Page 99 of A Sudden, Fearful Death (William Monk 4)

Not once had she looked at Sir Herbert opposite in the dock, although his eyes never left her face.

“You say that Prudence’s love was misplaced.” Lovat-Smith was not yet finished. “Do you mean by that that Sir Herbert did not return her feelings?”

Berenice hesitated, but it appeared it was a pause to find exactly the right words rather than because she was uncertain of her belief.

“I am less skilled at reading the emotions of men than of women, you understand….”

There was a murmur around the room, whether of belief or doubt it was impossible to say. A juror nodded sagely.

Rathbone had the distinct impression she was savoring the moment of drama and her power to hold and control her audience.

Lovat-Smith did not interrupt.

“He asked for her on every occasion he required a skilled nurse,” she said slowly, each word falling distinctly into the bated hush. “He worked closely with her over long hours, and at times without any other person present.” She spoke without ever looking across at him, her eyes fixed on Lovat-Smith.

“Perhaps he was unaware of her personal emotions toward him?” Lovat-Smith suggested without a shred of conviction. “Is he a foolish man, in your experience?”

“Of course not! But—”

“Of course not,” he agreed, cutting her off before she could add her explanation. “Therefore you did not consider it necessary to warn him?”

“I never thought of it,” she confessed with irritation. “It is not my place to make suggestions on the lives of surgeons, and I did not think I could tell him anything of which he was not already perfectly aware and would deal with appropriately. Looking back now I can see that I was—”

“Thank you,” he interrupted. “Thank you, Lady Ross Gilbert. That is all I have to ask you. But my learned friend … may.” He left it a delicate suggestion that Rathbone’s cause was broken, and he might already have surrendered to the inevitable.

And indeed Rathbone was feeling acutely unhappy. She had undone a great deal, if not all, of the good he had accomplished with Nanette and with Geoffrey Taunton. At best all he had raised was a reasonable doubt. Now even that seemed to be slipping away. The case was hardly an ornament to his career, and it was looking increasingly as if it might not even save Sir Herbert’s life, let alone his reputation.

He faced Berenice Ross Gilbert with an air of casual confidence he did not feel. Deliberately he stood at ease. The jury must believe he had some tremendous revelation in hand, some twist or barb that would at a stroke destroy Lovat-Smith’s case.

“Lady Ross Gilbert,” he began with a charming smile. “Prudence Barrymore was an excellent nurse, was she not? With far above the skills and abilities of the average?”

“Most certainly,” she agreed. “She had considerable actual medical knowledge, I believe.”

“And she was diligent in her duties?”

“Surely you must know this?”

“I do.” Rathbone nodded. “It has already been testified to by several people. Why does it surprise you, then, that Sir Herbert should have chosen her to work with him in a large number of his surgical cases? Would that not be in the interest of his patients?”

“Yes—of course it would.”

“You testified that you observed in Prudence the very recognizable signs of a woman in love. Did you observe any of these signs in Sir Herbert, when in Prudence’s presence, or anticipating it?”

“No I did not,” she replied without hesitation.

“Did you observe any change in his manner toward her, any departure from that which would be totally proper and usual between a dedicated surgeon and his best and most responsible nurse?”

She considered only a moment before replying. For the first time she looked across at Sir Herbert, just a glance, and away again.

“No—he was always as usual,” she said to Rathbone. “Correct, dedicated to his work, and with little attention to people other than the patients, and of course the teaching of student doctors.”

Rathbone smiled at her. He knew his smile was beautiful.

“I imagine men have been in love with you, possibly many men?”

She shrugged very slightly, a delicate gesture of amusement and concurrence.

“Had Sir Herbert treated you as he treated Prudence Barrymore, would you have supposed that he was in love with you? Or that he considered abandoning his wife and family, his home and reputation, in order to ask you to marry him?”