A Sudden Fearful Death

chapter 8
Sir Herbert Stanhope was arrested and charged, and Oliver Rathbone was retained to conduct his defense. He was one of the most brilliant lawyers in London and, since Monk's first case after his accident, well acquainted with both Monk and Hester Latterly. To say it was a friendship would be both to understate it and to overstate it. With Monk it was a difficult relationship. Their mutual respect was high; indeed, it amounted to admiration. They also felt a complete trust not only in the competence but each in the professional integrity of the other.

However, on a personal level matters were different. Monk found Rathbone more than a little arrogant and complacent, and he had mannerisms which irritated Monk at times almost beyond bearing. Rathbone, on the other hand, found Monk also arrogant, abrasive, willful, and inappropriately ruthless.

With Hester it was quite different. Rathbone had a regard for her which had grown deeper and more intimate with time. He did not consider her totally suitable as a lifetime companion. She was too opinionated, had very little idea of what it was suitable for a lady to interest herself in-to wit, criminal cases. And yet, curiously, he enjoyed her company more than that of any other woman, and he found himself caring surprisingly deeply what she thought and felt for him. His mind turned to her more often than he could satisfactorily explain to himself. It was disconcerting, but not entirely unpleasant.

And what she thought and felt for him were emotions she had no intention of allowing him to know. At times he disturbed her profoundly-for example, when he had kissed her so suddenly and gently over a year ago. And there had been a sweetness in their time spent at Primrose Hill with his father, Henry Rathbone, whom Hester liked enormously. She would always remember the closeness she had felt walking in the garden in the evening, and the scents of summer in the wind, cut grass and honeysuckle, the leaves of the apple orchard beyond the hedge, dark against the stars.

And yet at the back of her mind mere was always Monk. Monk's face intruded into her thoughts; his voice, and its words, spoke in the silence.

Rathbone was not in the least surprised to receive the call from Sir Herbert Stanhope's solicitors. Such a man would naturally seek the best defense available, and there were many who would aver without question that that was Oliver Rathbone.

He read all the papers and considered the matter with care. The case against Sir Herbert was strong, but far from conclusive. He had had the opportunity, along with at least a score of other people. He had had the means, as did anyone with sufficient strength in his or her hands-and with a group of women like the average nurses, that included almost everyone. The only evidence of motive was the letters written by Prudence Barrymore to her sister-but they were a powerful indictment, uncontested.

Reasonable doubt would be sufficient to gain an acquittal in law and avoid the hangman's noose. But to save Sir Herbert's reputation and honor there must be no doubt at all. That meant he must provide another suspect for the public to blame. They were the ultimate jury.

But first he must seek an acquittal before the court. He read the letters again. They required an explanation, a different interpretation that was both innocent and believable. For that he would have to see Sir Herbert himself.

It was another hot day, sultry with an overcast sky. He disliked visiting the prison at any time, but in the close, oppressive heat it was more unpleasant than usual. The odors were of clogged drains, closed rooms containing exhausted bodies, fear ebbing slowly to despair. He could smell the stone as the doors closed behind him with a hard, heavy clang and the warder led him to the room where he would be permitted to interview Sir Herbert Stanhope.

It was bare gray stone with only a simple wooden table in the center and a chair on either side. One high window, barred and with an iron grille, let in the light high above the eye level of even the tallest man. The warder looked at Rathbone.

"Call when you want out, sir." And without adding anything further he turned and left Rathbone alone with Sir Herbert. In spite of the fact that they were both prominent men, they had not met before, and they regarded each other with interest. For Sir Herbert it might well prove to be a matter of his life or death. Oliver Rathbone's skill was the only shield between him and the noose. Sir Herbert's eyes narrowed and he concentrated intensely, weighing the_face he saw with its broad forehead, curious very dark eyes for a man otherwise fair, long sensitive nose and beautiful mouth.

Rathbone also regarded Sir Herbert carefully. He was bound to defend this man, a famous public figure, at least in the medical world. The center of the case upon which would rest a good many reputations-his own included, if he did not conduct himself well. It was a terrible responsibility to have a man's life in one's hands-not as it was for Sir Herbert, where it lay on the dexterity of the fingers, but simply upon one's judgment of other human beings, the knowledge of the law, and the quickness of your wits and your tongue.

Was he innocent? Or guilty?

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rathbone," Sir Herbert said at last, inclining his head but not offering his hand. He was dressed in his own clothes. He had not yet stood trial, and therefore was legally innocent. He must still be treated with respect, even by jailers.

"How do you do, Sir Herbert," Rathbone replied, walking to the farther chair. "Please sit down. Time is precious, so I will not waste it with pleasantries we may both take for granted."

Sir Herbert smiled bleakly and obeyed. "This is hardly a social occasion," he agreed. "I assume you have acquainted yourself with the facts of the case as the prosecution is presenting it?"

"Naturally." He sat on the hard chair, leaning a little across the table. "They have a good case, but not impeccable. It will not be difficult to raise a reasonable doubt. But I wish to do more than that or your reputation will not be preserved."

"Of course." A look of dry, harsh amusement crossed Sir Herbert's broad face. Rathbone was impressed that he was disposed to fight rather than to sink into self-pity, as a lesser man might have. He was certainly not handsome, nor was he a man to whom charm came easily, but he quite obviously had a high intelligence and the willpower and strength of nerve which had taken him to the forefront of a most demanding profession. He was used to having other men's lives in his hands, to making instant decisions which weighed life and death, and he flinched from neither. Rathbone was obliged to respect him, an emotion he did not always feel toward his clients.

"Your solicitor has already informed me that you have absolutely denied killing Prudence Barrymore," he continued. "May I assume that you would give me the same assurance? Remember, I am bound to offer you the best defense I can, regardless of the circumstances, but to lie to me would be most foolish because it will impair my ability. I need to be in possession of all the facts or I cannot defend you against the prosecutor's interpretation of them." He watched closely as Sir Herbert looked at him steadily, but he saw no flicker in his face, no nervous movement, and he heard no wavering in his voice.

"I did not kill Nurse Barrymore," he answered. "Nor do I know who did, although I may guess why, but I have no knowledge. Ask me whatever you wish."

"I shall pursue those points myself." Rathbone leaned a little back in his chair, not comfortably, since it was wooden and straight. He regarded Sir Herbert steadily. "Means and opportunity are immaterial. A large number of people possessed both. I assume you have thought hard to see if there is anyone who could account for your time that morning and there is no one? No, I assumed not, or you would have told the police and we should not now be here."

The ghost of a smile lit Sir Herbert's eyes, but he made no comment.

'That leaves motive," Rathbone went on. "The letters Miss Barrymore wrote to her sister, and which are now in the hands of the prosecution, suggest most forcibly that you had a romantic liaison with her, and that when she realized that it could come to nothing she became troublesome to you, threatened you in some way, and to avoid a scandal you killed her. I accept that you did not kill her. But were you having an affair with her?"

