Page 99 of The Sins of the Wolf (William Monk 5)

“In extremis, yes sir. Surgery requires a steady hand, a good eye, a knowledge of anatomy, and a cool nerve. All of these qualities may be possessed by a woman as much as by a man.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” someone shouted from the gallery.

“Good God, sir!” one of the jurors exploded, then blushed scarlet.

“That is an extraordinary opinion, sir,” Argyll said very distinctly.

“War is an extraordinary occupation, thank God,” Moncrieff replied. “Were it commonplace, I fear the human race would very soon wipe itself out. But appalling as it is, it does on occasion show us qualities we would not otherwise know we possessed. Both men and women rise to heights of gallantry, and of skill, that the calm, more ordered days of peace would never inspire.

“You called me to testify as to what I know of Miss Latterly’s character, sir. I can in honesty say no other than I found her brave, honest, dedicated to her calling, and compassionate without sentimentality.

“On the negative side, so you will not believe me biased, she was opinionated, at times hasty to judge others whom she believed to be incompetent….” He smiled ruefully. “In which I regret she had much cause. And at times her sense of humor was less than discreet. She could be dictatorial and arbitrary, and when she was tired, short-tempered.

“But no one I ever knew saw a single act of personal greed or vindictiveness in her, whatever the circumstances. Nor had she personal vanity. Good heavens, man, look at her!” He waved one arm towards the dock, leaning over the railing of the witness-box. Every head in the courtroom turned at his word. “Does she look to you like a woman who would commit murder to gain a piece of personal adornment?”

Even Rathbone turned, staring at Hester, gaunt, ashenfaced, her hair screwed back, dressed in blue-gray as plain as a uniform.

Argyll smiled. “No sir, she does not. I confess, it seems you are right; a little personal vanity might be more becoming. It is a falling short, I think.”

There was a ripple around the room. In the gallery one woman put her hand on her husband’s arm. Henry Rathbone smiled wanly. Monk gritted his teeth.

“Thank you, Dr. Moncrieff,” Argyll said quickly. “That is all I mean to ask you.”

Gilfeather rose slowly, almost ponderously, to his feet.

Moncrieff faced him steadily. He was not naive enough to think the next few minutes would be easy. He was aware that he had altered, if not the tide of the battle, at least the pitch and the heat of it. In Argyll he had been facing a friend; Gilfeather was the enemy.

“Dr. Moncrieff,” he began softly. “I expect few of us here can imagine the horror and privation you and other workers in the medical field must have faced during the war. It must have been truly terrible. You spoke of hunger, cold, exhaustion and fear. Is that true, no dark exaggeration?”

“None,” Moncrieff said guardedly. “You are correct, sir. It is an experience that cannot be adequately imagined.”

“It must place the most extraordinary strain upon those called upon to endure it?”

“Yes sir.”

“I accept that you could not share it with me, for example, other than in the most superficial and unsatisfactory way.”

“Is t

hat a question, sir?”

“No, unless you disagree with me?”

“No, I agree. One can communicate only those experiences for which there is some common language or understanding. One cannot describe sunset to a man who has not sight.”

“Precisely. That must leave you with a certain loneliness, Dr. Moncrieff.”

Moncrieff said nothing.

“And a closeness to those with whom you have shared such fearful and profound times.”

Moncrieff could not deny it, even though to judge from his face he could perceive where Gilfeather was leading him.

The jurors leaned forward, listening intently.

“Of course,” he conceded.

“And very naturally a certain impatience with the blandness and uncomprehension, perhaps even uselessness, of certain of the women who have no idea whatever of anything more dangerous or demanding than household management?”