A Sudden, Fearful Death

by Anne Perry

  Slowly a terrible understanding filled Dora’s face. The light, the element of beauty, left it and was replaced by an agony of disillusion—and then hatred, burning, implacable, corroding hatred.

  “ ’E used me,” she said with total comprehension.

  Hester nodded. “And Prudence,” she added. “He used her too.”

  Dora’s face puckered. “Yer said ’e’s goin’ t’ get orf?” she asked in a low, grating voice.

  “Looks like it at the moment.”

  “If ’e does, I’ll kill ’im meself!”

  Looking into her eyes, Hester believed her. The pain she felt would not let her forget. Her idealism had been betrayed, the only thing that had made her precious, given her dignity and belief, had been destroyed. He had mocked the very best in her. She was an ugly woman, coarse and unloved, and she knew it. She had had one value in her own eyes, and now it was gone. Perhaps to have robbed her of it was a sin like murder too.

  “You can do better than that,” Hester said without thinking, putting her hand on Dora’s great arm, and with a shock feeling the power of the rocklike muscle. She swallowed her fear. “You can get him hanged,” she urged. “That would be a much more exquisite death—and he would know it was you who did it. If you kill him, he will be a martyr. The world will think he was innocent, and you guilty. And you might hang! My way you’ll be a heroine—and he’ll be ruined!”

  “ ’Ow?” Dora said simply.

  “Tell me all you know.”

  “They won’t believe me. Not against ’im!” Again the rage suffused her face. “Yer dreamin’. No—my way’s better. It’s sure. Yours ain’t.”

  “It could be,” Hester insisted. “You must know something of value.”

  “Like what? They in’t goin’ ter believe me. I’m nobody.” There was a wealth of bitterness in her last words, as if all the abyss of worthlessness had conquered her and she saw the light fading out of her reach with utter certainty.

  “What about all the patients?” Hester said desperately. “How did they know to come to him? It isn’t something he would tell people.”

  “ ’Course not! But I dunno ’oo got ’em fer ’im.”

  “Are you sure? Think hard! Maybe you saw something or heard something. How long has he been doing it?”

  “Oh, years! Ever since ’e did it for Lady Ross Gilbert. She were the first.” Her face lit with sudden, harsh amusement, as if she had not even heard Hester’s sudden, indrawn breath. “What a thing that were. She were well on—five months or more, and in such a state—beside herself she were. She’d just come back in a boat from the Indies—that would be why she was so far gorn.” She let out a low rumble of laughter, her face twisted in a sneer of contempt. “Black, it were—poor little sod! I saw it plain—like a real baby. Arms an’ legs an’ ’ead an’ all.” Tears filled her eyes and her face was soft and sad with memory. “Fair made me sick to see it took away like that. But black as yer ’at it’d ’ave been. No wonder she din’t want it! ’er ’usband’d ’ave turned her out, and all London’d ’ave thrown up their ’ands in ’orror in public—and laughed theirselves sick be’ind their doors arterwards.”

  Hester too was amazed and sick and grieved for a helpless life, unwanted and disposed of before it began.

  Without any explanation she knew Dora’s contempt was not that the child was black but that Berenice had got rid of it for that reason, and it was mixed with her sense of loss for what was so plainly a human being on the brink of form and life. Anger was the only way she knew to defuse the horror and the pity. She had no children herself, and probably never would have. What emotions must have racked her to see the growing infant, so nearly complete, and dispose of it like a tumor into the rubbish. For a few moments she and Dora shared a feeling as totally as if their paths through life had been matched step for step.

  “But I dunno ’oo sends women to ’im,” Dora said angrily, breaking the mood. “Maybe if you can find some of them, they’ll tell yer, but don’t count on it! They in’t goin’ ter say anything.” Now she was twisted with anger again. “You put ’em in court an’ they’ll lie their ’eads off before they’ll admit they done such a thing. Poor women might not—but the rich ones will. Poor women’s afraid o’ ’avin more kids they can’t feed. Rich ones is afraid ’o the shame.”