Sir Herbert's thin lips tightened in a grimace.

"Most certainly not. The idea would be amusing, it is so far from the truth, were it not mortally dangerous. No, Mr. Rathbone. I had never even thought of Miss Barrymore in that light." He looked shiftily surprised. "Nor any woman other than my wife. Which may sound unlikely, most men's morals being as they are." He shrugged, a deprecating and amused gesture. "But I have put all my energy into my professional life, and all my passion."

His eyes were very intent upon Rathbone's face. He had a gift of concentration, as if the person to whom he was speaking at that moment were of the utmost importance to him, and his attention was absolute. Rathbone was acutely conscious of the power of his personality. But for all tbat, he believed the passion in him was of the mind, not of the body. It was not a self-indulgent race. He could see no weakness in it, no ungoverned appetite. "I have a devoted wife, Mr. Rathbone," Sir Herbert continued. "And seven children. My home life is amply sufficient. The human body holds much fascination for me, its anatomy and physiology, its diseases and their healing. I do not lust after nurses." The amusement was there again, briefly. "And quite frankly, if you had known Nurse Barrymore you would not have assumed I might. She was handsome enough, but unyielding, ambitious, and very unwomanly."

Rathbone pursed his lips a trifle. He must press the issue, whatever his own inner convictions. "In what way unwomanly, Sir Herbert? I have been led to suppose she had admirers; indeed, one who was so devoted to her he pursued her for years, in spite of her continued rejection of him."

Sir Herbert's light, thin eyebrows rose. "Indeed? You surprise me. But to answer your question: she was perverse, displeasingly outspoken and opinionated on certain subjects, and uninterested in home or family. She took little trouble to make herself appealing." He leaned forward. "Please understand me, none of this is criticism." He shook his head. "I have no desire to have hospital nurses flirting with me, or with anyone else. They are there to care for the sick, to obey orders, and to keep a reasonable standard of morality and sobriety. Prudence Barrymore did far better than mat. She was abstemious in her appetites, totally sober, punctual, diligent in her work, and at times gifted. I think I can say she was the best nurse I had ever known, and I have known hundreds."

"A thoroughly decent, if somewhat forbidding, young woman," Rathbone summed up.

"Quite," Sir Herbert agreed, sitting back in his chair again. "Not the sort with whom one flirts, given one were so inclined, and I am not." He smiled ruefully. "But believe me, Mr. Rathbone, if I were, I should not choose such a public place in which to do so, still less would I indulge myself in my place erf work, which to me is the most important in my life. I would never jeopardize it for such a relatively trivial satisfaction."

Rathbone did not doubt him. He had spent his professional life, and carved a brilliant reputation, by judging when a man was lying and when he was not. There were a score of tiny signs to watch for, and he had seen none of them.

"Then what is the explanation of her letters?" he asked levelly and quite quietly. There was no change in his tone; it was simply an inquiry to which he fully expected an acceptable answer.

Sir Herbert's face took on an expression of rueful apology.

"It is embarrassing, Mr. Rathbone. I dislike having to say this-it is highly unbecoming a gentleman to speak so." He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "I-I have heard of occasions in the past when young women have become... shall I say enamored of... certain... prominent men." He looked at Rathbone curiously. "I daresay you have had the experience yourself? A young woman you have helped, or whose family you have helped. Her natural admiration and gratitude becomes... romantic in nature? You may have been quite unaware of it until suddenly some chance word or look brings to your mind the reality that she is nurturing a fantasy with you at its heart."

Rathbone knew the experience only too well. He could remember a very pleasant feeling of being admired suddenly turning into an acutely embarrassing confrontation with a breathless and ardently romantic young woman who had mistaken his vanity for shyness and a concealed ardor. He blushed hot at the recollection even now.

Sir Herbert smiled.

"I see you have. Most distressing. And one can find that, out of sheer blindness, one's mind occupied with one's work, one has not discouraged it plainly enough when it was still budding, and one's silence has been misunderstood." His eyes were still on Rathbone's face. "I fear that is what happened with Nurse Barrymore. I swear I had no idea whatsoever. She was not the type of woman with whom one associates such emotions." He sighed. "God only knows what I may have said or done that she has taken to mean something quite different. Women seem to be able to interpret words-and silence-to mean all sorts of things that never crossed one's mind."

"If you can think of anything specific, it would help."

Sir Herbert's face wrinkled up in an effort to oblige.

"Really it is very difficult," he said reluctantly. "One does not weigh what one says in the course of duty. Naturally I spoke to her countless times. She was an excellent nurse. I told her a great deal more than I would a lesser woman." He shook his head sharply. "Ours was a busy professional relationship, Mr. Rathbone. I did not speak to her as one would a social acquaintance. It never occurred to me to watch her face to assure myself she had perceived my remarks in a correct light. I may often have had my back to her, or even spoken to her as I was walking away or doing something else. My regard for her was in no way personal."

Rathbone did not interrupt him, but sat waiting, watching his face.

Sir Herbert shrugged. "Young women are prone to fancies, especially when they reach a certain age and are not married." A fleeting smile of regret and sympathy touched his mouth and vanished. "It is not natural for a woman to devote herself to a career in such a way, and no doubt it places a strain upon the natural emotions, most particularly when that career is an unusual and demanding one like nursing." His gaze was earnest on Rathbone's face. "Her experiences in the war must have left her particularly vulnerable to emotional injury, and daydreaming is not an abnormal way of coping with circumstances that might otherwise be unendurable."

Rathbone knew that what he said was perfectly true, and yet he found himself feeling that it was vaguely patronizing, and without knowing why, he resented it. He could not imagine anyone less likely to indulge in unreality or romantic daydreams than Hester Latterly, who in many of the ways Sir Herbert referred to, was in exactly the same circumstances as Prudence. Perhaps he would have found her easier if she had. And yet he would have admired her less, and perhaps liked her less too. With an effort he refrained from saying what sprang to his mind. He returned to his original request.

"But you can think of no particular occasion on which she may have misinterpreted a specific remark? It would be most helpful if we could rebut it in more than general terms."

"I realize that, but I am afraid I can think of nothing I have ever said or done to make any woman think my interest was more than professional." Sir Herbert looked at him with anxiety and, Rathbone judged, a totally innocent confusion.

Rathbone rose to his feet.

"That is sufficient for this visit, Sir Herbert. Keep your spirits up. We have some time yet in which to learn more of Miss Barrymore and her other possible enemies and rivals. But please continue to cast your mind back over all the times you worked together recently and see if anything comes to you which may be of use. When we get to court, we must have more than a general denial." He smiled. "But try not to worry overmuch. I have excellent people who can assist me, and we will no doubt discover a great deal more before then."

