A Sudden Fearful Death

chapter 11
Before he could begin the case for the defense, Rathbone went to see Sir Herbert again to brief him now that he would be called to the witness stand.

It was not a meeting he looked forward to. Sir Herbert was far too intelligent a man not to realize how slender his chances were, how much depended on emotion, prejudices, sympathies; certainly intangibles that Rathbone was well skilled in handling, but frail threads from which to dangle a man's life. Evidence was unarguable. Even the most perverse jury seldom went against it.

However, he found Sir Herbert in a far more optimistic mood than he had feared. He was freshly washed and shaved and dressed in clean clothes. Except for the shadows around his eyes and a certain knack of twisting his fingers, he might have been about to set off for the hospital and his own professional rounds.

"Good morning, Rathbone," he said as soon as the cell door was closed. 'This morning is our turn. How do you propose to begin? It seems to me that Lovat-Smith has far from a perfect case. He has not proved it was me. Nor can he ever; and he has certainly not proved it was not Taunton or Beck, or even Miss Cuthbertson, let alone anyone else. What is your plan of action?" He might have been discussing an interesting medical operation in which he had no personal stake, except for a certain tightness in the muscles of his neck and an awkwardness in his shoulders.

Rathbone did not argue with anything he had said, even though he doubted it had the importance Sir Herbert attached to it. Quite apart from any motives of compassion, for all practical reasons it was most important that Sir Herbert should maintain his appearance of calm and assurance. Fear would convey itself to the jury, and they might very easily equate fear with guilt. Why should an innocent man be afraid of their judgment?

"I shall call you to the stand first," he said aloud, forcing himself to smile as if he had every confidence. "I shall give you the opportunity to deny having had any personal relationship with Prudence at all, and of course to deny having killed her. I would also like to be able to mention one or two specific incidents which she may have misunderstood." He watched Sir Herbert closely. "Simply to say in a general way that she daydreamed or twisted reality will not do."

"I have been trying to remember," Sir Herbert protested earnestly, his narrow eyes on Rathbone's. "But for Heaven's sake I can't remember trivial comments passed in the course of business! I can't remember being more than civil to her. Of course I passed the odd word of praise-she more than warranted it. She was a damned good nurse."

Rathbone remained silent, pulling a very slight face.

"Good God man!" Sir Herbert exploded, turning on his heel as if he would pace, but the walls of the cell confined him, bringing him up sharply. "Can you remember every casual word you pass to your clerks and juniors? It is just my misfortune I work largely with women. Perhaps one shouldn't?" His tone was suddenly savage. "But nursing is a job best done by women, and I daresay we could not find reliable men willing and able to do it." His voice rose a tone, and then another, and through long experience Rathbone knew it was panic just below the surface, every now and again jutting through the thin skin of control. He had seen it so often before, and as always he felt a stab of pity and another heavy drag of the weight of his own responsibility.

He put his hands in his pockets and stood a trifle more casually.

"I strongly advise you not to say anything of that sort on the stand. Remember that the jurors are ordinary people, arid almost certainly hold medicine in some awe, and very little understanding. And after Miss Nightingale, who is a national heroine, whatever you think of her, her nurses are heroines also. Don't appear to criticize Prudence, even obliquely. That is the most important single piece of advice I can give you. If you do, you can resign yourself to conviction."

Sir Herbert stared at him, his bright intelligent eyes very clear. "Of course," he said quietly. "Yes, of course I understand that."

"And answer only what I ask you, add nothing whatever. Is that absolutely clear?"

"Yes-yes, of course, if you say so."

"And don't underestimate Lovat-Smith. He may look like a traveling actor, but he is one of the best lawyers in England. Don't let him goad you into saying more than you have to in order to answer the question exactly. He'll flatter you, make you angry, challenge you intellectually if he thinks it will make you forget yourself. Your impression on the jury is the most important weapon you have. He knows that as well as I do."

Sir Herbert looked pale, a furrow of anxiety sharp between his brows. He stared at Rathbone as if weighing him for some inner judgment.

"I shall be careful," he said at last. "Thank you for your counsel."

Rathbone straightened up and held out his hand.

"Don't worry. This is the darkest hour. From now on it is our turn, and unless we make some foolish mistake, we will carry the day."

Sir Herbert grasped his hand and held it hard.

"Thank you. I have every confidence in you. And I shall obey your instructions precisely." He let go and stepped back, a very slight smile touching his lips.

* * * * *

As on every day so far, the court was packed with spectators and journalists, and this morning there was an air of expectancy among them and something not unlike hope. The defense was about to begin, there might at last be disclosures, drama, even evidence toward another murderer. Everyone's eyes were to the front, the noise was not talking but the myriad tiny rustles and creaks of movement as one fabric rubbed against another, whalebone shifted pressure, and the leather soles of boots scraped on the floor.

Rathbone was not as well prepared as he would have liked, but there was no more time. He must look as if he not only knew Sir Herbert was innocent but also who was guilty. He was acutely aware of the eyes of every juror intent upon him; every movement was watched, every inflection of his voice measured.

"My lord, gentlemen of the jury," he began with a very slight smile. "I am sure you will appreciate it is much easier for the prosecution to prove that a man is guilty of a crime man for the defense to prove he is not. Unless, of course, you can prove that someone else is. And unfortunately I cannot do that-so far. Although it is always possible something may emerge during the evidence yet to come."

The whisper of excitement was audible, even the hasty scratching of pencil on paper.

"Even so," he continued, "the prosecution has failed to demonstrate that Sir Herbert Stanhope killed Prudence Barrymore, only that he could have. As could many others: Geoffrey Taunton, Nanette Cuthbertson, Dr. Beck are only some. The main thrust of his argument"-he indicated Lovat-Smith with a casual gesture-"is that Sir Herbert had a powerful motive, as evidenced by Prudence's own letters to her sister, Faith Barker."

His smile broadened a fraction and he looked squarely at the jury.

"However, I will show you that those letters are open to a quite different interpretation, one which leaves Sir Herbert no more culpable than any other man might be in his position and with his skills, his personal modesty, and the other urgent and powerful calls upon his attention."

There was more fidgeting on the public benches. A fat woman in the gallery leaned forward and stared at Sir Herbert in the dock.

Before Hardie could become restive, Rathbone proceeded to the point.

"I shall now call my first witness, Sir Herbert Stanhope himself."

It took several moments for Sir Herbert to disappear from the dock down the stairs and reappear in the body of the court. Leaving his escort of jailers behind, he crossed the floor to mount the steps to the witness stand, walking very uprightly, an immaculately dressed and dignified figure. All the time there was a hush in the room as if everyone had held their breath. The only sound was the scratching of pencils on paper as the journalists sought to catch the mood in words.

As soon as Sir Herbert reached the top of the steps and turned there was a ripple of movement as a hundred heads craned forward to look at him, and everyone shifted very slightly in their seats. He stood square-shouldered, head high, but Rathbone watching him felt it was assurance, not arrogance. He glanced at the jury's faces and saw interest and a flash of reluctant respect.

The clerk swore him in, and Rathbone moved to the center of the floor and began.

"Sir Herbert, you have been chief surgeon at the Royal Free Hospital for approximately the last seven years. During that time you must have been assisted by many nurses, probably even hundreds, would you say?"

Sir Herbert's slight eyebrows rose in surprise.

"I never thought of counting," he said frankly. "But, yes, I suppose so."

"Of very varying degrees of skill and dedication?"

"I am afraid that is true." Sir Herbert's mouth curled almost imperceptibly in wry, self-mocking amusement.

"When did you first meet Prudence Barrymore?"

Sir Herbert concentrated in thought for a moment. The court was utterly silent, every eye in the room upon his face. There was no hostility in the jurors' total attention, only a keen awaiting.

"It must have been in July of 1856," he replied. "I cannot be more exact than that, I am afraid." He drew breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.

