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For several minutes they sat in silence, hands clasped, staring across the desk and smiling.
Rathbone entered court in a white-hot anger. Lovat-Smith sat somberly at his table, knowing he had lost. He looked up at Rathbone without interest, then saw his expression and stiffened. He glanced up at the dock. Sir Herbert was standing with a faint smile on his lips and an air of calm confidence, nothing so vulgar or ill-judged as jubilation, but unmistakable nonetheless.
“Mr. Rathbone?” Judge Hardie looked at him questioningly. “Are you ready to present your closing argument?”
Rathbone forced his voice to sound as level as he could.
“No, my lord. If it please the court, I have one or two further witnesses I should like to call.”
Hardie looked surprised, and Lovat-Smith’s eyes widened. There was a faint rustle around the public benches. Several of the jurors frowned.
“If you think it necessary, Mr. Rathbone,” Hardie said doubtfully.
“I do, my lord,” Rathbone replied. “To do my client complete justice.” As he said it he glanced up at the dock and saw Sir Herbert’s smile fade just a fraction and a tiny furrow mark his brows. But it did not last. The smile reappeared; he met Rathbone’s eyes with confidence and a brilliance which only the two of them knew was contempt.
Lovat-Smith looked curious, shifting his glance from Rathbone to the dock and back again, sitting up a little straighter at his table.
“I would like to call Dr. James Cantrell,” Rathbone said clearly.
“Call Dr. James Cantrell,” the usher repeated in a loud voice.
After several seconds he duly appeared, young, thin, his chin and throat spotted with blood where he had cut himself shaving in his nervousness. He was a student doctor and his career hung in the balance. He was sworn in and Rathbone began to ask him long, detailed questions about Sir Herbert’s immaculate professional behavior.
The jury was bored, Hardie was growing irritated, and Lovat-Smith was quite candidly interested. The smile never faltered on Sir Herbert’s face.
Rathbone struggled on, feeling more and more absurd—and hopeless—but he would give Monk all the time he could.
Hester had arranged with another nurse to take care of her duties for a few hours, promising to return the favor in due course at double the hours. She met Monk at his lodgings at six in the morning. Every minute must be made use of. Already the sun was high, and they did not know how long Rathbone could give them.
“Where shall we begin?” she asked. “I have been thinking, and I confess I do not feel nearly as optimistic as I did before.”
“I was never optimistic,” he said savagely. “I’m just certain I’m not going to let that bastard walk away.” He smiled at her bleakly, but there was something in it which was not warmth—he was too angry for that—but even deeper. It was total trust, the certainty that she understood and, without explanation, shared his feeling. “He didn’t advertise and he didn’t tout for business. Somewhere there is a man or woman who did that for him. He will not have accepted women without money, so that means society—old or new—”
“Probably old,” she interrupted wryly. “Trade, which is new society, comes from the genteel upper working classes with social ambitions—like Runcorn. Their morals are usually very strict. It’s the older money, which is sure of itself, which flouts convention and is more likely to need abortions—or to feel unable to cope with above a certain number of children.”
“Poor women are even less able to manage,” Monk said with a frown.
“Of course,” she agreed. “But can you see them affording Sir Herbert’s prices? They’ll go to the women in the back streets, or try to do it themselves.”
A look of irritation crossed his face—at his own stupidity, not hers. He stood by the mantel shelf, his foot on the fender.
“So how would a society lady find herself an abortionist?” he demanded.
“Word of mouth, I suppose,” she said thoughtfully. “But who would she dare ask?”
He remained silent, watching her and waiting.
She continued, thinking aloud. “Someone her husband would not know—or her father, if she is unmarried—or possibly her mother also. Where does she go alone without causing comment?” She sat down in the high chair and rested her chin on her hands. “Her dressmaker—her milliner,” she answered herself. “She might trust a friend, but unlikely. It is the sort of thing you don’t want your friends to know—it is their opinion you are guarding against.”
“Then those are the people we must try,” he said swiftly. “But what can I do? I’m not standing here waiting for you!”
“You are trying the milliners and dressmakers,” she replied with decision, rising to her feet. “I am going to try the hospital. Someone there must know. He was assisted, even if it was by a different nurse each time. If I read Prudence’s letters again for dates and names”—she straightened her skirts—“I may be able to trace it back to particular people. She left initials. One of them may be prepared to testify as to the middle man … or woman.”
“You can’t do that—it’s too dangerous,” he said instantly. “Besides, they won’t tell you anything.”
She looked at him with disgust. “I’m not going to ask them outright, for Heaven’s sake. And we haven’t got time to be squeamish. Oliver will be able to protract the trial not more than another day or two at the very best.”
Protests rose to his lips and died unspoken.