Sir Herbert rose also. He was pale and the marks of anxiety were plain in his face now that he had stopped concentrating on specific questions. The gravity of his situation overwhelmed him, arid for all the force of logic and Rathbone's assurances, if the verdict was against him, he faced the rope, and the reality of that crowded out everything else.

He made as if to speak, and then found no words.

Rathbone had stood in cells like this more times than he could count, with all manner of both men and women, each facing the fear in their own way. Some were openly terrified, others masked their feelings with pride or anger. Sir Herbert was outwardly calm, but Rathbone knew the sick anxiety he must feel inside, and was helpless to do anything to help. Whatever he said, as soon as he was gone and the great door closed behind him, Sir Herbert would be alone for the long dragging hours, to swing from hope to despair, courage to terror. He must wait, and leave the battle to someone else.

"I will put my best people onto it," Rathbone said aloud, gripping Sir Herbert's hand in his own. "In the meantime, try to think over any conversation with Miss Barrymore that you can. It will be helpful to us to refute the interpretation they have put upon your regard for her."

"Yes." Sir Herbert composed his face into an expression of calm intelligence. "Of course. Good day, Mr. Rathbone. I shall look forward to your next visit...".

"In two or three days' time," Rathbone said in answer to the unasked question, then he turned to the door and called for the jailer.

* * * * *

Rathbone had every intention of doing all he could to find another suspect in the case. If Sir Herbert were innocent, then someone else was guilty. There was no one in London better able to unearth the truth than Monk. Accordingly he sent a letter to Monk's lodgings in Fitzroy Street, stating his intention to call upon him that evening on a matter of business. It never occurred to him that Monk might be otherwise engaged.

And indeed Monk was not. Whatever his personal inclinations, he needed every individual job, and he needed Rathbone's goodwill in general. Many of his most rewarding cases, both professionally and financially, came through Rathbone.

He welcomed him in and invited him to be seated in the comfortable chair, himself sitting in the one opposite and regarding him curiously. There had been nothing in his letter as to the nature of the present case.

Rathbone pursed his lips.

"I have an extremely difficult defense to conduct," he began carefully, watching Monk's face. "I am assuming my client is innocent The circumstantial evidence is poor, but the evidence of motive is strong, and no other immediate suspect leaps to mind."

"Any others possible?" Monk interrupted.

"Oh indeed, several."

"With motive?"

Rathbone settled a little more comfortably in his seat.

"Certainly, although there was no proof that it is powerful enough to have precipitated the act. One may deduce it rather than observe evidence of it."

"A nice distinction." Monk smiled. "I presume your client's motive is rather more evident?"

"I'm afraid so. But he is by no means the only suspect, merely by some way the best."

Monk looked thoughtful. "He denies the act. Does he deny the motive?"

"He does. He claims that the perception of it is a misunderstanding, not intentional, merely somewhat... emotionally distorted." He saw Monk's gray eyes narrow. Rathbone smiled. "I perceive your thoughts. You are correct. It is Sir Herbert Stanhope. I am quite aware that it was you who found the letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister."

Monk's eyebrows rose.

"And yet you ask me to help you disprove their content?"

"Not disprove their content," Rathbone argued. "Simply show that Miss Barrymore's infatuation with Sir Herbert did not mean that he killed her. There are very credible other possibilities, one of which may prove to be the truth."

"And you are content with the possibility?" Monk asked. "Or do you wish me to provide proof of the alternative as well?"

"Possibility first," Rathbone said dryly. "Then when you have that, of course an alternative would be excellent. It is hardly satisfactory simply to establish doubt. It is not certain a jury will acquit on it, and it assuredly will not save the man's reputation. Without the conviction of someone else, he will effectively be ruined."

"Do you believe him innocent?" Monk looked at Rathbone with acute interest. "Or is that something you cannot tell me?"

"Yes I do," Rathbone answered candidly. "I have no grounds for it, but I do. Are you convinced of his guilt?"

"No," Monk replied with little hesitation. "I rather think not, in spite of the letters." His face darkened as he spoke. "It seems she was infatuated with him, and he may have been flattered and foolish enough to encourage her. But on reflection-I have given it a great deal of thought-murder seems a somewhat hysterical reaction to a young woman's emotions, no doubt embarrassing but not dangerous to him. Even if she was intensely in love with him," he said the words as though they were distasteful to him, "there was nothing she could do that would do more than cause him a certain awkwardness." He seemed to retreat inside himself and Rathbone was aware that the thoughts hurt him. "I would have thought a man of his eminence, working very often with women," he continued, "must have faced similar situations before. I do not share your certainty of his innocence, but I am sure there is more to the story than we have discovered so far. I accept your offer. I shall be most interested to see what else I can learn."

"Why were you involved in it in the first place?" Rathbone asked curiously.

"Lady Callandra wished the matter looked into. She is on the Board of Governors of the hospital and had a high regard for Prudence Barrymore."

"And this answer satisfies her?" Rathbone did not conceal his surprise. "I would have thought as a governor of the hospital she would have been most eager to vindicate Sir Herbert! He is unquestionably their brightest luminary; almost anyone could be better spared than he."

A flicker of doubt darkened Monk's eyes.

"Yes," he said slowly. "She does seem to be well satisfied. She has thanked me, paid me, and released me from the case."

Rathbone said nothing, his mind filled with conjecture, conclusionless, one thought melting into another, but worrying.

"Hester does not believe it is the answer," Monk continued after a moment or two.

Rathbone's attention was jerked back by the sound of her name. "Hester? What has she to do with it?"

Monk smiled with a downturn of the corners of his mouth. He regarded Rathbone with amusement, and Rathbone had the most uncomfortable sensation that his uneasy and very personal feelings for Hester were transparent in his face. Surely she would have had confided in Monk? That would be too-no, of course she would not. He dismissed the thought. It was disturbing and offensive.

"She knew Prudence in the Crimea," Monk replied. The easy use of Nurse Barrymore's given name startled Rathbone. He had thought of her as the victim; his concern had been entirely with Sir Herbert. Now suddenly her reality came to him with a painful shock. Hester had known her, perhaps cared for her. With chilling clarity he saw again how like Hester she must have been. Suddenly he was cold inside.

Monk perceived the shock in him. Surprisingly there was none of the ironic humor Rathbone expected, instead only a pain devoid of adulteration or disguise.

"Did you know her?" he asked before his brain censored the words. Of course Monk had not known her. How could he?

"No," Monk replied quietly, his voice full of hurt. "But I have learned a great deal about her." His gray eyes hardened, cold and implacable. "And I intend to see the right man with the noose around his neck for this." Then suddenly the ruthless, bitter smile was there on his lips. "I don't only mean in order to avoid a miscarriage of justice. Of course I don't want that-but neither do I intend to see Stanhope acquitted and no one in his place. I won't allow them to let this one go unresolved."

Rathbone looked at him closely, studying the passion so plain in his face.

"What did you learn of her which moves you this profoundly?"

