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“So the servants would have little or no opportunity to remove the knife and the peignoir immediately after the murder, and to fetch it from its hiding place and return it between the time the cook reported her knife missing and the police conducted their search,” he concluded.
“You are right.” It was a victory, small, but of great meaning. Hope soared inside her and she rose to her feet and walked quickly over to the mantel shelf and turned. “You are perfectly right. Runcorn never thought of that. When it is put to him he will have to reconsider—”
“I doubt it,” Rathbone said gravely. “It is an excellent point of logic, but I would be pleasantly surprised if logic is now what is governing the police’s procedure, if, as you say, they have already arrested and charged the wretched Percival. Is your friend Mr. Monk involved in the affair?”
“He was. He resigned rather than arrest Percival on what he believed to be inadequate evidence.”
“Very noble,” Rathbone said sourly. “If impractical.”
“I believe it was temper,” Hester said, then instantly felt a traitor. “Which I cannot afford to criticize. I was dismissed from the infirmary for taking matters into my own hands when I had no authority to do so.”
“Indeed?” His eyebrows shot up and his face was alive with interest. “Please tell me what happened.”
“I cannot afford your time, Mr. Rathbone.” She smiled to soften her words—and because what she was about to say was impertinent. “If you wish to know sufficiently, then you may have half an hour of my time, and I shall tell you with pleasure.”
“I should be delighted,” he accepted. “Must it be here, or may I invite you to dine with me? What is your time worth?” His expression was wry and full of humor. “Perhaps I cannot afford it? Or shall we come to an accommodation? Half an hour of your time for an additional half an hour of mine? That way you may tell me the rest of the tale of Percival and the Moidores, and I shall give you what advice I can, and you shall then tell me the tale of the infirmary.”
It was a singularly appealing offer, not only for Percival’s sake but because she found Rathbone’s company both stimulating and agreeable.
“If it can be within the time Lady Moidore permits me, I should be very pleased,” she accepted, then felt unaccountably shy.
He rose to his feet in one graceful gesture.
“Excellent. We shall adjourn to the coaching house around the corner, where they will serve us at any hour. It will be less reputable than the house of a mutual friend, but since we have none, nor the time to make any, it will have to do. It will not mar your reputation beyond recall.”
“I think I may already have done that in any sense that matters to me,” she replied with a moment of self-mockery. “Dr. Pomeroy will see to it that I do not find employment in any hospital in London. He was very angry indeed.”
“Were you right in your treatment?” he asked, picking up his hat and opening the door for her.
“Yes, it seemed so.”
“Then you are
correct, it was unforgivable.” He led the way out of the offices into the icy street. He walked on the outside of the pavement, guiding her along the street, across the corner, dodging the traffic and the crossing sweeper, and at the far side, into the entrance of a fine coaching inn built in the high day when post coaches were the only way of travel from one city to another, before the coming of the steam railway.
The inside was beautifully appointed, and she would have been interested to take greater notice of pictures, notices, the copper and pewter plates and the post horns, had there been more time. The patrons also caught her attention, well-to-do men of business, rosy faced, well clothed against the winter chill, and most of all in obvious good spirits.
But Rathbone was welcomed by the host the moment they were through the door, and was immediately offered a table advantageously placed in a good corner and advised as to the specialty dishes of the day.
He consulted Hester as to her preference, then ordered, and the host himself set about seeing that only the best was provided. Rathbone accepted it as if it were pleasing, but no more than was his custom. He was gracious in his manner, but kept the appropriate distance between gentleman and innkeeper.
Over the meal, which was neither luncheon nor dinner, but was excellent, she told him the rest of the case in Queen Anne Street, so far as she knew it, including Myles Kellard’s attested rape of Martha Rivett and her subsequent dismissal, and more interestingly, her opinion of Beatrice’s emotions, her fear, which was obviously not removed by Percival’s arrest, and Septimus’s remarks that Octavia had said she heard something the afternoon before her death which was shocking and distressing, but of which she still lacked any proof.
She also told him of John Airdrie, Dr. Pomeroy and the loxa quinine.
By that time she had used an hour and a half of his time and he had used twenty-five minutes of hers, but she forgot to count it until she woke in the night in her room in Queen Anne Street.
“What do you advise me?” she said seriously, leaning a little across the table. “What can be done to prevent Percival being convicted without proper proof?”
“You have not said who is to defend him,” he replied with equal gravity.
“I don’t know. He has no money.”
“Naturally. If he had he would be suspect for that alone.” He smiled with a harsh twist. “I do occasionally take cases without payment, Miss Latterly, in the public good.” His smile broadened. “And recoup by charging exorbitantly next time I am employed by someone who can afford it. I will inquire into it and do what I can, give you my word.”
“I am very obliged to you,” she said, smiling in return. “Now would you be kind enough to tell me what I owe you for your counsel?”
“We agreed upon half a guinea, Miss Latterly.”
