A Sudden, Fearful Death

"Good God man!" Sir Herbert exploded, turning on his heel as if he would pace, but the walls of the cell confined him, bringing him up sharply. "Can you remember every casual word you pass to your clerks and juniors? It is just my misfortune I work largely with women. Perhaps one shouldn't?" His tone was suddenly savage. "But nursing is a job best done by women, and I daresay we could not find reliable men willing and able to do it." His voice rose a tone, and then another, and through long experience Rathbone knew it was panic just below the surface, every now and again jutting through the thin skin of control. He had seen it so often before, and as always he felt a stab of pity and another heavy drag of the weight of his own responsibility.

He put his hands in his pockets and stood a trifle more casually.

"I strongly advise you not to say anything of that sort on the stand. Remember that the jurors are ordinary people, arid almost certainly hold medicine in some awe, and very little understanding. And after Miss Nightingale, who is a national heroine, whatever you think of her, her nurses are heroines also. Don't appear to criticize Prudence, even obliquely. That is the most important single piece of advice I can give you. If you do, you can resign yourself to conviction."

Sir Herbert stared at him, his bright intelligent eyes very clear. "Of course," he said quietly. "Yes, of course I understand that."

"And answer only what I ask you, add nothing whatever. Is that absolutely clear?"

"Yes-yes, of course, if you say so."

"And don't underestimate Lovat-Smith. He may look like a traveling actor, but he is one of the best lawyers in England. Don't let him goad you into saying more than you have to in order to answer the question exactly. He'll flatter you, make you angry, challenge you intellectually if he thinks it will make you forget yourself. Your impression on the jury is the most important weapon you have. He knows that as well as I do."

Sir Herbert looked pale, a furrow of anxiety sharp between his brows. He stared at Rathbone as if weighing him for some inner judgment.

"I shall be careful," he said at last. "Thank you for your counsel."

Rathbone straightened up and held out his hand.

"Don't worry. This is the darkest hour. From now on it is our turn, and unless we make some foolish mistake, we will carry the day."

Sir Herbert grasped his hand and held it hard.

"Thank you. I have every confidence in you. And I shall obey your instructions precisely." He let go and stepped back, a very slight smile touching his lips.

* * * * *

As on every day so far, the court was packed with spectators and journalists, and this morning there was an air of expectancy among them and something not unlike hope. The defense was about to begin, there might at last be disclosures, drama, even evidence toward another murderer. Everyone's eyes were to the front, the noise was not talking but the myriad tiny rustles and creaks of movement as one fabric rubbed against another, whalebone shifted pressure, and the leather soles of boots scraped on the floor.

Rathbone was not as well prepared as he would have liked, but there was no more time. He must look as if he not only knew Sir Herbert was innocent but also who was guilty. He was acutely aware of the eyes of every juror intent upon him; every movement was watched, every inflection of his voice measured.

"My lord, gentlemen of the jury," he began with a very slight smile. "I am sure you will appreciate it is much easier for the prosecution to prove that a man is guilty of a crime man for the defense to prove he is not. Unless, of course, you can prove that someone else is. And unfortunately I cannot do that-so far. Although it is always possible something may emerge during the evidence yet to come."

The whisper of excitement was audible, even the hasty scratching of pencil on paper.

"Even so," he continued, "the prosecution has failed to demonstrate that Sir Herbert Stanhope killed Prudence Barrymore, only that he could have. As could many others: Geoffrey Taunton, Nanette Cuthbertson, Dr. Beck are only some. The main thrust of his argument"-he indicated Lovat-Smith with a casual gesture-"is that Sir Herbert had a powerful motive, as evidenced by Prudence's own letters to her sister, Faith Barker."

His smile broadened a fraction and he looked squarely at the jury.

"However, I will show you that those letters are open to a quite different interpretation, one which leaves Sir Herbert no more culpable than any other man might be in his position and with his skills, his personal modesty, and the other urgent and powerful calls upon his attention."

There was more fidgeting on the public benches. A fat woman in the gallery leaned forward and stared at Sir Herbert in the dock.

Before Hardie could become restive, Rathbone proceeded to the point.

"I shall now call my first witness, Sir Herbert Stanhope himself."