by Anne Perry
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 the 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 Cuthbertson. 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 strictly 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.