Rathbone noted it with inner satisfaction. He was going to obey. Thank God for that! He affected innocence. "Do you recall the arrival of all the new nurses, Sir Herbert?"

"No, of course not. There are scores of them. Er..." Then again he stopped. A bitter amusement stirred Rathbone. Sir Herbert was obeying him so very precisely; it was a betrayal of the depth of the fear he was concealing. Rathbone judged he was not a man who obeyed others easily.

"And why did you note Miss Barrymore in particular?" he asked.

"Because she was a Crimean nurse," Sir Herbert replied. "A gentlewoman who had dedicated herself to the care of the sick, at some considerable cost to herself, even risk of her own life. She did not come because she required to earn her living but because she wished to nurse."

Rathbone was aware of a low murmur of agreement from the crowd and the open expressions of approval on the jurors' faces.

"And was she as skilled and dedicated as you had hoped?"

"More so," Sir Herbert replied, keeping his eyes on Rathbone's face. He stood a little forward in the box, his hands on the rails, arms straight. It was an attitude of concentration and even a certain humility. If Rathbone had schooled him he could not have done better. "She was tireless in her duties," he added. "Never late, never absent without cause. Her memory was phenomenal and she learned with remarkable rapidity. And no one ever had cause to question her total morality in any area whatsoever. She was altogether an excellent woman."

"And handsome?" Rathbone asked with a slight smile.

Sir Herbert's eyes opened wider in surprise. He had obviously not expected the question, or thought of an answer beforehand.

"Yes-yes I suppose she was. I am afraid I notice such things less than most men. In such circumstances I am more interested in a woman's skills." He glanced at the jury in half apology. "When you are dealing with the very ill, a pretty face is little help. I do recall she had very fine hands indeed." He did not look down at his own beautiful hands resting on the witness box railing.

"She was very skilled?" Rathbone repeated.

"I have said so."

"Enough to perform a surgical operation herself?"

Sir Herbert looked startled, opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped.

"Sir Herbert?" Rathbone prompted.

"She was an excellent nurse," he said earnestly. "But not a doctor! You have to understand, the difference is enormous. It is an uncrossable gulf." He shook his head. "She had no formal training. She knew only what she learned by experience and observation on the battlefield and in the hospital at Scutari." He leaned a trifle farther forward, his face creased with concentration. "You have to understand the difference between such haphazardly gained knowledge, unorganized, without reference to cause and effect, to alternatives, possible complication-without knowledge of anatomy, pharmacology, the experience and case notes of other doctors-and the years of formal training and practice and the whole body of lateral and supplementary learning such education provides." Again he shook his head, more vehemently this time. "No, Mr. Rathbone, she was an excellent nurse, I have never known better-but she was most certainly not a doctor. And to tell you the truth"-he faced Rathbone squarely, his eyes brilliantly direct-"I believe that the tales we have heard of her performing operations in the field of battle did not come in that form from her. She was not an arrogant woman, nor untruthful. I believe she must have been misunderstood, and possibly even misquoted."

There were quite audible murmurs of approval from the body of the court, several people nodded and glanced at neighbors, and on the jury benches two members actually smiled.

It had been a brilliant move emotionally, but tactically it made Rathbone's next question more difficult to frame. He debated whether to delay it, and decided it would be seen as evasive.

"Sir Herbert..." He walked a couple of steps closer to the witness box and looked up. "The prosecution's evidence against you was a number of letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister in which she writes of her profound feelings toward you, and the belief that you returned those feelings and would shortly make her the happiest of women. Is this a realistic view, a practical and honest one? These are her own words, and not misquoted."

Sir Herbert shook his head, his face creased with confusion.

"I simply cannot understand it," he said ruefully. "I swear before God, I have never given her the slightest cause to think I held her in that kind of regard, and I have spent hours, days, trying to think of anything I could have said or done that could give her such an impression, and I honestly can think of nothing."

He shook his head again, biting his lip. "Perhaps I am casual in manner, and may have allowed myself to speak informally to those with whom I work, but I truly cannot see how any person would have interpreted my remarks as statements of personal affection. I simply spoke to a trusted colleague in whom I had the utmost confidence." He hesitated. Several jurors nodded in sympathy and understanding. From their faces it seemed they too had had such experiences. It was all eminently reasonable. A look of profound regret transformed his features.

"Perhaps I was remiss?" he said gravely. "I am not a romantic man. I have been happily married for over twenty years to the only woman whom I have ever regarded in that light." He smiled self-consciously.

Above in the gallery women nudged each other under-standingly.

"She would tell you I have little imagination in that region of my life," Sir Herbert continued. "As you may see, I am not a handsome or dashing figure. I have never been the subject of the romantic attentions of young ladies. There are far more..." He hesitated, searching for the right word. "More charming and likely men for such a role. We have a number of medical students, gifted, young, good-looking, and with fine futures ahead of them. And of course there are other senior doctors as well, with greater gifts than mine in charm and appealing manner. Quite frankly, it never occurred to me that anyone might view me in that light."

Rathbone adopted a sympathetic stance, although Sir Herbert was doing so well he hardly needed help.

"Did Miss Barrymore never say anything which struck you as more than usually admiring, nothing personal rather than professional?" he asked. "I imagine you are used to the very considerable respect of your staff and the gratitude of your patients, but please think carefully, with the wisdom of hindsight."

Sir Herbert shrugged and smiled candidly and apologetically.

"Believe me, Mr. Rathbone, I have tried, but on every occasion on which I spent time, admittedly a great deal of time, with Nurse Barrymore, my mind was on the medical case with which we were engaged. I never saw her in any other connection." He drew his brows together in an effort of concentration.

"I thought of her with respect, with trust, with the utmost confidence in her dedication and her ability, but I did not think of her personally." He looked down. "It seems I was grievously in the wrong in that, which I profoundly regret. I have daughters of my own, as you no doubt know, but my profession has kept me so fully occupied that their upbringing has been largely left to their mother. I do not really know the ways of young women as well as I might, as well as many men whose personal lives allow them more time in their homes and with their families than does mine."

There was a whisper and rustle of sympathy around the court.

"It is a price I do not pay willingly." He bit his lip. "And it seems perhaps it may have been responsible for a tragic misunderstanding by Nurse Barrymore. I-I cannot think of any specific remarks I may have made. I really thought only of our patients, but this I do know." His voice dropped and became hard and intense. "I at no time whatever entertained any romantic notions about Miss Barrymore, or said or did anything whatever that was improper or could be construed by an unbiased person to be an advance or expression of romantic intent. Of that I am as certain as I am that I stand here before you in this courtroom."

It was superb. Rathbone himself could not have written anything better.

"Thank you, Sir Herbert. You have explained this tragic situation in a manner I believe we can all understand." He looked at the jury with a rueful gesture. "I myself have experienced embarrassing encounters, and I daresay the gentlemen of the jury may have also. The dreams and priorities in life of young women are at times different from ours, and perhaps we are dangerously, even tragically, insensitive to them." He turned back to the witness stand. "Please remain where you are. I have no doubt my learned friend will have questions to ask you."

He smiled at Lovat-Smith as he walked back to the table and resumed his seat.

Lovat-Smith stood up and straightened his gown before moving across to the center of the floor. He did not look to right or left, but directly up at Sir Herbert.

"In your own words, Sir Herbert, you are not a ladies' man, is that correct?" His voice was courteous, even smooth. There was no hint of panic or defeat in it, just a deference toward a man held in public esteem.

Rathbone knew he was acting. Lovat-Smith was as well aware as he himself how excellent Sir Herbert's testimony had been. All the same his confidence gave Rathbone a twinge of unease.

"No," Sir Herbert said carefully, "I am not."

Rathbone shut his eyes. Please Heaven Sir Herbert would remember his advice now. Say nothing more! Rathbone said over and over to himself. Add nothing. Offer nothing. Don't be led by him. He is your enemy.

