by Anne Perry
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 not!”
“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 their 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 on 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 courtes
y 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 burned 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.