  Hester did not bother arguing that rich women could be just as physically exhausted by confinement after confinement. Every woman gives birth in the same way—all the money on earth cannot alter the work of the body, the pain or the dangers, the tearing, the bleeding, the risk of fever or blood poisoning. That surely is the one place where all women are equal. But this was not the time to say so.

  “See what you can remember,” she argued. “I will reread all Prudence’s notes again, just in case there is anything else there.”

  “You won’t get nowhere.” There were hopelessness back in Dora’s voice and in her face. “ ’E’ll get off—and I’ll kill ’im, the same as ’e killed ’er. I might ’ang fer it—but I’ll go gladly if I’m sure ’e’s in ’Ell too.” And with that she pushed her way past Hester, tears suddenly spilling over her eyes and coursing down her ugly face.

  Monk was elated when Hester brought him her news. It was the solution. He knew precisely what to do. Without hesitation he went to Berenice Ross Gilbert’s home and commanded the reluctant footman to let him in. He accepted no protests as to the hour, which was approaching midnight. This was an emergency. It mattered not a jot that Lady Ross Gilbert had retired for the night. She must be awakened. Perhaps it was something in his bearing, an innate ruthlessness, but after only a moment’s hesitation the footman obeyed.

  Monk waited in the withdrawing room, an elegant expensive room with French furniture, gilded wood, and brocade curtains. How much of it had been paid for by desperate women? He had no time even to look at it now. He stood in the center facing the double doors, waiting for her.

  She threw them open and came in, smiling, dressed in a magnificent aquamarine robe which billowed around her. She looked like a medieval queen: all she lacked was a circlet over her long, bright hair.

  “How perfectly extraordinary, Mr. Monk,” she said with complete composure. There was nothing but curiosity in her face. “What on earth can have happened that brings you here at this time of night? Do tell me!” She regarded him with undisguised interest, looking him up and down, her eyes at last resting on his face.

  “The trial will probably finish tomorrow,” he answered, his voice hard and clear, his diction exaggeratedly perfect. “Sir Herbert will be acquitted.”

  Her eyebrows rose even higher. “Don’t say you have come here in the middle of the night to tell me that? I expected it—but regardless, when it happens will be quite soon enough.” There was still amusement and question in her face. She did not entirely believe he was so absurd. She was waiting for his real reason for coming.

  “He is guilty,” he said harshly.

  “Indeed?” She came farther in and closed the doors behind her. She was a remarkably handsome woman in a unique way. The whole room was filled with her presence, and he had a powerful feeling that she knew it. “That is only your own opinion, Mr. Monk. If you had proof you would be at Mr. Lovat-Smith’s house, telling him, not here doing …” She hesitated. “Whatever it is you are doing? You have not so far explained yourself….”

  “I don’t have proof,” he answered. “But you do.”

  “I do?” Her voice rose in sheer amazement. “My dear man, you are talking the most arrant rubbish. I have nothing of the kind.”

  “Yes you do.” He remained staring at her, meeting her eyes and holding them. Gradually she recognized the power in him, and the implacable intent. The amusement died out of her face.

  “You are mistaken,” she said softly. “I do not.” She turned away and began fiddling idly with an ornament on the marble-topped table. “The whole idea of her wishing to marry him is utterly foolish. Mr. Rathbone has demonstrated that.”


  “Of course it is,” he agreed, watching her long fingers caress the porcelain of the figurine. “She was using her knowledge to try to get him to help her gain admittance to a medical school.”

  “That is preposterous,” she said, still not looking at him. “No school would take a woman. He must have told her that.”

  “I imagine he did, but not until after he had used her skills to the full, had her work long hours unrewarded, and given her hope. Then, when she became impatient and wanted a commitment, he killed her.”

  She put the ornament down and turned to face him. The humor was back in her eyes.

  “All he had to do was tell her it was hopeless,” she answered. “Why on earth would he kill her? You are being ridiculous, Mr. Monk.”