"Courage," Monk answered. "Intelligence, dedication to learning, a will to fight for what she believed and what she wanted. She cared about people, and there was no equivocation or hypocrisy in her."

Rathbone had a sudden vision of a woman not unlike Monk himself, in some ways strange and complex, in others burningly simple. He was not surprised that Monk cared so much that she was dead, even that he felt an identity with her loss.

"She sounds like a woman who could have loved very deeply," Rathbone said gently. "Not one who would have accepted rejection without a struggle."

Monk pursed his lips, doubt in his eyes, reluctant and touched with anger.

"Nor one to resort to pleading or blackmail," he said, but his voice held more hurt than conviction.

Rathbone rose to his feet.

"If there is another story we have not touched yet, find it. Do whatever you can that will ekpose other motives. Someone killed her."

Monk's face set hard. "I will," he promised, not to Rathbone but to himself. His smile was sour. "I assume Sir Herbert is paying for this?"

"He is," Rathbone replied. "If only we could unearth a strong motive in someone else! There is a reason why someone killed her, Monk." He stopped. "Where is Hester working now?'

Monk smiled, the amusement going all the way to his eyes. "In the Royal Free Hospital."

"What?" Rathbone was incredulous. "In a hospital? But I thought she..." He stopped. It was none of Monk's business that Hester had been dismissed before, although of course he knew it. The thoughts, the amusement, the anger, and the instinct to defend, in spite of himself, were all there in his eyes as Rathbone stared at him.

There were times when Rathbone felt uniquely close to Monk, and both liked and disliked him intensely with two warring parts of his nature.

"I see," he said aloud. "Well, I suppose it could prove useful. Please keep me informed."

"Of course," Monk agreed soberly. "Good day."

Rathbone never doubted that he would also go to see Hester. He argued with himself, debating the reasons for and against such a move, but he did it with his brain, even while his feet were carrying him toward the hospital. It would be difficult to find her; she would be busy working. Quite possibly she knew nothing helpful about the murder anyway. But she had known Prudence Barrymore. Perhaps she also knew Sir Herbert. He could not afford to ignore her opinion. He could hardly afford to ignore anything!

He disliked the hospital. The very smell of the place offended his senses, and his consciousness of the pain and the distress colored all his thoughts. The place was in less than its normal state of busy, rather haphazard order since Sir Herbert's arrest. People were confused, intensely partisan over the issue of his innocence or guilt.

He asked to see Hester, explaining who he was and his purpose, and he was shown into a small, tidy room and requested to wait. He was there, growing increasingly impatient and short-tempered, for some twenty minutes before the door opened and Hester came in.

It was over three months since he had last seen her, and although he had thought his memory vivid, he was still taken aback by her presence. She looked tired, a little pale, and there was a splash of blood on her very plain gray dress. He found the sudden feeling of familiarity both pleasant and disturbing.

"Good afternoon, Oliver," she said rather formally. "I am told you are defending Sir Herbert and wish to speak to me on the matter. I doubt I can help. I was not here at the time of the murder, but of course I shall do all I can." Her eyes met his directly with none of the decorum he was used to in women.

In that instant he was powerfully aware that she had known and liked Prudence Barrymore, and that her emotions would crowd her actions in the matter. It both pleased and displeased him. It would be a nuisance professionally. He needed clarity of observation. Personally, he found indifference to death a greater tragedy than the death itself, and sometimes a more offensive sin than many of the other lies, evasions, and betrayals that so often accompanied a trial.

"Monk tells me you knew Prudence Barrymore," he said bluntly.

Her face tightened. "Yes."

"Are you aware of the content of the letters she wrote to her sister?"

"Yes. Monk told me." Her expression was guarded, unhappy. He wondered whether it was at the intrusion into privacy or at the subject matter of the letters themselves.

"Did it surprise you?" he asked.

She was still standing in front of him. There were no chairs in the room. Apparently it was used simply to store materials of one sort and another, and had been offered him because it afforded privacy.

"Yes," she said unequivocally. "I accept that is what she wrote, because I have to. But it sounds most unlike the woman I knew."

He did not wish to offend her, but he must not fall short of the truth either.

"And did you know her other than in the Crimea?"

It was a perceptive question, and she saw the meaning behind it immediately.

"No, I didn't know her here in England," she replied. "And I left the Crimea before she did because of my parents' death, nor have I seen her since then. But all the same, this is nothing like me woman I worked with." She frowned, trying to order her thoughts and find words for them. "She was-more sufficient in herself..." It was half a question, to see if he understood. "She never allowed her happiness to rest in other people," she tried again. "She was a leader, not a follower. Am I explaining myself?" She regarded him anxiously, conscious of inadequacy.

"No," he said simply, with a faint smile. "Are you saying she was incapable of falling in love?"

She hesitated for so long he thought she was not going to answer. He wished he had not broached the subject, but it was too late to retreat.

"Hester?"

"I don't know," she said at last. "Of loving, certainly, but falling in love... I am not sure. Falling implies some loss of balance. It is a good word to use. I am not at all sure Prudence was capable of falling. And Sir Herbert doesn't seem..." She stopped.

"Doesn't seem?" he prompted.

She pulled a very slight face. "The sort of man to inspire an overwhelming passion." She made it almost a question, watching his face.

"Then what can she have meant in her letters?" he asked.

She shook her head fractionally. "I cannot see any other explanation. I just find it so hard to believe. I suppose she must have changed more than I would have thought possible." Her expression hardened. "There must have been something between them that we have not even guessed at, some tenderness, something shared which was uniquely precious to her, so dear she could not give it up, even at the cost of demeaning herself to use threats."

She shook her head again with a brisk impatient little movement, as if to brush away some troublesome insect. "She was always so direct, so candid. What on earth would she want with the affection of a man she had forced into giving it? It makes no sense!"

"Infatuation seldom does make sense, my dear," he said quietly. "When you care so fiercely and all-consumingly for someone you simply cannot believe that in time they will not learn to feel the same for you. If only you have the chance to be with them, you can make things change." He stopped abruptly. It was all true, and relevant to the case, but it was far more than he had intended to say. And yet he heard his own voice carrying on. "Have you never cared for anyone in that way?" He was asking not only for Prudence Barrymore, but because he wanted to know if Hester had ever felt that wild surge of emotion that eclipses everything else and distracts all other needs and wishes. As soon as the words were out, he wished he had not asked. If she said no, he would feel her cold, something less than a woman, and fear she was not capable of such feelings. But if she said yes, he would be ridiculously jealous of the man who had inspired it in her. He waited for her answer, feeling utterly foolish.

If she were aware of the turmoil in him she betrayed none of it in her face.

"If I had, I should not wish to discuss it," she said primly, then gave a sudden smile. "I am not being of any assistance, am I? I'm sorry. You have to defend Sir Herbert, and this is no use at all. I suppose what you had better do is see if you can find out what pressure she intended to use. And if you can find none, it may tend to vindicate him." She screwed up her face. "That is not very good, is it?"

