits high. There is very much more than a reasonable doubt, and your own manner is one of our strongest assets. Geoffrey Taunton is by no means clear, nor Miss Cuthbert-son. And there are other possibilities also-Kristian Beck, for one."

"Yes." Sir Herbert rose slowly, forcing himself to regain his composure. Years of ruthless self-discipline finally conquered his inner panic. "But reasonable doubt. Dear Heaven-that would ruin my career!"

"It does not have to be forever," Rathbone said with complete honesty. "If you are acquitted, the case will remain open. It may be a very short time, a few weeks, before they find the true killer."

But they both knew that even reasonable doubt had still to be fought for to save Sir Herbert from the gallows-and they had only a few days left.

Rathbone held out his hand. It was a gesture of faith. Sir Herbert shook it, holding on longer than was customary, as if it were a lifeline. He forced a smile which had more courage in it than confidence.

Rathbone left with a greater determination to fight than he could recall in years.

* * * * *

After his testimony Monk left the court, his stomach churning and his whole body clenched with anger. He did not even know against whom to direct it, and that compounded the pain inside him. Had Prudence really been so blind? He did not wish to think of her as fallible to such a monstrous degree. It was so far from the woman for whom he had felt such grief at the crowded funeral in the church at Hanwell. She had been brave, and noble, and he had felt a cleanness inside from having known of her. He had understood her dreams, and her fierce struggle, and the price she had paid for them. Something in him felt at one with her.

And yet he was so flawed himself in his judgment or he would never have loved Hermione. And the very word love seemed inappropriate when he thought of the emotion he had felt, the turmoil, the need, the loneliness. It was not for any real woman, it was for what he had imagined her to be, a dream figure who would fill all his own emptinesses, a woman of tenderness and purity, a woman who both loved and needed him. He had-never looked at the reality-a woman afraid of the heights and the depths of feeling, a small, craven woman who hugged her safety to her and was content to stand on the edge of all the heat of the battle.

How could Monk, of all people, condemn Prudence Barrymore for misjudgment?

And yet it still hurt. He strode across Newgate Street regardless of horses shying and drivers shouting at him and a light gig veering out of his way. He was nearly run down by a black landau; the footman riding at the side let fly at Monk a string of language that caused even the coachman to sit a little more upright in surprise.

Without making any deliberate decision, Monk found himself going in the general direction of the hospital, and after twenty minutes' swift walking, he hailed a hansom and completed the rest of the journey. He did not even know if Hester was on duty or in the nurses' dormitory catching some well-needed sleep, and he was honest enough to admit he did not care. She was the only person to whom he could confide the confusion and power of his feelings.

As it chanced, she had just fallen asleep after a long day's duty beginning before seven, but he knew where the nurses' dormitory was and he strode in with an air of such authority that no one stopped or questioned him until he was at the entrance doorway. Then a large nurse with ginger hair and arms like a navvy stood square in the middle, staring at him grimly.

"I need to see Miss Latterly in a matter of urgency," he said, glaring back at her. "Someone's life may depend on the matter." That was a lie, and he uttered it without a flicker.

"Oh yeah? Whose? Yours?"

He wondered what her regard for Sir Herbert Stanhope had been.

"None of your affair," he said tartly. "I've just come from the Old Bailey, and I have business here. Now out of my way, and fetch Miss Latterly for me."

"I don't care if yer've come from 'Ell on a broomstick, yer not comin' in 'ere." She folded her massive arms. "I'll go an' tell 'er as yer 'ere if yer tell me who yer are. She can come and see yer if she feels like it."

"Monk."

"Never!" she said in disbelief, looking him up and down.

"That's my name, not my calling, you fool!" he snapped. "Now tell Hester I'm here."

She snorted loudly, but she obeyed, and about three minutes later Hester herself came out of the dormitory looking tired, very hastily dressed, and her hair over her shoulder in a long brown braid. He had never seen it down before, and it startled him. She looked quite different, younger and more vulnerable. He had a twinge of guilt for having woken her on what was essentially a selfish errand. In all probability it would make no difference at all to the fate of Sir Herbert Stanhope whether he spoke to her this evening or not.

"What happened?" she said immediately, still too full of exhaustion and sleep to have thought of all the possibilities fear could suggest.

"Nothing in particular," he said, taking her arm to lead her away from the dormitory door. "I don't even know if it is going well or badly. I shouldn't have come, but there was no one else I really wished to speak to. Lovat-Smith has finished his case, and I wouldn't care to be in Stanhope's shoes. But then Geoffrey Taunton comes out of it badly too. He has a vile temper, and a record of violence. He was in the hospital at the time-but it's Stanhope in the dock, and nothing so far is strong enough to change their places."

They were in front of one of the few windows in the corridor and the late afternoon sun shone in a haze of dusty light over them and in a pool on the floor around their feet.

"Has Oliver any evidence to bring, do you know?" She was too tired to pretend formality where Rathbone was concerned.

"No I don't. I'm afraid I was short with him. His defense so far is to make Prudence look a fool." There was pain and anger still tight inside him.

