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“Do you consider yourself a naive or unworldly man?”
Kristian’s mouth curled into faint self-mockery. “No—no, I don’t.”
“Then if you find it surprising and hard to accept, is it hard to believe that Sir Herbert was also quite unaware of it?” Rathbone could not keep the ring of triumph out of his voice, although he tried.
Kristian looked rueful, and in spite of what Rathbone had said, surprised.
“No—no, that would seem to follow inevitably.”
Rathbone thought of all the suspicions of Kristian Beck that Monk had raised to him: the quarrel overheard with Prudence, the possibilities of blackmail, the fact that Kristian Beck had been in the hospital all the night of Prudence’s death, that his own patient had died when he had been expected to recover—but it was all suspicion, dark thoughts, no more. There was no proof, no hard evidence of anything. If he raised it now he might direct the jury’s thoughts toward Beck as a suspect. On the other hand, he might only alienate them and betray his own desperation. It would look ugly. At the moment he had their sympathy, and that might just be enough to win the verdict. Sir Herbert’s life could rest on this decision.
Should he accuse Beck? He looked at his interesting, curious face with its sensuous mouth and marvelous eyes. There was too much intelligence in it—too much humor; it was a risk he dare not take. As it was, he was winning. He knew it—and Lovat-Smith knew it.
“Thank you, Dr. Beck,” he said aloud. “That is all.”
Lovat-Smith rose immediately and strode toward the center of the floor.
“Dr. Beck, you are a busy surgeon and physician, are you not?”
“Yes,” Kristian agreed, puckering his brows.
“Do you spend much of your time considering the possible romances within the hospital, and whether one person or another may be aware of such feelings?”
“No,” Kristian confessed.
“Do you spend any time at all so involved?” Lovat-Smith pressed.
But Kristian was not so easily circumvented.
“It does not require thought, Mr. Lovat-Smith. It is a matter of simple observation one cannot avoid. I am sure you are aware of your colleagues, even when your mind is upon your profession.”
This was so patently true that Lovat-Smith could not deny it. He hesitated a moment as if some argument were on the tip of his tongue, then abandoned it.
“None of them is accused of murder, Dr. Beck,” he said with a gesture of resignation and vague half-rueful amusement. “That is all I have to ask you, thank you.”
Hardie glanced at Rathbone.
Rathbone shook his head.
Kristian Beck left the witness stand and disappeared into the body of the court, leaving Rathbone uncertain whether he had just had a fortunate escape from making a fool of himself, or if he had just missed a profound opportunity he would not get again.
Lovat-Smith looked across at him, the light catching in his brilliant eyes, making his expression unreadable.
The following day Rathbone called Lady Stanhope, not that he expected her evidence to add anything of substance. Certainly she knew no facts germane to the case, but her presence would counter the emotional impact made by Mrs. Barrymore. Lady Stanhope also stood to lose not only her husband to a ghastly death, but her family to scandal and shame—and in all probability her home to a sudden and almost certainly permanent poverty and isolation.
She mounted the stand with a little assistance from the clerk and faced Rathbone nervously. She was very pale and seemed to keep her posture only with difficulty. But she did stop and quite deliberately look up and across at her husband in the dock, meet his eyes, and smile.
Sir Herbert blinked, gave an answering smile, and then looked away. One could only guess his emotions.
Rathbone waited, giving the jury time to observe and remember, then he stepped forward and spoke to her courteously, very gently.
“Lady Stanhope, I apologize for having to call you to testify at what must be a most distressing time for you, but I am sure you would wish to do everything possible to assist your husband to prove his innocence.”
She swallowed, staring at him.
“Of course. Anything …” She stopped, obviously also remembering his instruction not to say more than she was asked for.
He smiled at her. “Thank you. I don’t have a great deal to ask you, simply a little about Sir Herbert and your knowledge of his life and his character.”