"Almost no good at all," he agreed, making himself smile back.

"What can I do that would be useful?" she asked frankly.

"Find me evidence to suggest that it was someone else."

He saw a flicker of doubt in her face, or perhaps it was anxiety, or unhappiness. But she did not explain it.

"What is it?" he pressed. "Do you know something?"

"No," she said too quickly. Then she met his eyes. "No, I know of no evidence whatever to implicate anyone else. I believe the police have looked fairly thoroughly at all the other people it might be. I know Monk thought quite seriously about Geoffrey Taunton and about Nanette Cuthbert-son. I suppose you might pursue them?"

"I shall certainly do so, naturally. What of the other nurses here? Have you formed any impression as to their feelings for Nurse Barrymore?"

"I'm not sure if my impressions are of much value, but it seems to me they both admired and resented her, but they would not have harmed her." She looked at him with a curious expression, half wry, half sad. "They are very angry with Sir Herbert. They think he did it, and there is no pity for him." She leaned a little against one of the benches. "You will be very ill-advised to call any of them as witnesses if you can help it."

"Why? Do they believe she was in love with him and he misled her?"

"I don't know what they think." She shook her head. "They simply accept that he is guilty. It is not a carefully reasoned matter, just the difference between the status of a doctor and that of a nurse. He had power, she had not. It is all the old resentments of the weak against the strong, the poor against the wealthy, the ignorant against the educated and the clever. But you will have to be very subtle indeed to gain anything good from them on the witness stand."

"I take your warning," he said grimly. The outlook was not good. She had told him nothing, but given him hope. "What is your own opinion of Sir Herbert? You have been working with him, haven't you?"

"Yes." She frowned. "It surprises me, but I find it hard to believe he used her as her letters suggest. I hope I am not being vain, but I have never caught in his eye even the slightest personal interest in me." She looked at Rathbone carefully to judge his response. "And I have worked closely with him," she continued. "Often late into the night, and on difficult cases when there was much room for emotion over shared success or failure. I have found him dedicated to his work, and totally correct in all particulars of his behavior."

"Would you be prepared to swear to that?"

"Of course. But I cannot see that is useful. I daresay any other nurse who has worked with him will do the same."

"I cannot call them without being sure they will say as you do," he pointed out. "I wonder, could you-"

"I have already," she interrupted. "I have spoken with a few others who worked with him now and then, most particularly the youngest and best-looking. None of them has ever found him anything but most correct."

He felt a slight lift of spirits. If nothing else, it established a pattern.

"Now that is helpful," he acknowledged. "Did Nurse Barrymore confide in anyone, do you know? Surely she had some particular friend."

"None of whom I am aware." She shook her head and made a little face. "But I shall look further. She didn't in the Crimea. She was totally absorbed in her work; there was no time and no emotion left for much more than the sort of silent understanding that requires no effort. England and all its ties were left behind. I suppose there must have been a great deal of her I didn't know-didn't even think about."

"I need to know," he said simply. "It would make all the difference if we knew what was going on in her mind."

"Of course." She looked at him gravely for a moment, then straightened her shoulders. "I shall inform you of anything that I think could possibly be of use. Do you require it written down, or will a verbal report be sufficient?"

With difficulty he kept himself from smiling. "Oh, a verbal report will be far better," he said soberly. "Then if I wish to pursue any issue further I can do it at the time. Thank you very much for your assistance. I am sure justice will be the better served."

"I thought it was Sir Herbert you were trying to serve," she said dryly, but not without amusement. Then she politely took her farewell and excused herself back to her duties.

He stood in the small room for a moment or two after she had gone. He felt a sense of elation slowly filling him. He had forgotten how exhilarating she was, how immediate and intelligent, how without pretense. To be with her was at once pleasingly familiar, oddly comfortable, and yet also disturbing. It was something he could not easily dismiss from his thoughts or choose when he would think about it and when he would not.

* * * * *

Monk had very mixed feelings about undertaking to work for Oliver Rathbone in Sir Herbert Stanhope's defense. When he had read the letters he had believed they were proof of a relationship quite different from anything Sir Herbert had admitted. It was both shameful, on a personal and professional level, and-if she were indiscreet, as she had so obviously threatened to be-a'motive for murder... a very simple one which would easily be believed by any jury.

But on the other hand Rathbone's account of it having been all in Prudence's feverish overemotional imagination was something which with any other woman would have been only too easily believable. And was Monk guilty of having credited Prudence with a moral strength, a single-minded dedication to duty, that was superhuman, overlooking her very ordinary, mortal weaknesses? Had he once again created in his imagination a woman totally different from, and inferior to, the real one?

It was a painful thought. And yet wounding as it was, he could not escape it. He had read into Hermione qualities she did not have, and perhaps into Imogen Latterly too. How many other women had he so idealized-and hopelessly misread?

It seemed where they were involved he had neither judgment nor even the ability to learn from his mistakes.

At least professionally he was skilled-more than skilled, he was brilliant. His cases were record of that; they were a list of victory after victory. Even though he could remember few details, he knew the flavor, knew from other men's regard for him that he seldom lost. And no one spoke lightly of him or willingly crossed his will. Men who served with him gave of their best. They might dread it, obey with trepidation, but when success came they were elated and proud to be part of it. It was an accolade to have served with Monk, a mark of success in one's career, a stepping-stone to greater things.

But with another, all too familiar, jar of discomfort, he was reminded of Runcorn's words by the memory of having humiliated the young constable who was working with him on that case so long ago which hovered on the edge of his memory with such vividness. He could picture the man's face as he lashed him with words of scorn for his timidity, his softheartedness with witnesses who were concealing truth, evading what was painful for them, regardless of the cost to others. He felt a sharp stab of guilt for the way he had treated the man, who was not dilatory, nor was he a coward, simply more sensitive to others' feelings and approaching the problem with a different way of solving it. Perhaps his way was less efficient than Monk's, but not necessarily of less moral worth. Monk could see that now with the wisdom of hindsight, the clearer knowledge of himself. But at the time he had felt nothing but contempt and he had made no effort to conceal it.

He could not remember what had happened to the man, if he had remained on the force, discouraged and unhappy, or if he had left. Please God, Monk had not ruined him.

But rack his brain as he might, he found no clue to memory at all, no shred of the man's life that stayed with him. And that probably meant that he had not cared one way or the other what happened to him-which was an added ugly thought.

Work. He must pursue Rathbone's problem and strive just as hard to prove Stanhope innocent as he had done to prove him guilty. Perhaps a great deal more was needed, even for his own satisfaction. The letters were proof of probability, certainly not proof conclusive. But the only proof conclusive would be that it was impossible for him to have done it, and since he had both means and opportunity, and certainly motive, they could not look for that. The alternative was to prove that someone else was guilty. That was the only way to acquit him without question. Mere doubt might help him elude the hangman's rope, but not redeem his honor or his reputation.