"But you must have some considerable familiarity wim the ways of women..." Lovat-Smith said, raising his eyebrows and opening his light blue eyes very wide.

Sir Herbert said nothing.

Rathbone breathed out a sigh of relief.

"You are married, and have been for many years," Lovat-Smith pointed out. "Indeed you have a large family, including three daughters. You do yourself an injustice, sir. I have it on excellent authority that your family life is most contented and well ordered, and you are an excellent husband and father."

"Thank you," Sir Herbert said graciously.

Lovat-Smith's face tightened. There was a faint titter somewhere in the body of the court, instantly suppressed.

"It was not intended as a compliment, sir," Lovat-Smith said sharply. Then he hurried on before there was more laughter. "It was to point out that you are not as unacquainted with the ways of women as you would have us believe. Your relationship with your wife is excellent, you say, and I have no reason to doubt it. At least it is undeniably long and intimate."

Again a titter of amusement came from the crowd, but it was brief and stifled almost immediately. Sympathy was with Sir Herbert; Lovat-Smith realized it and would not make that mistake again.

"Surely you cannot expect me to believe you are an innocent in the nature and affections of women, in the way which they take flattery or attention?'

Now Sir Herbert had no one to guide him as Rathbone had done. He was alone, facing the enemy. Rathbone gritted his teeth.

Sir Herbert remained silent for several minutes.

Hardie looked at him inquiringly.

Lovat-Smith smiled.

"I do not think," Sir Herbert answered at last, lifting his eyes and looking squarely at Lovat-Smith, "that you can reasonably liken my relationship with my wife to that with my nurses, even the very best of them, which undoubtedly Miss Barrymore was. My wife knows me and does not misinterpret what I say. I do not have to be watchful that she has read me aright. And my relationship with my daughters is hardly of the nature we are discussing. It does not enter into it." He stopped abruptly and stared at Lovat-Smith.

Again jurors nodded, understanding plain in their faces.

Lovat-Smith shifted the line of his attack slightly.

"Was Miss Barrymore the only young woman of good birth with whom you have worked, Sir Herbert?"

Sir Herbert smiled. "It is only very recently that such young women have taken an interest in nursing, sir. In fact, it is since Miss Nightingale's work in the Crimea has become so famous that other young women desired to emulate her. And of course there are those who served with her, such as Miss Barrymore, and my present most excellent nurse, Miss Latterly. Previously to that, the only women of gentle birth who had any business in the hospital-one could not call it work in the same sense-were those who served in the Board of Governors, such as Lady Ross Gilbert and Lady Callandra Daviot. And they are not romantically impressionable young ladies."

Rathbone breathed out a sigh of relief. He had negotiated it superbly. He had even avoided saying offensively that Berenice and Callandra were not young.

Lovat-Smith accepted rebuff gracefully and tried again.

"Do I understand correctly, Sir Herbert, that you are very used to admiration?"

Sir Herbert hesitated. "I would prefer to say 'respect,' " he said, deflecting the obvious vanity.

"I daresay." Lovat-Smith smiled at him, showing sharp, even teeth. "But admiration is what I meant. Do not your students admire you intensely?"

"You were better to ask them, sir."

"Oh come now!" Lovat-Smith's smile widened. "No false modesty, please. This is not a withdrawing room where pretty manners are required." His voice hardened suddenly. "You are a man accustomed to inordinate admiration, to people hanging upon your every word. The court will find it difficult to believe you are not well used to telling the difference between overenthusiasm, sycophancy, and an emotional regard which is personal, and therefore uniquely dangerous."

"Student doctors are all young men," Sir Herbert answered with a frown of confusion. "The question of romance does not arise."

Two or three of the jurors smiled.

"And nurses?" Lovat-Smith pursued, eyes wide, voice soft.

"Forgive me for being somewhat blunt," Sir Herbert said patiently. "But I thought we had already covered that. Until very recently they have not been of a social class where a personal relationship could be considered."

Lovat-Smith did not look in the least disconcerted. He smiled very slightly, again showing his teeth. "And your patients, Sir Herbert? Were they also all men, all elderly, or all of a social class too low to be considered?"

A slow flush spread up Sir Herbert's cheeks.

"Of course not," he said very quietly. "But the gratitude and dependence of a patient are quite different. One knows to accept it as related to one's skills, to the patient's natural fear and pain, and not as a personal emotion. Its intensity is transient, even if the gratitude remains. Most men of medicine experience such feelings and know them for what they are. To mistake them for love would be quite foolish."

Fine, Rathbone thought. Now stop, for Heaven's sake! Don't spoil it by going on.

Sir Herbert opened his mouth and then, as if silently hearing Rathbone's thoughts, closed it again.

Lovat-Smith stood in the center of the floor, staring up at the witness box, his head a little to one side. "So in spite of your experience with your wife, your daughters, your grateful and dependent patients, you were still taken totally by surprise when Prudence Barrymore expressed her love and devotion toward you? It must have been an alarming and embarrassing experience for you-a happily married man as you are!"

But Sir Herbert was not so easily tripped.

"She did not express it, sir," he replied levelly. "She never said or did anything which would lead me to suppose her regard for me was more than professional. When her letters were read to me it was the first I knew of it."

"Indeed?" Lovat-Smith said with heavy disbelief, giving a little shake of his head. "Do you seriously expect the jury to believe that?" He indicated them with one hand. "They are all intelligent, experienced men. I think they would find it hard to imagine themselves so... naive." He turned from the witness stand and walked back to his table.

"I hope they will," Sir Herbert said quietly, leaning forward over the railing with hands clasping it. "It is the truth. Perhaps I was remiss, perhaps I did not look at her as a young and romantic woman, simply as a professional upon whom I relied. And that may be a sin-for which I shall feel an eternal regret. But it is not a cause to commit murder!"

There was a brief murmur of applause from the court. Someone called out, "Hear, hear!" and Judge Hardie glanced at them. One of the jurors smiled and nodded.

"Do you wish to reexamine your witness, Mr. Rathbone?" Hardie asked.

"No thank you, my lord," Rathbone declined graciously.

Hardie excused Sir Herbert, who walked with dignity, head high, back to his place in the dock.

Rathbone called a succession of Sir Herbert's professional colleagues. He did not ask them as much as he had originally intended; Sir Herbert's impression upon the court in general had been too powerful for him to want to smother it with evidence which now seemed largely extraneous. He asked them briefly for their estimation of Sir Herbert as a colleague and each replied unhesitatingly of his great skill and dedication. He asked of his personal moral reputation and they spoke equally plainly that he was beyond reproach.

Lovat-Smith did not bother to pursue them. He made something of a show of boredom, looking at the ceiling while Rathbone was speaking, and when it was his own turn, waiting several seconds before he began. He did not exactly say that their loyalty was totally predictable-and meaningless-but he implied it. It was a ploy to bore the jury and make them forget this impression of Sir Herbert, and Rathbone knew it. He could see from the jurors' faces that they were still completely in sympathy with Sir Herbert, and further laboring of the point risked insulting their intelligence and losing their attention. He thanked the doctor at that moment on the stand and excused him, sending a message that no further colleagues would be required- except Kristian Beck.

It would have been a startling omission had he not called him, but apart from that, he wished to sow in the jurors' minds the strong possibility that it had been Beck himself who had murdered Prudence.

Kristian took the stand without the slightest idea of what awaited him. Rathbone had told him only that he would be called to witness to Sir Herbert's character.

"Dr. Beck, you are a physician and surgeon, are you not?"

"I am." Kristian looked faintly surprised. It was hardly necessary for the validity of his testimony.

"And you have practiced in several places, including your native Bohemia?" He wanted to establish in the jurors' minds Beck's foreignness, his very differentness from the essentially English, familiar Sir Herbert. It was a task he disliked, but the shadow of the noose forms strange patterns on the mind.

