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“Enough to perform a surgical operation herself?”
Sir Herbert looked startled, opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped.
“Sir Herbert?” Rathbone prompted.
“She was an excellent nurse,” he said earnestly. “But not a doctor! You have to understand, the difference is enormous. It is an uncrossable gulf.” He shook his head. “She had no formal training. She knew only what she learned by experience and observation on the battlefield and in the hospital at Scutari.” He leaned a trifle farther forward, his face creased with concentration. “You have to understand the difference between such haphazardly gained knowledge, unorganized, without reference to cause and effect, to alternatives, possible complication—without knowledge of anatomy, pharmacology, the experience and case notes of other doctors—and the years of formal training and practice and the whole body of lateral and supplementary learning such education provides.” Again he shook his head, more vehemently this time. “No, Mr. Rathbone, she was an excellent nurse, I have never known better—but she was most certainly not a doctor. And to tell you the truth”—he faced Rathbone squarely, his eyes brilliantly direct—“I believe that the tales we have heard of her performing operations in the field of battle did not come in that form from her. She was not an arrogant woman, nor untruthful. I believe she must have been misunderstood, and possibly even misquoted.”
There were quite audible murmurs of approval from the body of the court, several people nodded and glanced at neighbors, and on the jury benches two members actually smiled.
It had been a brilliant move emotionally, but tactically it made Rathbone’s next question more difficult to frame. He debated whether to delay it, and decided it would be seen as evasive.
“Sir Herbert …” He walked a couple of steps closer to the witness box and looked up. “The prosecution’s evidence against you was a number of letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister in which she writes of her profound feelings toward you, and the belief that you returned those feelings and would shortly make her the happiest of women. Is this a realistic view, a practical and honest one? These are her own words, and not misquoted.”
Sir Herbert shook his head, his face creased with confusion.
“I simply cannot understand it,” he said ruefully. “I swear before God, I have never given her the slightest cause to think I held her in that kind of regard, and I have spent hours, days, trying to think of anything I could have said or done that could give her such an impression, and I honestly can think of nothing.”
He shook his head again, biting his lip. “Perhaps I am casual in manner, and may have allowed myself to speak informally to those with whom I work, but I truly cannot see how any person would have interpreted my remarks as statements of personal affection. I simply spoke to a trusted colleague in whom I had the utmost confidence.” He hesitated. Several jurors nodded in sympathy and understanding. From their faces it seemed they too had had such experiences. It was all eminently reasonable. A look of profound regret transformed his features.
“Perhaps I was remiss?” he said gravely. “I am not a romantic man. I have been happily married for over twenty years to the only woman whom I have ever regarded in that light.” He smiled self-consciously.
Above in the gallery women nudged each other understandingly.
“She would tell you I have little imagination in that region of my life,” Sir Herbert continued. “As you may see, I am not a handsome or dashing figure. I have never been the subject of the romantic attentions of young ladies. There are far more …” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “More charming and likely men for such a role. We have a number of medical students, gifted, young, good-looking, and with fine futures ahead of them. And of course there are other senior doctors as well, with greater gifts than mine in charm and appealing manner. Quite frankly, it never occurred to me that anyone might view me in that light.”
Rathbone adopted a sympathetic stance, although Sir Herbert was doing so well he hardly needed help.
“Did Miss Barrymore never say anything which struck you as more than usually admiring, nothing personal rather than professional?” he asked. “I imagine you are used to the very considerable respect of your staff and the gratitude of your patients, but please think carefully, with the wisdom of hindsight.”
Sir Herbert shrugged and smiled candidly and apologetically.
“Believe me, Mr. Rathbone, I have tried, but on every occasion on which I spent time, admittedly a great deal of time, with Nurse Barrymore, my mind was on the medical case with which we were engaged. I never saw her in any other connection.” He drew his brows together in an effort of concentration.
“I thought of her with respect, with trust, with the utmost confidence in her dedication and her ability, but I did not think of her personally.” He looked down. “It seems I was grievously i
n the wrong in that, which I profoundly regret. I have daughters of my own, as you no doubt know, but my profession has kept me so fully occupied that their upbringing has been largely left to their mother. I do not really know the ways of young women as well as I might, as well as many men whose personal lives allow them more time in their homes and with their families than does mine.”
There was a whisper and rustle of sympathy around the court.
“It is a price I do not pay willingly.” He bit his lip. “And it seems perhaps it may have been responsible for a tragic misunderstanding by Nurse Barrymore. I—I cannot think of any specific remarks I may have made. I really thought only of our patients, but this I do know.” His voice dropped and became hard and intense. “I at no time whatever entertained any romantic notions about Miss Barrymore, or said or did anything whatever that was improper or could be construed by an unbiased person to be an advance or expression of romantic intent. Of that I am as certain as I am that I stand here before you in this courtroom.”
It was superb. Rathbone himself could not have written anything better.
“Thank you, Sir Herbert. You have explained this tragic situation in a manner I believe we can all understand.” He looked at the jury with a rueful gesture. “I myself have experienced embarrassing encounters, and I daresay the gentlemen of the jury may have also. The dreams and priorities in life of young women are at times different from ours, and perhaps we are dangerously, even tragically, insensitive to them.” He turned back to the witness stand. “Please remain where you are. I have no doubt my learned friend will have questions to ask you.”
He smiled at Lovat-Smith as he walked back to the table and resumed his seat.
Lovat-Smith stood up and straightened his gown before moving across to the center of the floor. He did not look to right or left, but directly up at Sir Herbert.
“In your own words, Sir Herbert, you are not a ladies’ man, is that correct?” His voice was courteous, even smooth. There was no hint of panic or defeat in it, just a deference toward a man held in public esteem.
Rathbone knew he was acting. Lovat-Smith was as well aware as he himself how excellent Sir Herbert’s testimony had been. All the same his confidence gave Rathbone a twinge of unease.
“No,” Sir Herbert said carefully, “I am not.”
Rathbone shut his eyes. Please Heaven Sir Herbert would remember his advice now. Say nothing more! Rathbone said over and over to himself. Add nothing. Offer nothing. Don’t be led by him. He is your enemy.
“But you must have some considerable familiarity with the ways of women …” Lovat-Smith said, raising his eyebrows and opening his light blue eyes very wide.