"If she thought Sir Herbert Stanhope would marry her, she was a fool," Hester said, but with such sadness in her voice he could not be angry with her for it.

"He also suggested that she exaggerated her own medical abilities," he went on. "And her stories of having performed surgery in the field were fairy tales."

She turned and stared at him, confusion turning to anger.

"That is not so! She had as.good a knowledge of amputation as most of the surgeons, and she had the courage and the speed. I'll testify. I'll swear to that, and they won't shake me, because I know it for myself."

"You can't," he answered, the flat feeling of defeat betrayed in his tone, even his stance.

"I damned well can!" she retorted furiously. "And let go of my arm! I can stand up perfectly well by myself! I'm tired, not ill."

He kept hold of her, out of perversity.

"You can't testify, because Lovat-Smith's case is concluded," he said through clenched teeth. "And Rathbone certainly won't call you. That she was accurate and realistic is not what he wants to hear. It will hang Sir Herbert."

"Maybe he should be hanged," she said sharply, then immediately regretted it. "I don't mean that. I mean maybe he did kill her. First I thought he did, then I didn't, now I don't know what I think anymore."

"Rathbone still seems convinced he didn't, and I must admit, looking at the man's face in the dock, I find it hard to believe he did. There doesn't seem any reason-not if you think about it intelligently. And he will be an excellent witness. Every time Prudence's infatuation with him is mentioned, a look of total incredulity crosses his face."

She gazed at him, meeting his eyes with searching candor.

"You believe him, don't you?" she concluded.

"Yes-it galls me to concede it, but I do."

"We will still have to come up with some better evidence as to who did it, or he is going to hang," she argued, but now there was pity in her, and determination.

He knew it of old, and the memory of it, once so passionately on his behalf, sent a thrill of warmth through him.

"I know," he said grimly. "And we will have to do it quickly. I've exhausted all I can think of with Geoffrey Taunton. I'd better follow what I can with Dr. Beck. Haven't you learned anything more about him?"

"No." She turned away, her face sad and vulnerable. The light caught her cheekbones and accentuated the tiredness around her eyes. He did not know what hurt her; she had not shared it with him. It pained him sharply and unexpectedly that she had excluded him. He was angry that he wanted to spare her the burden of searching as well as her nursing duties, and angriest of all that it upset him so much. It should not have. It was absurd-and weak.

"Well, what are you doing here?" he demanded harshly. "In all this time surely you have done more than fetch and carry the slops and wind bandages? For God's sake, think!"

"Next time you haven't a case, you try nursing," she snapped back. "See if you can do it all-and detect at the same time. You're no earthly use to anybody except as a detective-and what have you found out?"

"That Geoffrey Taunton has a violent temper, that Nanette Cuthbertson was here in London and had every reason to hate Prudence, and that her hands are strong enough to control a horse many a man couldn't," he said instantly.

"We knew that ages ago." She turned away. "It's helpful-but it's not enough."

"That is why I've come, you fool. If it were enough, I wouldn't need to."

"I thought you came to complain..."

"I am complaining. Don't you listen at all?" He knew he was being totally unfair, and he went on anyway. "What about the other nurses? Some of them must have hated her. She was arrogant, arbitrary, and opinionated. Some of them look big enough to pull a dray, never mind strangle a woman."

"She wasn't as arrogant as you think..." she began.

He laughed abruptly. "Not perhaps by your standards- but I was thinking of theirs."

"You haven't the first idea what their standards are," she said with contempt. "You don't murder somebody because they irritate you now and then."

"Plenty of people have been murdered because they constantly nag, bully, insult, and generally abuse people," he contradicted her. "It only takes one moment when the temper snaps because someone cannot endure any more." He felt a sudden very sharp anxiety, almost a premonition of loss. "That's why you should be careful, Hester."

She looked at him in total amazement, then she began to laugh. At first it was only a little giggle, then it swelled into a delirious, hilarious surge.

For an instant his temper flared, then he realized how much he would rather not quarrel with her. But he refused to laugh as well. He merely waited with a look of resigned patience.

Eventually she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, most inelegantly, and stopped laughing. She sniffed.

"I shall be careful," she promised. "Thank you for your concern."

He drew breath to say something sharp, then changed his mind.

"We never looked very carefully into Kristian Beck. I still don't know what Prudence was going to tell the authorities when he begged her not to." A new thought occurred to him, which he should have seen before. "I wonder what particular authority she had in mind? The governors-or Sir Herbert? Rathbone could ask Sir Herbert."

Hester said nothing. Again the look of weariness crossed her face.

"Go back to sleep," he said gently, instinctively putting his hand on her shoulder. "I'll go and see Rathbone. I expect we've got a few days yet. We may find something."

She smiled doubtfully, but there was a warmth in it, a sharing of all the understanding and the emotions that needed no words, past experiences that had marked them with the same pains and the same fears forThe present. She reached out and touched his face momentarily with her fingertips, then turned and walked back into the dormitory.

He had very little hope Sir Herbert would know anything about Kristian Beck, or he would surely have said so before now. It was conceivable he might tell them which authority something ought to be reported to, the chairman of the Board of Governors, perhaps? Altogether the case looked grim. It would rest in Rathbone's skill and the jury's mood and temper. Hester had been little help. And yet he felt a curious sense of happiness inside, as if he had never been less alone in his life.