"Yes," Kristian agreed again.

"But you have worked with Sir Herbert Stanhope for more than ten or eleven years, is that correct?"

"About that," Kristian agreed. His accent was almost indiscernible, merely a pleasant clarity to certain vowels. "Of course we seldom actually work together, since we are in the same field, but I know his reputation, both personal and professional, and I see him frequently." His expression was open and candid, his intention to help obvious.

"I understand," Rathbone conceded. "I did not mean to imply that you worked side by side. What is Sir Herbert's personal reputation, Dr. Beck?"

A flash of amusement crossed Kristian's face, but there was no malice in it.

"He is regarded as pompous, a little overbearing, justifiably proud of his abilities and his achievements, an excellent teacher, and a man of total moral integrity." He smiled at Rathbone. "Naturally he is joked about by his juniors, and guyed occasionally-I think that is the wok!-as we all are. But I have never heard even the most irresponsible suggest his behavior toward women was other than totally correct."

"It has been suggested that he was somewhat naive concerning women." Rathbone lifted his voice questioningly. "Especially young women. Is that your observation, Dr. Beck?"

"I would have chosen the word uninterested" Kristian replied. "But I suppose naive would do. It is not something to which I previously gave any thought. But if you wish me to say that I find it extremely difficult to believe that he had any romantic interest in Nurse Barrymore, or that he would be unaware of any such feeling she might have had for him, then I can do so very easily. I find it harder to believe that Nurse Barrymore cherished a secret passion for Sir Herbert." A pucker of doubt crossed his face, and he stared at Rathbone very directly.

"You find that hard to believe, Dr. Beck?" Rathbone said very clearly.

"I do."

"Do you consider yourself a naive or unworldly man?"

Kristian's mouth curled into faint self-mockery. "No-no, I don't."

"Then if you find it surprising and hard to accept, is it hard to believe that Sir Herbert was also quite unaware of it?" Rathbone could not keep the ring of triumph out of his voice, although he tried.

Kristian looked rueful, and in spite of what Rathbone had said, surprised.

"No-no, that would seem to follow inevitably."

Rathbone thought of all the suspicions of Kristian Beck that Monk had raised to him: the quarrel overheard with Prudence, the possibilities of blackmail, the fact that Kristian Beck had been in the hospital all the night of Prudence's death, that his own patient had died when he had been expected to recover-but it was all suspicion, dark thoughts, no more. There was no proof, no hard evidence of anything. If he raised it now he might direct the jury's thoughts toward Beck as a suspect. On the other hand, he might only alienate them and betray his own desperation. It would look ugly. At the moment he had their sympathy, and that might just be enough to win the verdict. Sir Herbert's life could rest on this decision.

Should he accuse Beck? He looked at his interesting, curious face with its sensuous mouth and marvelous eyes. There was too much intelligence in it-too much humor; it was a risk he dare not take. As it was, he was winning. He knew it-and Lovat-Smith knew it.

"Thank you, Dr. Beck," he said aloud. "That is all."

Lovat-Smith rose immediately and strode toward the center of the floor.

"Dr. Beck, you are a busy surgeon and physician, are you not?"

"Yes," Kristian agreed, puckering his brows.

"Do you spend much of your time considering the possible romances within the hospital, and whether one person or another may be aware of such feelings?"

"No," Kristian confessed.

"Do you spend any time at all so involved?" Lovat-Smith pressed.

But Kristian was not so easily circumvented.

"It does not require thought, Mr. Lovat-Smith. It is a matter of simple observation one cannot avoid. I am sure you are aware of your colleagues, even when your mind is upon your profession."

This was so patently true that Lovat-Smith could not deny it. He hesitated a moment as if some argument were on the tip of his tongue, then abandoned it.

"None of them is accused of murder, Dr. Beck," he said with a gesture of resignation and vague half-rueful amusement. "That is all I have to ask you, thank you."

Hardie glanced at Rathbone.

Rathbone shook his head.

Kristian Beck left the witness stand and disappeared into the body of the court, leaving Rathbone uncertain whether he had just had a fortunate escape from making a fool of himself, or if he had just missed a profound opportunity he would not get again.

Lovat-Smith looked across at him, the light catching in his brilliant eyes, making his expression unreadable.

* * * * *

The following day Rathbone called Lady Stanhope, not that he expected her evidence to add anything of substance. Certainly she knew no facts germane to the case, but her presence would counter the emotional impact made by Mrs. Barrymore. Lady Stanhope also stood to lose not only her husband to a ghastly death, but her family to scandal and shame-and in all probability her home to a sudden and almost certainly permanent poverty and isolation.

She mounted the stand with a little assistance from the clerk and faced Rathbone nervously. She was very pale and seemed to keep her posture only with difficulty. But she did stop and quite deliberately look up and across at her husband in the dock, meet his eyes, and smile.

Sir Herbert blinked, gave an answering smile, and then looked away. One could only guess his emotions.

Rathbone waited, giving the jury time to observe and remember, then he stepped forward and spoke to her courteously, very gently.

"Lady Stanhope, I apologize for having to call you to testify at what must be a most distressing time for you, but I am sure you would wish to do everything possible to assist your husband to prove his innocence."

She swallowed, staring at him.

"Of course. Anything..." She stopped, obviously also remembering his instruction not to say more than she was asked for.

He smiled at her. "Thank you. I don't have a great deal to ask you, simply a little about Sir Herbert and your knowledge of his life and his character."

She looked at him blankly, not knowing what to say.

This was going to be extremely difficult. He must steer a course between catering to her so much he learned nothing and being so forceful he frightened her into incoherence. He had thought when he had originally spoken to her that she would be an excellent witness, now he was wondering if he had made an error in calling her. But if he had not, her absence would have been noticed and wondered upon.

"Lady Stanhope, how long have you been married to Sir Herbert?"

'Twenty-three years," she replied.

"And you have children?"

"Yes, we have seven children, three daughters and four sons." She was beginning to gain a little more confidence. She was on familiar ground.

"Remember you are on oath, Lady Stanhope," he warned gently, not for her but to draw the jury's attention, "and must answer honestly, even if it is painful to you. Have you ever had cause to doubt Sir Herbert's complete loyalty to you during that time?"

She looked a little taken aback, even though he had previously ascertained that her answer would be in the negative or he would not have asked.

"No, most certainly not!" She flushed faintly and looked down at her hands. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me. I am quite aware that many women are not so fortunate. But no, he has never given me cause for distress or anxiety in that way." She took a breath and smiled very slightly, looking at Rathbone. "You must understand, he is devoted to his profession. He is not a great deal interested in personal affection of that sort. He loves his family, he likes to be comfortable with people, to be able, if you understand what I mean, to take them for granted." She smiled apologetically, looking steadily at Rathbone and keeping her eyes from everyone else. "I suppose you might say that is lazy, in a sort of way, but he puts all his energy into his work. He has saved the lives of so many people-and surely that is more important than making polite conversation, flattering people and playing little games of etiquette and manners? Isn't it?" She was asking him for reassurance, and already he was conscious of the sounds of sympathy and agreement from the crowd, little murmurs, shiftings and nods, matters of affirmation.

"Yes, Lady Stanhope, I believe it is," he said gently. "And I am sure there are many thousands of people who will agree with you. I don't think I have anything further to ask you, but my learned friend may. Please would you remain there, just in case."

He walked slowly back to his seat, meeting Lovat-Smith's glance as he did so, and knowing his opponent was weighing up what he might gain or lose by questioning Lady Stanhope. She had the jury's sympathy. If he appeared to embarrass or fluster her he might jeopardize his own position, even if he discredited her testimony. How much of the jurors' verdict would rest on fact, how much on anticipation, emotion, prejudice, whom they believed or liked, and whom they did not?

Lovat-Smith rose and approached the witness stand with a smile. He did not know how to be humble, but he understood charm perfectly.