  “Because she threatened to tell the authorities he was performing abortions—for money,” he replied, his voice tight with rage. “Unnecessary abortions to save rich women the embarrassment of children they did not want.”

  He saw the blood drain from her cheeks, but her expression did not alter.

  “If you can prove that, what are you doing here telling me, Mr. Monk? It is a very serious charge—in fact, he would be imprisoned for it. But without proof, what you say is slander.”

  “You know it is true—because you procure his patients for him,” he said.

  “Do I?” Her eyes widened and there was a smile on her lips, but it was fixed, and already there was something dead in it. “That too is slanderous, Mr. Monk.”

  “You knew he performed abortions, and you could testify of it,” he said very levelly. “Your word would not be slander, because you have all the facts, dates, names, details.”

  “Even if I had such knowledge”—she was gazing at him without a flicker, her eyes boring into his—“surely you would not expect me to condemn myself by saying so? Why on earth should I?”

  He smiled too, a slow showing of the teeth.

  “Because if you do not, I shall make it known to all the right people in society—a whisper, a laugh, a word hushed as you approach—that you were his first patient….”

  Her face did not alter. She was not frightened.

  “When you came back from the Indies,” he went on relentlessly. “And that your child was negroid.”

  All the color fled from her skin and he heard the gasp of her indrawn breath and then a choking in her throat.

  “Is that slanderous too, Lady Ross Gilbert?” he said between his teeth. “Take me to court and sue me! I know the nurse who put the child into the rubbish and threw it away.”

  She gave a harsh cry which was strangled in her throat before it was out.

  “On the other hand,” he went on, “should you testify against Sir Herbert, that you referred desperate women to him, whom you could name did not discretion prevent you, and upon whom he performed abortions, then I shall forget I ever knew of such a thing—and you will never hear from me, or from the nurse, again.”

  “Won’t I?” she said with desperate, vicious disbelief. “And what is to stop you coming back again and again—for money, or whatever it is you want?”

  “Madam,” he said icily, “apart from your testimony, you have nothing I want.”

  She reached forward and slapped him as hard as she could.

  He almost lost his balance from the force of it, and his cheek burned where her open hand had struck him, but he smiled very slowly.

  “I am sorry if that disappoints you,” he said softly. “Be in court tomorrow. Mr. Rathbone will call you—for the defense, of course. How you manage to impart your information is up to you.” And with a very slight bow he walked past her to the door, through the hallway, and out into the street.

  The trial was all but over. The jury was bored. They had already reached their verdict in their own minds and could not understand why Rathbone was calling more witnesses to testify to what everyone already believed. Sir Herbert was a paragon of professional virtue and a tediously correct man in his personal and domestic life. Lovat-Smith was openly irritated. The public was restless. For the first time since the trial began, there were even empty seats in the gallery.

  Judge Hardie leaned forward, his face creased with impatience.

  “Mr. Rathbone, the court is always inclined to give whatever leniency it can to an accused man, but you appear to be wasting our time. Your witnesses are all saying the same thing, and the prosecution has not contested it. Is it really necessary to continue?”

  “No, my lord,” Rathbone conceded with a smile. As soon as he spoke the quality of suppressed excitement in his voice caused a ripple of movement in the room, a shifting, a straightening as the tension sharpened again. “I have only one more witness, whom I trust will complete my case.”

  “Then call him, Mr. Rathbone, and proceed,” Hardie said sharply.

  “I beg leave to recall Lady Berenice Ross Gilbert,” Rathbone said loudly.

  Lovat-Smith frowned and leaned forward.

  Sir Herbert was still smiling in the dock. Only the faintest shadow crossed his eyes.

  “Lady Berenice Ross Gilbert!” the clerk called out, and the cry was taken up and echoed into the hallway.

  She came in white-faced, her head held high, and she looked neither to right nor left as she crossed the floor to the witness stand, climbed the steps, and turned to face Rathbone. Just once she glanced across at the dock, but her expression was unreadable. If she had noticed Philomena Stanhope on the gallery public benches, she gave no indication.