Was he innocent?

Far worse than letting a guilty man go free was the sickening thought of the slow, deliberate condemnation and death of an innocent one. That was a taste with which he was already familiar, and he would give everything he knew, all he possessed, every moment of his nights and days, rather than ever again contribute to that happening. That once still haunted his worst dreams, the white hopeless face staring at him in the middle of the night The fact that he had struggled to prevent it was comfortless in its chill attempt at self-justification.

There may not be any evidential proof that anyone else was guilty; no footprints, pieces of torn cloth, witnesses who had seen or overheard, no lies in which to catch anyone.

If not Sir Herbert, who?

He did not know where to begin. There were two options: prove someone else guilty, which might not be possible; or cast such strong doubt on Sir Herbert's guilt that a jury could not accept it. He had already done all that he could think of in the former. Until some new idea occurred to him, he would pursue the latter. He would seek out Sir Herbert's colleagues and learn his reputation among them. They might prove impressive character witnesses, if nothing more.

There followed several days of routine, excessively polite interviews in which he struggled, to provoke some comments deeper than fulsome professional praise, carefully expressed disbelief that Sir Herbert could have done such a thing, and rather nervous agreement to testify on his behalf-if it were stricdy necessary. The hospital governors were transparently nervous of becoming involved in something which they feared might prove to be very ugly before it was finished. It was painfully apparent in their faces that they did not know whether he was guilty or not, or where they should nail their colors to avoid sinking with a lost cause.

From Mrs. Flaherty he got tight-lipped silence and a total refusal to offer any opinion at all or to testify in court should she be asked. She was frightened, and like many who feel themselves defenseless, she froze. Monk was surprised to find he understood her with more patience than he had expected of himself. Even as he stood in the bleak hospital corridor and saw her pinched face with its pale skin and bright spots of color on the cheekbones, he realized her vulnerability and her confusion.

Berenice Ross Gilbert was entirely different. She received him in the room where the Board of Governors normally met, a wide gracious chamber with a long mahogany table set around with chairs, sporting prints on the walls and brocade curtains at the windows. She was dressed in deepest teal green trimmed with turquoise. It was expensive, and remarkably flattering to her auburn coloring. Its huge skirts swept around her, but she moved them elegantly without effort.

She regarded Monk with amusement, looking over his features, his strong nose, high cheekbones, and level unflinching eyes. He saw the spark of interest light in her face and the smile curve her lips. It was a look he had seen many times before, and he understood its meaning with satisfaction.

"Poor Sir Herbert." She raised her arched brows. "A perfectly fearful thing. I wish I knew what to say to help, but what can I do?" She shrugged graceful shoulders. "I have no idea what the man's personal weaknesses may have been. I always found him courteous, highly professional, and correct at all times. But then"-she smiled at Monk, meeting his eyes-"if he were seeking an illicit romance, he would not have chosen me with whom to have it" The smile widened. He knew she was telling both the truth and a lie. She expected him to decipher its double meanings. She was no trivial pastime to be picked up and put down; but on the other hand, she was a sophisticated and elegant woman, almost beautiful in her own way, perhaps better than beautiful-full of character. She had thought Prudence prim, naive, and immeasurably inferior to herself in all aspects of charm and allure.

Monk had no specific memories, and yet he knew he had stood in this position many times before, facing a wealthy, well-read woman who had found him exciting and was happy to forget his office and his purpose.

He smiled back at her very slightly, enough to be civil, not enough to betray any interest himself.

"I am sure it was part of your duties as a governor of the hospital, Lady Ross Gilbert, to be aware of the morals and failings of members of the staff. And I imagine you are an acute judge of human nature, particularly in that area." He saw her eyes glisten with amusement. "What is Sir Herbert's reputation? Please be honest-euphemisms will serve neither his interest nor the hospital's."

"I seldom deal in euphemisms, Mr. Monk," she said, still with the curl of a smile on her lips. She stood very elegantly, leaning a little against one of the chairs. "I wish I could tell you something more interesting, but I have never heard a word of scandal about Sir Herbert." She pulled a sad, mocking little face. "Rather to the contrary, he appears to be a brilliant surgeon but personally a boringly correct man, rather pompous, self-opinionated, socially, politically, and religiously orthodox."

She was watching Monk all the time. "I doubt if he ever had an original idea except in medicine, in which he is both innovative and courageous. It seems as if that has drained all his creative energies and attentions, and what is left is tedious to a degree." The laughter in her eyes was sharp and the interest in them more and more open, betraying that she did not believe for an instant that he fell into that category.

"Do you know him personally, Lady Ross Gilbert?" he asked, watching her face.

Again she shrugged, one shoulder a fraction higher than the other. "Only as business required, which is very little.

I have met Lady Stanhope socially, but not often." Her voice altered subtly, a very delicately implied contempt. "She is a very retiring person. She prefers to spend her time at home with her children-seven, I believe. But she always seemed most agreeable-not fashionable, you understand, but quite comely, very feminine, not in the least a strident or awkward creature." Her heavy eyelids lowered almost imperceptibly. "I daresay she is in every way an excellent wife. I have no reason to doubt it."

"And what of Nurse Barrymore?" he asked, again watching her face, but he saw no flicker in her expression, nothing to betray any emotion or knowledge that troubled her.

"I knew of her only the little I observed myself or what was reported to me by others. I have to confess, I never heard anything to her discredit." Her eyes searched his face. "I think, frankly, that she was just as tedious as he is. They were well matched."

"An interesting use of words, ma'am."

She laughed quite openly. "Unintentional, Mr. Monk. I had no deeper meaning in my mind."

"Do you believe she nourished daydreams about him?" he asked.

She looked up at the ceiling. "Heaven knows. I would have thought she would place them more interestingly-Dr. Beck, for a start. He is a man of feeling and humor, a little vain, and I would have thought of a more natural appetite." She gave a little laugh. "But then perhaps that was not what she wanted." She looked back at him again. "No, to be candid, Mr. Monk, I think she admired Sir Herbert intensely, as do we all, but on an impersonal level. To hear that it was a romantic vision surprises me. But then life is constantly surprising, don't you find?" Again the light was in her eyes and the lift, the sparkle that was almost an invitation, although whether to do more than admire her was not certain.

And that was all that he could learn from her. Not much use to Oliver Rathbone, but he reported it just the same.

* * * * *

With Kristian Beck he fared not much better, although the interview was completely different. He met him in his own home, by choice. Mrs. Beck was little in evidence, but her cold, precise nature was stamped on the unimaginative furnishings of her house, the rigidly correct placement of everything, the sterile bookshelves where nothing was out of place, either in the rows of books themselves or in their orthodox contents. Even the flowers in the vases were carefully arranged in formal proportions and stood stiffly to attention. The whole impression was clean, orderly, and forbidding. Monk never met the woman (apparently she was out performing some good work or other), but he could imagine her as keenly as if he had. She would have hair drawn back from an exactly central parting, eyebrows without flight or imagination, flat cheekbones, and careful passionless lips.