"Lady Stanhope, I also have very little to ask you and shall not keep you long. Have you ever been to the Royal Free Hospital?"

She looked surprised. "No-no I have never had the need, fortunately. All my confinements have been at home, and I have never required an operation."

"I was thinking rather more of a social visit, ma'am, not as a patient. Perhaps out of interest in your husband's profession?"

"Oh no, no, I don't think that would be at all necessary, and really not suitable, you know?' She shook her head, biting her lip. "My place is in the home, with my family. My husband's place of work is not-not appropriate..." She stopped, uncertain what else to add.

In the gallery two elderly women glanced at each other and nodded approvingly.

"I see." Lovat-Smith turned a little sideways, glancing at the jury, then back at Lady Stanhope. "Did you ever meet Nurse Prudence Barrymore?"

"No." Again she was surprised. "No, of course not."

"Do you know anything about the way in which a skilled nurse normally works with a surgeon caring for a patient?"

"No." She shook her head, frowning with confusion. "I have no idea. It is-it is not anything that occurs to me. I care for my house and my children."

"Of course, and most commendable," Lovat-Smith agreed with a nod of his head. "That is your vocation and your skill."

"Yes."

"Then you really are not in a position to say whether your husband's relationship with Miss Barrymore was unusual, or personal, or whether it was not-are you?"

"Well-I..." She looked unhappy. "I-I don't know."

"There is no reason why you should, ma'am," Lovat-Smith said quietly. "Neither would any other lady in your position. Thank you. That is all I have to ask you."

A look of relief crossed her face, and she glanced up at Sir Herbert. He smiled at her briefly.

Rathbone rose again.

"Lady Stanhope, as my learned friend has pointed out, you know nothing about the hospital or its routines and practices. But you do know your husband and his personality, and you have for nearly a quarter of a century?"

She looked relieved. "Yes, yes I do."

"And he is a good, loyal, and affectionate husband and father, but dedicated to his career, not socially skilled, not a ladies' man, not sensitive or aware of the emotions.and daydreams of young women?"

She smiled a little ruefully, looked up at the dock as if uncertain, apology plain in her face. "No sir, not at all, I am afraid."

A shadow of relief, almost satisfaction, touched Sir Herbert. It was a complex emotional expression, and the jury noticed it with approval.

"Thank you, Lady Stanhope," Rathbone said with rising confidence. "Thank you very much. That is all."

Rathbone's last witness was Faith Barker, Prudence's sister, recalled now for the defense. When he had first spoken to her she had been utterly convinced that Sir Herbert was guilty. He had murdered her sister, and for her that was a crime for which there was no forgiveness. But Rathbone had spoken to her at length, and finally she had made pronounced concessions. She was still uncertain, and there was no mercy in her for Sir Herbert, but on one point at least she was adamant, and he felt the risk of what else she might say was worth it.

She took the stand with her head high, face pale, and marked with the depth of grief. Her anger also was unmistakable, and she shot Sir Herbert in the dock opposite her a look of unsuppressed loathing. The jury saw it and were distinctly uncomfortable; one man coughed and covered his mouth in a gesture of embarrassment. Rathbone saw it with a rising heart. They believed Sir Herbert; Faith Barker's grief made them uncomfortable. Lovat-Smith saw it also. His jaw tightened and he pursed his lips.

"Mrs. Barker," Rathbone began clearly and very politely. "I know that you are here at least in part against your will. However, I must direct you to exercise all your fairness of mind, that integrity which I am sure you have in common with your sister, and answer my questions only with what is asked. Do not offer your own opinions or emotions. At such a time they cannot but be profound and full of pain. We sympathize with you, but we sympathize also with Lady Stanhope and her family, and all other people this tragedy has touched."

"I understand you, Mr. Rathbone," she replied stiffly. "I shall not speak out of malice, I swear to you."

"Thank you. I am sure you will not. Now please, if you would consider this matter of your sister's regard for Sir Herbert and what you know of her character. What we have heard of her from witnesses of very different natures, and different circumstances in which they knew her, all paints the picture of a woman of compassion and integrity. We have not heard from anyone of a single cruel or selfish act on her part. Does that sound like the sister you knew?"

"Certainly," Faith agreed without hesitation.

"An excellent woman?" Rathbone added.

"Yes."

"Without fault?" He raised his eyebrows.

"No, of course not." She dismissed the idea with a faint smile. "None of us is without fault."

"Without being disloyal, I am sure you can tell us in which general area her flaws lay?"

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet. "Really, my lord, this is hardly enlightening, and surely not relevant? Let the poor woman rest in as much peace as is possible, considering the manner of her death."

Hardie looked at Rathbone.

"Is this as totally pointless and tasteless as it seems, Mr. Rathbone?" he said with disapproval sharp in his lean face.

"No, my lord," Rathbone assured him. "I have a very definite purpose in asking Mrs. Barker such a question. The prosecution's charge against Sir Herbert rests on certain assumptions about Miss Barrymore's character. I must have the latitude to explore them if I am to serve him fairly."

"Then arrive at your point, Mr. Rathbone," Hardie instructed, his expression easing only slightly.

Rathbone turned to the witness stand.

"Mrs. Barker?"

She took a deep breath. "She was a little brusque at times. She did not suffer fools graciously, and since she was of extraordinary intelligence, to her there were many who fell into that category. Do you need more?"

"If there is more?"

"She was very brave, both physically and morally. She had no time for cowards. She could be hasty in her judgment."

"She was ambitious?" he asked.

"I do not see that as a flaw." She looked at him with undisguised dislike.

"Nor I, ma'am. It was merely a question. Was she ruthless in reaching after her ambitions, regardless of the cost or consequences to others?"

"If you mean was she cruel or dishonest, no, never. She did not expect or wish to gain her desires at someone else's expense."

"Have you ever known her to force or coerce anyone into a gesture or act they did not wish?"

"No, I have not!"

"Or to use privileged knowledge to exert pressure upon people?"

A look of anger crossed Faith Barker's face.

"That would be blackmail, sir, and in every way despicable. I resent profoundly that you should mention such a sinful act in the same breath with Prudence's name. If you had known her, you would realize how totally abhorrent and ridiculous such a suggestion is." Again she stared, tight-faced and implacable, at Sir Herbert, then at the jury.

"No. She despised moral cowardice, deceit, or anything of that nature," she continued. "She would consider anything gained by such means to be tainted beyond any value it might once have had." She glared at Rathbone, then at the jury. "And if you imagine she would have blackmailed Sir Herbert in order to make him marry her, that is the most ridiculous thing of all. What woman of any honor or integrity whatever would wish for a husband in such circumstances? Life with him would be insupportable. It would be a living hell."

"Yes, Mrs. Barker," Rathbone agreed with a soft, satisfied smile. "I imagine it would be. And I am sure Prudence was not only too honorable to use such a method, but also too intelligent to imagine it could possibly bring her anything but lifelong misery. Thank you for your candor. I have no further questions for you. Perhaps my learned friend has?" He looked at Lovat-Smith with a smile.

Lovat-Smith's answering smile was bright, showing all his teeth, and probably only Rathbone knew it was empty of feeling.

"Oh certainly I have." He rose to his feet and advanced toward the stand. "Mrs. Barker, did your sister write home to you of her adventures and experiences while she was in the Crimea?"

"Yes, of course she did, although I did not receive all her letters. I know that because she would occasionally make reference to things she had said on certain occasions, and I knew nothing of them." She looked puzzled, as if she did not comprehend the reason for his inquiry. Even Hardie seemed dubious.

"But you did receive a considerable number of her letters?" Lovat-Smith pressed.

"Yes."

"Sufficient to have formed a picture of her experiences, her part in the nursing, and how it affected her?"

"I believe so." Still Faith Barker did not grasp his purpose.

"Then you will have a fairly vivid understanding of her character?"