  She was reminded that she was still under oath.

  “I am aware of that,” she said. “I have no intention to tell other than the truth!”

  “You are the last witness I am calling to testify to the character and qualities of the man the prosecution has accused.” Rathbone walked into the center of the floor gracefully, elegantly, and stood for an instant smiling up at the dock. He met Sir Herbert’s eyes, and Sir Herbert saw for an instant that there was triumph in him, that the anger was gone, and his own composure flickered for a second. Then the certainty returned, and he smiled back.

  “Lady Ross Gilbert”—Rathbone looked back at her—“you have served excellently on the Board of Governors of the hospital for some time. Have you been acquainted with Sir Herbert during all these years?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Only professionally, or do you know him personally as well?”

  “Slightly. He does not mix in society very much. I imagine he is too fully occupied with the practice of his art.”

  “So we have heard,” Rathbone agreed. “I believe one of your duties as a governor is to make sure that the morals of the nurses employed there are above reproach.”

  Hardie sighed impatiently. One of the jurors had his eyes closed.

  “That would be impossible,” Berenice said with a curl of contempt. “All I can do is see that their behavior is acceptable while actually in the hospital premises.”

  There was a titter of amusement around the room. The juror opened his eyes again.

  Judge Hardie leaned forward.

  “Mr. Rathbone, you are covering ground which is already exceedingly well trodden. If you have a point, come to it!”

  “Yes, my lord. I apologize. Lady Ross Gilbert, have you at any time in your dealings with the nurses had one of them make a complaint of any sort against Sir Herbert?”

  “No. I think I said that before.” She was frowning, beginning to look anxious.

  “To your knowledge his relationships with women have always been strictly professional?”

  “Yes.”

  “Morally without blemish?” he insisted.

  “Well …” A flicker of surprise crossed her face, and then sudden perception.

  Hardie frowned, looking at her.

  In the dock Sir Herbert’s certainly wavered.

  “Have they, or have they not, Lady Ross Gilbert?” Rathbone demanded, an edge of keenness to his voice.

  “That depends upon your interpretation of morality,” she replied. Neve
r once did she glance toward Monk on the public benches, or Hester beside him.

  Everyone was listening now, straining not to miss a word or an inflection.

  “In what category of morality do you find the question difficult to answer?” Hardie asked her, twisting sideways to face her. “Remember you are on oath, madam.”

  Rathbone made a last attempt to save his own reputation.

  “Are you saying he had an affair with someone, Lady Ross Gilbert?” He invested the tone with surprise and disbelief.

  Someone in the gallery coughed and was instantly hissed into silence.

  “No,” Berenice answered.

  “Then what are you saying?” Hardie looked confused. “Please make yourself plain!”

  Now there was total silence in the room. Every face was turned toward her. Rathbone did not dare to interrupt again in case she lost the opportunity. He might not be able to offer her another.

  Still she hesitated.

  Sir Herbert leaned over the edge of the dock railing, his face tight, the first flicker of real fear touching him.

  “Have you some charge of immorality to bring against Sir Herbert?” Rathbone heard his voice rising with pretended outrage. “You had better make it, madam, or cease these insinuations!”

  “I am on oath,” she said very quietly, looking at no one. “I know that he performed abortions upon many women, at a price. I know it for a fact, because I was the person who referred them to him for help.”

  There was utter, prickling soundlessness. No one moved. There was not even a sigh of breath.

  Rathbone did not dare look up at the dock. He pretended disbelief.

  “What?”

  “I was the person who referred them to him for help,” she repeated slowly and very clearly. “I suppose you would have to say that is immoral. It might be questionable, done for charity—but for payment …” She let the words hang in the air.

  Hardie was staring at Berenice.

  “This is of the utmost seriousness, Lady Ross Gilbert. Do you have any conception of the meaning of what you have just said?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And yet when you came in the witness stand before, you said nothing of this!”