Whatever had made Beck choose such a woman? He was exactly the opposite; his face was full of humor and emotion and as sensuous a mouth as Monk had ever seen, and yet there was nothing coarse about it, nothing self-indulgent, rather the opposite. What mischance had brought these two together? That was almost certainly something he would never know. He thought with bitter self-mockery that perhaps Beck was as poor a judge of women as he himself. Maybe he had mistaken her passionless face for one of purity and refinement, her humorlessness for intelligence, even piety.

Kristian led him to his study, a room entirely different, where his own character held sway. Books were piled on shelves, books of all sorts, novels and poetry along with biography, history, philosophy, and medicine. The colors were rich, the curtains velvet, the fireplace faced with copper and the mantel displaying an idiosyncratic collection of ornaments. The icy Mrs. Beck had no place here. In fact, the room reminded Monk rather more of Callandra in its haphazard order, its richness and worth. He could picture her here, her sensitive, humorous face, her long nose, untidy hair, her unerring knowledge of what really mattered.

"What can I do to assist you, Mr. Monk?" Kristian was regarding him with puzzlement. "I really have no idea what happened, and the little I have learned as to why the police suspect Sir Herbert I find very hard to believe. At least if the newspaper reports are correct?"

"Largely," Monk replied, dragging his attention back to the case. "There is a collection of letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister which suggests that she was deeply in love with Sir Herbert and that he had led her to suppose that he returned her feelings and would take steps to make marriage between them possible."

"But that's ridiculous," Kristian said with concern, silently indicating a chair for Monk to be seated. "What could he possibly do? He has an excellent wife and a large family-seven, I think. Of course he could have walked out, on them, in theory, but in practice it would ruin him, a fact of which he cannot possibly have been unaware."

Monk accepted the invitation and sat down. The chair was extremely comfortable.

"Even if he did, it would not free him to marry Miss Barrymore," he pointed out. "No, I am aware of that, Dr. Beck. But I am interested to learn your opinion of both Sir Herbert and Miss Barrymore. You say you find all this hard to believe-do you believe it?"

Kristian sat opposite him, thinking for a moment before replying, his dark eyes on Monk's face.

"No-no, I don't think I do. Sir Herbert is essentially a very careful man, very ambitious, jealous for his reputation and his status in the medical community, both in Britain and abroad." He put the tips of his fingers together. He had beautiful hands, strong, broad palmed, smaller than Sir Herbert's. 'To become involved in such a way with a nurse, however interesting or attractive," he went on, "would be foolish in the extreme. Sir Herbert is not an impulsive man, nor a man of physical or emotional appetite." He said it without expression, as if he neither admired nor despised such an absence. Looking at his face, Monk knew Dr. Beck was as different from Sir Herbert as it was possible for another clever and dedicated man to be, but he had no indication of Kristian's feelings.

"You used the words intelligent and attractive about Nurse Barrymore," he said curiously. "Did you find her so? I gathered from Lady Ross Gilbert that she was a trifle priggish, naive as to matters of love, and altogether not the sort of woman a man might find appealing."

Kristian laughed. "Yes-Berenice would see her in that light. Two such different women it would be hard to imagine. I doubt they could ever have understood each other."

"That is not an answer, Dr. Beck."

"No, it isn't." He seemed quite unoffended. "Yes, I thought Nurse Barrymore was most attractive, both as a person and, were I free to think so, as a woman. But then my taste is not usual, I confess. I like courage and humor, and I find intelligence stimulating." He crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair, regarding Monk with a smile. "It is, for me, extremely unprofitable to spend my time with a woman who has nothing to talk about but trivia. I dislike simpering and flirting, and I find agreement and obedience essentially very lonely things. If a woman says she agreed with you, whatever her own thoughts, in what sense do you have her true companionship at all? You may as well have a charming picture, because all you are receiving from her are your own ideas back again."

Monk thought of Hermione-charming, docile, pliable- and of Hester-opinionated, obstructive, passionate in her beliefs, full of courage, uncomfortable to be with (at times he disliked her more that anyone else he knew)-but real.

"Yes," he said reluctantly. "I take your point. Do you think it is likely that Sir Herbert also found her attractive?"

"Prudence Barrymore?" Kristian bit his lip thoughtfully. "I doubt it. I know he respected her professional abilities. We all did. But she occasionally challenged his opinions, and that incensed him. He did not accept that from his peers, let alone from a nurse-and a woman."

Monk frowned. "Might that have angered him enough to lash out at her for it?"

Kristian laughed. "Hardly. He was chief surgeon here. She was only a nurse. He had it eminently in his power to crush her without resort to anything so out of character, so dangerous to himself."

"Even if he had been wrong and she was right?" Monk pressed. "It would have become known to others."

Kristian's face suddenly became serious.

"Well, that would put a different complexion upon it, of course. He would not take that well at all. No man would."

"Might her medical knowledge have been sufficient for that to happen?" Monk asked.

Kristian shook his head slightly.

"I don't know. I suppose it is conceivable. She certainly knew a great deal, far more than any other nurse I have ever met, although the nurse who replaced her is extraordinarily good."

Monk felt a quick surge of satisfaction and was instantly discomfited by it.

"Enough?" he said a little more sharply than he had intended.

"Possibly," Kristian conceded. "But have you anything whatever to indicate that that is what happened? I thought he was arrested because of the letters?" He shook his head slightly. "And a woman in love does not show up a man's mistakes to the world. Just the opposite. Every woman I ever met defended a man to the end if she loved him, even if perhaps she should not have. No, Mr. Monk, that is not a viable theory. Anyway, from your initial remarks I gathered you were hired by Sir Herbert's barrister in order to help find evidence to acquit him. Did I misunderstand you?"

It was a polite way of asking if Monk had lied.

"No, Dr. Beck, you are perfectly correct," Monk answered, knowing he would understand the meaning behind (he words as well. "I am testing the strength of the prosecution's case in order to be able to defend against it."

"How can I help you do that?" Kristian asked gravely. "I have naturally thought over the matter again and again, as I imagine we all have. But I can think of nothing which will help or hurt him. Of course I shall testify to his excellent personal reputation and his high professional standing, if you wish it."

"I expect we shall," Monk accepted. "If I ask you here in private, Dr. Beck, will you tell me candidly if you believe him guilty?"

Kristian looked vaguely surprised.

"I will answer you equally candidly, sir. I believe it extremely unlikely. Nothing I have ever seen or heard of the man gives me to believe he would behave in such a violent, unself-disciplined, and overemotional manner."

"How long have you known him?"

"I have worked with him just a little less than eleven years."

"And you will swear to that?"

"I will."

