Page 110 of A Sudden, Fearful Death (William Monk 4)

Sir Herbert said nothing.

Rathbone breathed out a sigh of relief.

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

“Thank you,” Sir Herbert said graciously.

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Herbert remained silent for several minutes.

Hardie looked at him inquiringly.

Lovat-Smith smiled.

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

Again jurors nodded, understanding plain in their faces.

Lovat-Smith shifted the line of his attack slightly.

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

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

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

Lovat-Smith accepted rebuff gracefully and tried again.

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

Sir Herbert hesitated. “I would prefer to say ‘respect,’ ” he said, deflecting the obvious vanity.

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

“You were better to ask them, sir.”

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

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

Two or three of the jurors smiled.

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

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

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

A slow flush spread up Sir Herbert’s cheeks.