A Sudden, Fearful Death

'That leaves motive," Rathbone went on. "The letters Miss Barrymore wrote to her sister, and which are now in the hands of the prosecution, suggest most forcibly that you had a romantic liaison with her, and that when she realized that it could come to nothing she became troublesome to you, threatened you in some way, and to avoid a scandal you killed her. I accept that you did not kill her. But were you having an affair with her?"

Sir Herbert's thin lips tightened in a grimace.

"Most certainly not. The idea would be amusing, it is so far from the truth, were it not mortally dangerous. No, Mr. Rathbone. I had never even thought of Miss Barrymore in that light." He looked shiftily surprised. "Nor any woman other than my wife. Which may sound unlikely, most men's morals being as they are." He shrugged, a deprecating and amused gesture. "But I have put all my energy into my professional life, and all my passion."

His eyes were very intent upon Rathbone's face. He had a gift of concentration, as if the person to whom he was speaking at that moment were of the utmost importance to him, and his attention was absolute. Rathbone was acutely conscious of the power of his personality. But for all tbat, he believed the passion in him was of the mind, not of the body. It was not a self-indulgent race. He could see no weakness in it, no ungoverned appetite. "I have a devoted wife, Mr. Rathbone," Sir Herbert continued. "And seven children. My home life is amply sufficient. The human body holds much fascination for me, its anatomy and physiology, its diseases and their healing. I do not lust after nurses." The amusement was there again, briefly. "And quite frankly, if you had known Nurse Barrymore you would not have assumed I might. She was handsome enough, but unyielding, ambitious, and very unwomanly."

Rathbone pursed his lips a trifle. He must press the issue, whatever his own inner convictions. "In what way unwomanly, Sir Herbert? I have been led to suppose she had admirers; indeed, one who was so devoted to her he pursued her for years, in spite of her continued rejection of him."

Sir Herbert's light, thin eyebrows rose. "Indeed? You surprise me. But to answer your question: she was perverse, displeasingly outspoken and opinionated on certain subjects, and uninterested in home or family. She took little trouble to make herself appealing." He leaned forward. "Please understand me, none of this is criticism." He shook his head. "I have no desire to have hospital nurses flirting with me, or with anyone else. They are there to care for the sick, to obey orders, and to keep a reasonable standard of morality and sobriety. Prudence Barrymore did far better than mat. She was abstemious in her appetites, totally sober, punctual, diligent in her work, and at times gifted. I think I can say she was the best nurse I had ever known, and I have known hundreds."

"A thoroughly decent, if somewhat forbidding, young woman," Rathbone summed up.

"Quite," Sir Herbert agreed, sitting back in his chair again. "Not the sort with whom one flirts, given one were so inclined, and I am not." He smiled ruefully. "But believe me, Mr. Rathbone, if I were, I should not choose such a public place in which to do so, still less would I indulge myself in my place erf work, which to me is the most important in my life. I would never jeopardize it for such a relatively trivial satisfaction."

Rathbone did not doubt him. He had spent his professional life, and carved a brilliant reputation, by judging when a man was lying and when he was not. There were a score of tiny signs to watch for, and he had seen none of them.

"Then what is the explanation of her letters?" he asked levelly and quite quietly. There was no change in his tone; it was simply an inquiry to which he fully expected an acceptable answer.

Sir Herbert's face took on an expression of rueful apology.

"It is embarrassing, Mr. Rathbone. I dislike having to say this-it is highly unbecoming a gentleman to speak so." He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "I-I have heard of occasions in the past when young women have become… shall I say enamored of… certain… prominent men." He looked at Rathbone curiously. "I daresay you have had the experience yourself? A young woman you have helped, or whose family you have helped. Her natural admiration and gratitude becomes… romantic in nature? You may have been quite unaware of it until suddenly some chance word or look brings to your mind the reality that she is nurturing a fantasy with you at its heart."

Rathbone knew the experience only too well. He could remember a very pleasant feeling of being admired suddenly turning into an acutely embarrassing confrontation with a breathless and ardently romantic young woman who had mistaken his vanity for shyness and a concealed ardor. He blushed hot at the recollection even now.

Sir Herbert smiled.