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Sir Herbert shrugged. “Young women are prone to fancies, especially when they reach a certain age and are not married.” A fleeting smile of regret and sympathy touched his mouth and vanished. “It is not natural for a woman to devote herself to a career in such a way, and no doubt it places a strain upon the natural emotions, most particularly when that career is an unusual and demanding one like nursing.” His gaze was earnest on Rathbone’s face. “Her experiences in the war must have left her particularly vulnerable to emotional injury, and daydreaming is not an abnormal way of coping with circumstances that might otherwise be unendurable.”
Rathbone knew that what he said was perfectly true, and yet he found himself feeling that it was vaguely patronizing, and without knowing why, he resented it. He could not imagine anyone less likely to indulge in unreality or romanctic daydreams than Hester Latterly, who in many of the ways Sir Herbert referred to, was in exactly the same circumstances as Prudence. Perhaps he would have found her easier if she had. And yet he would have admired her less, and perhaps liked her less too. With an effort he refrained from saying what sprang to his mind. He returned to his original request.
“But you can think of no particular occasion on which she may have
misinterpreted a specific remark? It would be most helpful if we could rebut it in more than general terms.”
“I realize that, but I am afraid I can think of nothing I have ever said or done to make any woman think my interest was more than professional.” Sir Herbert looked at him with anxiety and, Rathbone judged, a totally innocent confusion.
Rathbone rose to his feet.
“That is sufficient for this visit, Sir Herbert. Keep your spirits up. We have some time yet in which to learn more of Miss Barrymore and her other possible enemies and rivals. But please continue to cast your mind back over all the times you worked together recently and see if anything comes to you which may be of use. When we get to court, we must have more than a general denial.” He smiled. “But try not to worry overmuch. I have excellent people who can assist me, and we will no doubt discover a great deal more before then.”
Sir Herbert rose also. He was pale and the marks of anxiety were plain in his face now that he had stopped concentrating on specific questions. The gravity of his situation overwhelmed him, and for all the force of logic and Rathbone’s assurances, if the verdict was against him, he faced the rope, and the reality of that crowded out everything else.
He made as if to speak, and then found no words.
Rathbone had stood in cells like this more times than he could count, with all manner of both men and women, each facing the fear in their own way. Some were openly terrified, others masked their feelings with pride or anger. Sir Herbert was outwardly calm, but Rathbone knew the sick anxiety he must feel inside, and was helpless to do anything to help. Whatever he said, as soon as he was gone and the great door closed behind him, Sir Herbert would be alone for the long dragging hours, to swing from hope to despair, courage to terror. He must wait, and leave the battle to someone else.
“I will put my best people onto it,” Rathbone said aloud, gripping Sir Herbert’s hand in his own. “In the meantime, try to think over any conversation with Miss Barrymore that you can. It will be helpful to us to refute the interpretation they have put upon your regard for her.”
“Yes.” Sir Herbert composed his face into an expression of calm intelligence. “Of course. Good day, Mr. Rathbone. I shall look forward to your next visit….”
“In two or three days’ time,” Rathbone said in answer to the unasked question, then he turned to the door and called for the jailer.
Rathbone had every intention of doing all he could to find another suspect in the case. If Sir Herbert were innocent, then someone else was guilty. There was no one in London better able to unearth the truth than Monk. Accordingly he sent a letter to Monk’s lodgings in Fitzroy Street, stating his intention to call upon him that evening on a matter of business. It never occurred to him that Monk might be otherwise engaged.
And indeed Monk was not. Whatever his personal inclinations, he needed every individual job, and he needed Rathbone’s goodwill in general. Many of his most rewarding cases, both professionally and financially, came through Rathbone.
He welcomed him in and invited him to be seated in the comfortable chair, himself sitting in the one opposite and regarding him curiously. There had been nothing in his letter as to the nature of the present case.
Rathbone pursed his lips.
“I have an extremely difficult defense to conduct,” he began carefully, watching Monk’s face. “I am assuming my client is innocent. The circumstantial evidence is poor, but the evidence of motive is strong, and no other immediate suspect leaps to mind.”
“Any others possible?” Monk interrupted.
“Oh indeed, several.”
“With motive?”
Rathbone settled a little more comfortably in his seat.
“Certainly, although there was no proof that it is powerful enough to have precipitated the act. One may deduce it rather than observe evidence of it.”
“A nice distinction.” Monk smiled. “I presume your client’s motive is rather more evident?”
“I’m afraid so. But he is by no means the only suspect, merely by some way the best.”
Monk looked thoughtful. “He denies the act. Does he deny the motive?”
“He does. He claims that the perception of it is a misunderstanding, not intentional, merely somewhat … emotionally distorted.” He saw Monk’s gray eyes narrow. Rathbone smiled. “I perceive your thoughts. You are correct. It is Sir Herbert Stanhope. I am quite aware that it was you who found the letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister.”
Monk’s eyebrows rose.
“And yet you ask me to help you disprove their content?”
“Not disprove their content,” Rathbone argued. “Simply show that Miss Barrymore’s infatuation with Sir Herbert did not mean that he killed her. There are very credible other possibilities, one of which may prove to be the truth.”