"I think I have already said so, to Mr. Rathbone," she replied, her brow puckered.

"Indeed-so you have." Lovat-Smith took a pace or two and stopped again, facing her. "She must have been a very remarkable woman; it cannot have been easy even to reach the Crimea in time of war, let alone to master such a calling. Were there not difficulties in her path?"

"Of course," she agreed with something close to a laugh.

"You are amused, Mrs. Barker," he observed. "Is my question absurd?"

"Frankly, sir, yes it is. I do not mean to be offensive, but even to ask it, you cannot have the least idea of what obstacles there are to a young single woman of good family traveling alone to the Crimea on a troopship to begin nursing soldiers. Everyone was against it, except Papa, and even he was dubious. Had it been anyone other than Prudence, I think he would have forbidden it outright."

Rathbone stiffened. Somewhere in the back of his head there was an urgent warning, like a needle pricking him. He rose to his feet.

"My lord, we have already established that Prudence Barrymore was a remarkable woman. This seems to be irrelevant and wasting the court's time. If my learned friend had wished to have Mrs. Barker testify on the subject, he had ample opportunity when she was his witness."

Hardie turned to Lovat-Smith.

"I have to agree, Mr. Lovat-Smith. This is wasting time and serves no purpose. If you have questions to ask this witness in cross-examination, then please do so. Otherwise allow the defense to proceed."

Lovat-Smith smiled. This time it was with genuine pleasure.

"Oh it is relevant, my lord. It has immediate relevance to my learned friend's last questions to Mrs. Barker, regarding her sister's character and the extreme unlikelihood of her resorting to coercion"-his smile widened-"or riot!"

"Then get to your point, Mr. Lovat-Smith," Hardie directed.

"Yes, my lord."

Rathbone's heart sank. He knew now what Lovat-Smith was going to do.

And he was not mistaken. Lovat-Smith looked up at Faith Barker again.

"Mrs. Barker, your sister must have been a woman who was capable of overcoming great obstacles, of disregarding other peoples' objections when she felt passionately about a subject; when it was something she wished intensely, it seems nothing stood in her way."

There was a sighing of breath around the room. Someone broke a pencil.

Faith Barker was pale. Now she also understood his purpose.

"Yes-but-"

"Yes will do," Lovat-Smith interrupted. "And your mother: did she approve of this adventure of hers? Was she not worried for her safety? There must have been remarkable physical danger: wreck at sea, injury from cargo, horses, not to mentioned frightened and possibly rough soldiers separated from meir own women, going to a battle from which they might not return? And that even before she reached the Crimea!"

"It is not necessarily-"

"I am not speaking of the reality, Mrs. Barker!" Lovat-Smith interrupted. "I am speaking of your mother's perceptions of it. Was she not concerned for Prudence? Even terrified for her?"

"She was afraid-yes."

"And was she also afraid of what she might experience when close to the battlefield-or in the hospital itself? What if the Russians had prevailed? What would have happened to Prudence then?"

A ghost of a smile crossed Faith Barker's face.

"I don't think Mama ever considered the possibility of the Russians prevailing," she said quietly. "Mama believes we are invincible."

There was a murmur of amusement around the room, even an answering smile on Hardie's face, but it died away instantly.

Lovat-Smith bit his lip. "Possibly," he said with a little shake of his head. "Possibly. A nice thought, but perhaps not very realistic."

"You asked for her feelings, sir, not the reality of it."

There was another titter of laughter, vanishing into silence like a stone dropped into still water.

"Nevertheless," Lovat-Smith took up the thread again, "was your mother not gravely worried for her, even frightened?"

"Yes."

"And you yourself? Were you not frightened for her? Did you not lie awake visualizing what might happen to her, dreading the unknown?"

"Yes."

"Your distress did not deter her?"

"No," she said, for the first time a marked reluctance in her voice.

Lovat-Smith's eyes widened. "So physical obstacles, personal danger, even extreme danger, official objections and difficulties, her family's fear and anxiety and emotional pain, none of these deterred her? She would seem to have a ruthless streak in her, would she not?"

Faith Barker hesitated.

There was a fidgeting in the crowd, an unhappy restlessness.

"Mrs. Barker?" Lovat-Smith prompted.

"I don't care for the word ruthless."

"It is not always an attractive quality, Mrs. Barker," he agreed. "And that same strength and drive which took her to the Crimea, against all odds, and preserved her there amidst fearful carnage, daily seeing the death of fine brave men, may in peacetime have become something less easy to understand or admire."

"But I-"

"Of course." Again he interrupted her before she could speak. "She was your sister. You do not wish to think such things of her. But I find it unanswerable nevertheless. Thank you. I have no further questions."

Rathbone rose again. There was total silence in the court. Even on the public benches no one moved. There was no rustle of fabric, no squeak of boots, no scratching of pencils.

"Mrs. Barker, Prudence went to the Crimea regardless of your mother's anxieties, or yours. You have not made it plain whether she forced or coerced you in any way, or simply told you, quite pleasantly, that she wished to do this and would not be dissuaded."

"Oh the latter, sir, quite definitely," Faith said quickly. "We had no power to prevent her anyway."

"Did she try to persuade you of her reasons?"

"Yes, of course she did-she believed it was the right thing to do. She wished to give her life in service to the sick and injured. The cost to herself was of no account." Suddenly grief filled her face again. "She frequently said that she would rather die in the course of doing something fine than live to be eighty doing nothing but being comfortable-and dying of uselessness inside."

"That does not sound particularly ruthless to me," Rathbone said very gently. 'Tell me, Mrs. Barker, do you believe it is within the nature of the woman, and even my learned friend agrees you knew her well, to have attempted to blackmail a man into marrying her?"

"It is quite impossible," she said vehemently. "It is not only of a meanness and small-mindedness totally at odds with all her character-it is also quite stupid. And whatever you believe of her, no one has suggested she was that."

"No one indeed," Rathbone agreed. "Thank you, Mrs. Barker. That is all."

Judge Hardie leaned forward.

"It is growing late, Mr. Rathbone. We will hear your final arguments on Monday. Court is adjourned."

All around the room there was a sigh of tension released, the sound of fabric whispering as people relaxed, and then immediately after a scramble as journalists struggled to be the first out, free to head for the street and the hasty ride to their newspapers.

Oliver Rathbone was unaware of it, but Hester had been in the court for the last three hours of the afternoon, and had heard Faith Barker's testimony both as to the letters she had received and her beliefs as to Prudence's character and personality. When Judge Hardie adjourned the court, she half hoped to speak to Rathbone, but he disappeared into one of the many offices, and since she had nothing in particular to say to him, she felt it would be foolish to wait.

She was leaving, her thoughts turning over and over what she had heard, her own impressions of the jurors' moods, of Sir Herbert Stanhope, and of Lovat-Smith. She felt elated. Of course nothing could possibly be certain until the verdict was in, but she was almost certain that Rathbone had won. The only unfortunate aspect was that they were still as far from discovering who really had murdered Prudence. And that reawoke the sick ache inside that perhaps it had been Kristian Beck. She had never fully investigated what had happened the night before Prudence's death. Kristian's patient had died unexpectedly, that was all she knew. He had been distressed; was he also guilty of some negligence-or worse? And had Prudence known that? And uglier and more painful, did Callandra know it now?

She was outside on the flight of wide stone steps down to the street when she saw Faith Barker coming toward her, her face furrowed in concentration, her expression still one of confusion and unhappiness.

Hester stepped forward.

"Mrs. Barker..."

Faith froze. "I have nothing to say. Please leave me alone."

It took Hester a moment to realize what manner of person Faith Barker had supposed her to be.

"I am a Crimean nurse," she said immediately, cutting across all the explanations. "I knew Prudence-not well, but I worked with her on the battlefield." She saw Faith Barker's start of surprise and then the sudden emotion flooding through her, the hope and the pain.