* * * * *

At the earliest opportunity the following day Hester changed her duties with another nurse and went to see Edith Sobell and Major Tiplady. They greeted her with great pleasure and some excitement.

"We were going to send a message to you," the major said earnestly, assisting her to a chintz-covered chair as if she had been an elderly invalid. "We have news for you."

"I am afraid it is not going to please you," Edith added, sitting in the chair opposite, her face earnest. "I'm so sorry."

Hester was confused. "You found nothing?" That was hardly news sufficient to send a message.

"We found something." Now the major also looked confused, but his questioning look was directed at Edith. Hester only peripherally noticed the depth of affection in it.

"I know that is what she asked," Edith said patiently. "But she likes Dr. Beck." She turned back to Hester. "You will not wish to know that twice in the past he has been accused of mishandling cases of young women who died. Both times the parents were sure there was nothing very wrong with them, and Dr. Beck performed operations which were quite unnecessary, and so badly that they bled to death. The fathers both sued, but neither won. The proof was not sufficient."

Hester felt sick. "Where? Where did this happen? Surely not since he's been with the Royal Free Hospital?"

"No," Edith agreed, her curious face with its aquiline nose and wry, gentle mouth full of sadness. "The first was in the north, in Alnwick, right up near the Scottish border; the second was in Somerset. I wish I had something better to tell you."

"Are you sure it was he?" It was a foolish question, but she was fighting for any rescue at all. Callandra filled her mind.

"Can there be two surgeons from Bohemia named Kristian Beck?" Edith said quietly.

The major was looking at Hester with anxiety. He did not know why it hurt her so much, but he was painfully aware that it did.

"How did you find out?" Hester asked. It did not affect the reality of it, but even to question it somehow put off the finality of acceptance.

"I have become friends with the librarian at one of the newspaper offices," Edith replied. "It is her task to care for all the back copies. She has been most helpful with checking some of the details of events referred to in the major's memoirs, so I asked her in this as well."

"I see." There seemed nothing else she could pursue. That was the missing element, the thing Prudence was going to tell the authorities-only Beck had killed her before she could.

Then another thought occurred to her, even uglier. Was it possible Callandra already knew? Was that why she had looked so haggard lately? She was racked with fear-and her own guilt in concealing it.

Edith and the major were both looking at her, their faces crumpled with concern. Her thoughts must be so transparent. But there was nothing she could say without betraying Callandra.

"How are the memoirs going?" she asked, forcing a smile and a look of interest which would have been genuine at any other time.

"Ah, we are nearly finished," Edith replied, her face filled with light again. "We have written all his experiences in India, and such things in Africa you wouldn't dream of. It was quite the most exciting thing I have ever heard in my life. You must read them when we have finished..." Then something of the light drained away as the inevitable conclusion occurred to all of them. Edith had been unable to leave the home which stifled her, the parents who felt her early widowhood meant that she should spend the rest of her life as if she were a single woman, dependent upon her father's bounty financially, and socially upon her mother's whim. She had had one chance at marriage, and that was all any woman was entitled to. Her family had done its duty in obtaining one husband for her; her misfortune that he had died young was one she shared with a great many others. She should accept it gracefully. The tragedy of her brother's death had opened up ugliness from the past which was far from healed yet, and perhaps never would be. The thought of returning to live in Carlyon House again was one which darkened even the brilliance of this summer day.

"I shall look forward to it," Hester said quietly. She turned to the major. "When do you expect to publish?"

He looked so deep in anxiety and concentration she was surprised when he answered her.

"Oh-I think..." Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly. His face was very pink. "I was going to say there is much work to be done, but that is not true. Edith has been so efficient there is really very little. But I am not sure if I can find a publisher willing to take it, or if I may have to pay to have it done." He stopped abruptly.

He took another deep breath, his face even pinker, and turned to Edith with fierce concentration. "Edith, I find the thought of concluding the work, and your leaving, quite intolerable. I thought it was writing about India and Africa which was giving me such pleasure and such inner peace, but it is not. It is sharing it with you, and having you here every day. I never imagined I should find a woman's company so extremely... comfortable. I always considered them alien creatures, either formidable, like governesses and nurses, or totally trivial and far more frightening, like ladies who flirt. But you are the most... agreeable person I have ever known." His face was now quite scarlet, his blue eyes very bright. "I should be desperately lonely if you were to leave, and the happiest man alive if you were to remain-as my wife. If I presume, I apologize-but I have to ask. I love you so very dearly." He stopped, overcome by his own audacity, but his eyes never left her face.

Edith looked down at the floor, blushing deeply; she was smiling, not with embarrassment but with happiness.

"My dear Hercules," she said very gently. "I cannot think of anything in the world I should like so much."

Hester rose to her feet, kissed Edith gently on the cheek, then kissed the major in exactly the same way, and tiptoed outside into the sun to walk back toward more suitable transport to the Old Bailey and Oliver Rathbone.