Monk had to think about what the prosecution could draw out by skillful and devious questions. Now was the time to discover, not on the stand when it was too late. He pursued every idea he could think of, but all Kristian's answers were measured and uncritical. He rose half an hour later, thanked Kristian for his time and frankness, and took his leave.

It had been a curiously unsatisfactory interview. He should have been pleased. Kristian Beck had confirmed every aspect of Sir Herbert's character he had wished, and he was more than willing to testify. Why should Monk not be pleased?

If it were not Sir Herbert, then surely the other most obvious suspects were Geoffrey Taunton and Beck himself. Was he the charming, intelligent, only very faintly foreign man he seemed? Or was there something closed about him, something infinitely darker behind the exterior which even Monk found so pleasing?

He had no idea. His usual sense of judgment had left him.

* * * * *

Monk spoke to as many of Prudence's friends and colleagues as he could, but they were reluctant to see him and full of resentment. Young nurses glared at him defensively and answered with monosyllables when he asked if Prudence were romantic.

"No." It was as blunt as that.

"Did she ever speak of marriage?"

"No. I never heard her."

"Of leaving nursing and settling into a domestic life?" he pressed.

"Oh no-never. Not ever. She loved her job."

"Did you ever see her excited, flushed, extremely happy or sad for no reason you knew of?"

"No. She was always in control. She wasn't like you say at all." The answer was given with a flat stare, defiant and resentful.

"Did she ever exaggerate?" he said desperately. "Paint her achievements as more than they were, or glamorize the war in the Crimea?"

At last he provoked emotion, but it was not what he wanted.

"No she did not." The young woman's face flushed hot with anger. "It's downright wicked of you to say that! She always told the truth. And she never spoke about the Crimea at all, except to tell us about Miss Nightingale's ideas. She never praised herself at all. And I'll not listen to you say different! Not to defend that man who killed her, or anything else, I'll swear to that."

It was no help to him at all, and yet perversely he was pleased. He had had a long fruitless week, and had heard very little that was of use, and only precisely what he had foreseen. But no one had destroyed his picture of Prudence. He had found nothing that drew her as the emotional, blackmailing woman her letters suggested.

But what was the truth?

The last person he saw was Lady Stanhope. It was an emotionally charged meeting, as it was bound to be. Sir Herbert's arrest had devastated her. She required all the courage she could draw on to maintain a modicum of composure for her children's sake, but the marks of shock, sleeplessness, and much weeping were only too evident in her face. When he was shown in, Arthur, her eldest son, was at her elbow, his face white, his chin high and defiant.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Monk," Lady Stanhope said very quietly. She seemed at a loss to understand precisely who he was and why he had come. She blinked at him expectantly. She was seated on a carved, hard-backed chair, Arthur immediately behind her, and she did not rise when Monk came in.

"Good afternoon, Lady Stanhope," he replied. He must force himself to be gentle with her. Impatience would serve no one; it was a weakness, and he must look at it so. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stanhope," he added, acknowledging Arthur.

Arthur nodded. "Please be seated, Mr. Monk," he invited, rectifying his mother's omission. "What can we do for you, sir? As you may imagine, my mother is not seeing people unless it is absolutely necessary. This time is very difficult for us."

"Of course," Monk conceded, sitting in the offered chair. "I am assisting Mr. Rathbone in preparing a defense for your father, as I believe I wrote you."

"His defense is that he is innocent," Arthur interrupted. "The poor woman was obviously deluded. It happens to unmarried ladies of a certain age, I believe. They construct fantasies, daydreams about eminent people, men of position, dignity. It is usually simply sad and a little embarrassing. On this occasion it has proved tragic also."

With difficulty Monk suppressed the question that rose to his lips. Did this smooth-faced, rather complacent young man think of the death of Prudence Barrymore, or only of the charge against his father?

"That is one thing that is undeniable," he agreed aloud. "Nurse Barrymore is dead, and your father is in prison awaiting trial for murder."

Lady Stanhope gasped and the last vestige of color drained from her cheeks. She clutched at Arthur's hand resting on her shoulder.

"Really, sir!" Arthur said furiously. "That was unnecessary! I would think you might have more sensitivity toward my mother's feelings. If you have some business with us, please conduct it as briefly and circumspectly as you can. Then leave us, for pity's sake."

Monk controlled himself with an effort. He could remember doing this before, sitting opposite stunned and frightened people who did not know what to say and could only sit mesmerized by their grief. He could see a quiet woman, an ordinary face devastated by tormenting loss, white hands clenched in her lap. She too had been unable to speak to him. He had been filled with a rage so vast the taste of it was still familiar in his mouth. But it had not been against her, for her he felt only a searing pity. But why? Why now, after all these years, did he remember that woman instead of all the others?

Nothing came, nothing at all, just the emotion filling his mind and making his body tense.

"What can we do?" Lady Stanhope asked again. "What can we say to help Herbert?"

Gradually, with uncharacteristic patience, he drew from them a picture of Sir Herbert as a quiet, very proper man with an ordinary domestic life, devoted to his family, predictable in all his personal tastes. His only appetite seemed to be for a glass of excellent whiskey every evening, and a fondness for good roast beef. He was a dutiful husband, an affectionate father.

The conversation was slow and tense. He explored every avenue he could think of to draw from either of them anything that would be of use to Rathbone, better than the predictable loyalty which he believed was quite literally the truth but not necessarily likely to influence a jury. What else could a wife say? And she was not a promising witness. She was too frightened to be coherent or convincing.

In spite of himself he was sorry for her.

He was about to leave when there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for a reply, a young woman opened it and came in. She was slender-in fact, thin-and her face was so marked with illness and disappointment it was hard to tell her age, but he thought probably not more than twenty.

"Excuse my interruption," she began, but even before she spoke Monk was overcome by a wave of memory so vivid and so agonizing his present surroundings became invisible to him, Lady Stanhope and Arthur merely blurs on the edge of his vision. He knew what the old case was, violently and with sickening immediacy. A girl had been molested and murdered. He could still see her thin broken body and feel the rage inside himself, the confusion and the pain, the aching helplessness. That was why he had driven his constables so hard, worried and harassed his witnesses, why his contempt had scalded Runcorn without mercy or patience.

The horror was back inside him with all the freshness it had had when he was twenty. It did not excuse the way he had treated people, it did not undo anything, but it explained it. At least he had had a reason, a passion which was not centered upon himself. He was not merely cruel, arrogant, and ambitious. He had cared-furiously, tirelessly, single-mindedly.

He found himself smiling with relief, and yet there was a sickness in his stomach.

"Mr. Monk?" Lady Stanhope said nervously.

"Yes-yes, ma'am?"

"Are you going to be able to help my husband, Mr. Monk?"

"I believe so," he said firmly. "And I shall do everything within my power, I promise you."

"Thank you. I-we-are most grateful." She held Arthur's hand a little more tightly. "All of us."