"I certainly knew her well enough to be completely sure that she would never have blackmailed Sir Herbert, or anyone else, into marriage," Hester hurried on. "Actually, what I find hardest to believe is that she wished to get married at all. She seemed to me to be utterly devoted to medicine, and marriage and family were the last things she wished for. She refused Geoffrey Taunton, of whom I believe she was really quite fond."

Faith stared at her.

"Were you?" she said at last, her eyes clouded with concentration, as if she had some Gordian knot of ideas to untangle. "Really?"

"In the Crimea? Yes."

Faith stood motionless. Around them in the afternoon sun people stood arguing, passing the news and opinions in heated voices. Newsboys shouted the latest word from Parliament, India, China, the Court, society, cricket, and international affairs. Two men quarreled over a hansom, a pie seller cried his wares, and a woman called out after an errant child.

Faith was still staring at Hester as if she would absorb and memorize every detail of her.

"Why did you go to the Crimea?" she said at last. "Oh, I realize it is an impertinent question, and I beg your pardon. I don't think I can explain it to you but I desperately need to know-because I need to understand Prudence, and I don't. I always loved her. She was magnificent, so full of energy and ideas."

She smiled and she was close to tears. "She was three years older than I. As a child I adored her. She was like a magical creature to me-so full of passion and nobility. I always imagined she would marry someone very dashing-a hero of some sort. Only a hero would be good enough for Prudence." A young man in a top hat bumped into her, apologized, and hurried on, but she seemed oblivious of him. "But then she didn't seem to want to marry anyone at all." She smiled ruefully. "I used to dream all sorts of things too-but I knew they were dreams. I never really thought I would sail up the Nile to find its source, or convert heathens in Africa, or anything like that. I knew if I were fortunate I should find a really honorable man I could be fond of and trust, and marry him, and raise children."

An errand boy with a message in his hand asked them directions, listened to what they said, then went oh his way uncertainly.

"I was about sixteen before I realized Prudence really meant to make her dreams come true," Faith continued as if there had been no interruption.

'To nurse the sick," Hester put in. "Or specifically to go to some place like the Crimea-a battlefield?"

"Well really to be a doctor," Faith answered. "But of course that is not possible." She smiled at the memory. "She used to be so angry she was a woman. She wished she could have been a man so she could do all these things. But of course that is pointless, and Prudence never wasted time on pointless emotions or regrets. She accepted it." She sniffed in an effort to retain her control. "I just-I just cannot see her jeopardizing all her ideals to try to force a man like Sir Herbert into marrying her. I mean-what could she gain by it, even if he agreed? It's so stupid! What happened to her, Miss..." She stopped, her face full of pain and confusion.

"Latterly," Hester supplied. "I don't know what happened to her-but I won't rest until I do. Someone murdered her-and if it wasn't Sir Herbert, then it was someone else."

"I want to know who," Faith said very intently. "But more than that, I have to know why. This doesn't make any sense..."

"You mean the Prudence you knew would not have behaved as she seems to have?" Hester asked.

"Exactly. That is exactly it. Do you understand?"

"No-if only we had access to those letters. We could read them again and see if there is anything in them at all to explain when and why she changed so completely!"

"Oh they don't have them all," Faith said quickly. "I only gave them the ones that referred most specifically to Sir Herbert and her feelings for him. There are plenty of others."

Hester clasped her arm, forgetting all propriety and the fact that they had known each other barely ten minutes.

"You have them! With you in London?"

"Certainly. They are not on my person, of course-but in my lodgings. Would you care to come with me and see them?"

"Yes-yes I certainly would-if you would permit it?" Hester agreed so quickly there was no courtesy or decorum in it, but such things were utterly trivial now. "May I come immediately?"

"Of course," Faith agreed. "We shall require to take a hansom. It is some little distance away."

Hester turned on her heel and plunged toward the curb, pushing her way past men arguing and women exchanging news, and calling out at the top of her voice, "Hansom! Cabby? Over here, if you please!"

* * * * *

Faith Barker's lodgings were cramped and more than a trifle worn, but scrupulously clean, and the landlady seemed quite agreeable to serving two for supper.

After the barest accommodation to civility, Faith fetched the rest of Prudence's letters and Hester settled herself on the single overstuffed sofa and began to read.

Most of the detail was interesting to her as a nurse. There were clinical notes on a variety of cases, and as she read them she was struck with the quality of Prudence's medical knowledge. It was far more profound than her own, which until now she had considered rather good.

The words were familiar, the patterns of speech reminded her of Prudence so sharply she could almost hear them spoken in her voice.

She remembered the nurses lying in narrow cots by candlelight, huddled in gray blankets, talking to each other, sharing the emotions that were too terrible to bear alone. It was a time which had bumed away her innocence and forged her into the woman she was-and Prudence had indelibly been part of that, and so part of her life ever afterwards.

But as far as indication of a change in her ideals or her personality, Prudence's letters offered nothing whatsoever.

Reference to Sir Herbert Stanhope was of a very objective nature, entirely to do with his medical skills. Several times she praised him, but it was for his courage in adapting new techniques, for his diagnostic perception, or for the clarity with which he instructed his students. Then she praised his generosity in sharing his knowledge with her. Conceivably it might have sounded like praise for the man, and a warmer feeling than professional gratitude, but to Hester, who found the medical details both comprehensible and interesting, it was Prudence's enthusiasm for the increase in her own knowledge that came through, and she would have felt the same for any surgeon who treated her so. The man himself was incidental.

In every paragraph her love of medicine shone through, her excitement at its achievements, her boundless hope for its possibilities in the future. People were there to be helped; she cared about their pain and their fear-but always it was medicine itself which quickened her heart and lifted her soul.

"She should really have been a doctor," Hester said again, smiling at her own memories. "She would have been so gifted!"

'That is why being so desperate to marry just isn't like her," Faith replied. "If it had been to be accepted into medical training, I would have believed it. I think she would have done anything for that. Although it was impossible-of course. I know that. No school anywhere takes women."

"I wonder if they ever would..." Hester said very slowly. "If an important enough surgeon-say, someone like Sir Herbert-were to recommend it?"

"Never!" Faith denied it even while the thought lit her eyes.

"Are you sure?" Hester said urgently, leaning forward. "Are you sure Prudence might not have believed they would?"

"You mean that was what she was trying to force Sir Herbert to do?" Faith's eyes widened in dawning belief. "Nothing at all to do with marriage, but to help her receive medical training-not as a nurse but as a doctor? Yes- yes-that is possible. That would be Prudence. She would do that." Her face was twisted with emotion. "But how? Sir Herbert would laugh at her and tell her not to be so absurd."

"I don't know how," Hester confessed. "But that is something she would do-isn't it?"

"Yes-yes she would."

Hester bent to the letters again, reading them in a new light-understanding why the operations were so detailed, every procedure, every patient's reaction noted so precisely.

She read several more letters describing operations written out in technical detail. Faith sat silently, waiting.

Then quite suddenly Hester froze. She had read three operations for which the procedure was exactly the same. There was no diagnosis mentioned, no disease, no symptoms of pain or dysfunction at all. She went back and reread them very carefully. All three patients were women.

Then she knew what had caught her attention: they were three abortions-not because the mother's life was endangered, simply because for whatever personal reason she did not wish to bear the child. In each case Prudence had used exactly the same wording and recording of it-like a ritual.

Hesjer raced through the rest of the letters, coming closer to the present. She found seven more operations detailed in exactly the same way, word for word, and each time the patient's initials were given but not her name, and no physical description. That also was different from all other cases she had written up: in others she had described the patient in some detail, often with personal opinion added-such as: "an attractive woman" or "an overbearing man."

There was one obvious conclusion: Prudence knew of these operations, but she had not attended them herself. She had been told only sufficient to nurse them for the first few hours afterwards. She was keeping her notes for some other reason.

Blackmail! It was a cold, sick thought-but it was inescapable. This was her hold over Sir Herbert. This was why Sir Herbert had murdered her. She had tried to use her power, had tried once too hard, and he had stretched out his strong beautiful hands and put them around her neck-and tightened his hold until there was no breath in her!

Hester sat still in the small room with the light fading outside. She was suddenly completely cold, as if she had swallowed ice. No wonder he had looked dumbfounded when he had been accused of having an affair with Prudence. How ridiculously, absurdly far from the truth.

She had wanted him to help her study medicine, and had used her knowledge of his illegal operations to try to force him-and paid for it with her life.

She looked up at Faith.

Faith was watching her, her eyes intent on Hester's face.

"You know," she said simply. "What is it?"

Carefully and in detail Hester explained what she knew.

Faith sat ashen-faced, her eyes dark with horror.

"What are you going to do?" she said when Hester finished.

"Go to Oliver Rathbone and tell him," Hester answered.

"But he is defending Sir Herbert!" Faith was aghast. "He is on Sir Herbert's side. Why don't you go to Mr. Lovat-Smith?"

"With what?" Hester demanded. "This is not proof. We understand this only because we knew Prudence. Anyway, Lovat-Smith's case is closed. This isn't a new witness, or new evidence-it is only a new understanding of what the court has already heard. No, I'll go to Oliver. He may know what to do-please God!"

"He'll get away with it," Faith said desperately. "Do you-do you really think we are right?"

"Yes, I do. But I'm going to Oliver tonight. I suppose we could be mistaken-but... no-we are not. We are right" She was on her feet, scrambling to pick up her wrap, chosen during the warmth of the day and too thin for the chiller evening air.

"You can't go alone," Faith protested. "Where does he live?"

"Yes I can. This is no occasion for propriety. I must find a hansom. There is no time to lose. Thank you so much for letting me have these. I'll return them, I promise." And without waiting any longer she stuffed the letters in her rather large bag, hugged Faith Barker, and bolted out of the sitting room down the stairs and out into the cool, bustling street.

* * * * *

"I suppose so," Rathbone said dubiously, holding the sheaf of letters in his hand. "But medical school? A woman! Can she really have imagined that was possible?"

"Why not?" Hester said furiously. "She had all the skill and the brains, and a great deal more experience than most students when they start. In fact, than most when they finish!"

"But then..." he began, then met her eyes and stopped. Possibly he thought better of his argument, or more likely he saw the expression on her face and decided discretion was the better part of valor.

"Yes?" she demanded. "But what?"

"But did she have the intellectual stamina and the physical stomach to carry it through," he finished, looking at her warily.

"Oh I doubt that!" Her voice was scalding with sarcasm. "She was only a mere woman, after all. She managed to study on her own in the British Museum library, get out to the Crimea and survive there, on the battlefield and in the hospital. She remained and worked amid the carnage and mutilation, epidemic disease, filth, vermin, exhaustion, hunger, freezing cold, and obstructive army authority. I doubt she could manage a medical course at a university!"

"All right," he conceded. "It was a foolish thing to have said. I beg your pardon. But you are looking at it from her point of view. I am trying to see it, however mistaken they are, from that of the authorities who would-or would not-have allowed her in. And honestly, however unjust, I believe there is no chance whatsoever that they would."

"They might have," she said passionately, "if Sir Herbert had argued for her."

"We'll never know." He pursed his lips. "But it does shed a different light on it. It explains how he had no idea why she appeared to be in love with him." He frowned. "It also means he was less than honest with me. He must have known what she referred to."

"Less than honest!" she exploded, waving her hands in the air.

"Well, he should have told me he gave her some hope, however false, of being admitted to study medicine," he replied reasonably. "But perhaps he thought the jury would be less likely to believe that." He looked confused. "Which would make less of a motive for him. It is curious. I don't understand it."

"Dear God! I do!" She almost choked over the words. She wanted to shake him till his teeth rattled. "I read the rest of the letters myself-carefully. I know what they mean. I know what hold she had over him! He was performing abortions, and she had detailed notes of them- names of the patients and days, treatments-everything! He killed her, Oliver. He's guilty!"

He held out his hand, his face pale.

She pulled the letters out of her bag and gave them to him.

"It's not proof," she conceded. "If it had been, I'd have given them to Lovat-Smith. But once you know what it means, you understand it-and what must have happened. Faith Barker knows it's true. The chance to study and qualify properly is the only thing Prudence would have cared about enough to use her knowledge like that."

Without answering he read silently all the letters she had given him. It was nearly ten minutes before he looked up.

"You're right," he agreed. "It isn't proof."

"But he did it! He murdered her."

"Yes-I agree."

"What are you going to do?" she demanded furiously.

"I don't know."

"But you know he's guilty!"

"Yes... yes I do. But I am his advocate."

"But-" She stopped. There was finality in his face, and she accepted it, even though she did not understand. She nodded. "Yes-all right."

He smiled at her bleakly. "Thank you. Now I wish to think."

He called her a hansom, handed her up into it, and she rode home in wordless turmoil.

* * * * *

As Rathbone came into the cell Sir Herbert rose from the chair where he had been sitting. He looked calm, as if he had slept well and expected the day to bring him vindication at last. He looked at Rathbone apparently without seeing the total change in his manner.

"I have reread Prudence's letters," Rathbone said without waiting for him to speak. His voice sounded brittle and sharp.

Sir Herbert heard the tone in it and his eyes narrowed.

"Indeed? Does that have significance?"

"They have also been read by someone who knew Prudence Barrymore and herself had nursing experience."

Sir Herbert's expression did not alter, nor did he say anything.

"She writes in very precise detail of a series of operations you performed on women, mostly young women. It is apparent from what she wrote that those operations were abortions."

Sir Herbert's eyebrows rose.

"Precisely," he agreed. "But Prudence never attended any of them except before and afterwards. I performed the actual surgery with the assistance of nurses who had not sufficient knowledge to have any idea of what I was doing. I told them it was for tumors-and they knew no differently. Prudence's writings of her opinions are proof of nothing at all."

"But she knew it," Rathbone said harshly. "And that was the pressure she exerted over you: not for marriage-she would probably not have married you if you had begged her-but for your professional weight behind her application to attend a medical school."

"That was absurd." Sir Herbert dismissed the very idea with a wave of his hand. "No woman has ever studied medicine. She was a good nurse, but she could never have been more. Women are not suitable." He smiled at the idea, derision plain in his face. "It requires a man's intellectual fortitude and physical stamina-not to mention emotional balance."

"And moral integrity-you missed that," Rathbone said with scalding sarcasm. "Was that when you killed her- when she threatened to expose you for performing illegal operations if you did not at least put in a recommendation for her?"

"Yes," Sir Herbert said with total candor, meeting Rathbone's eyes. "She would have done it. She would have ruined me. I was not going to permit that."

Rathbone stared at him. The man was actually smiling.

"There is nothing you can do about it," Sir Herbert said irery calmly. "You cannot say anything, and you cannot withdraw from the case. It would prejudice my defense totally. You would be disbarred, and they would probably declare a mistrial anyway. You still would not succeed."

He was right, and Rathbone knew it-and looking at Sir Herbert's smooth, comfortable face, he knew he knew it also.

"You are a brilliant barrister." Sir Herbert smiled quite openly. He put his hands in his pockets. "You have defended me almost certainly successfully. You do not need to do anything more now except give a closing speech- which you will do perfectly, because you cannot do anything else. I know the law, Mr. Rathbone."

"Possibly," Rathbone said between his teeth. "But you do not know me, Sir Herbert." He looked at him with a hatred so intense his stomach ached, his breath was tight in his chest, and his jaw throbbed with a pain where he had clenched it. "But the trial is not over yet." And without waiting for Sir Herbert to do or say anything else, to give any instructions, he turned on his heel and marched out.