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She shook her head again with a brisk impatient little movement, as if to brush away some troublesome insect. “She was always so direct, so candid. What on earth would she want with the affection of a man she had forced into giving it? It makes no sense!”
“Infatuation seldom does make sense, my dear,” he said quietly. “When you care so fiercely and all-consumingly for someone you simply cannot believe that in time they will not learn to feel the same for you. If only you have the chance to be with them, you can make things change.” He stopped abruptly. It was all true, and relevant to the case, but it was far more than he had intended to say. And yet he heard his own voice carrying on. “Have you never cared for anyone in that way?” He was asking not only for Prudence Barrymore, but because he wanted to know if Hester had ever felt that wild surge of emotion that eclipses everything else and distracts all other needs and wishes. As soon as the words were out, he wished he had not asked. If she said no, he would feel her cold, something less than a woman, and fear she was not capable of such feelings. But if she said yes, he would be ridiculously jealous of the man who had inspired it in her. He waited for her answer, feeling utterly foolish.
If she were aware of the turmoil in him she betrayed none of it in her face.
“If I had, I should not wish to discuss it,” she said primly, then gave a sudden smile. “I am not being of any assistance, am I? I’m sorry. You have to defend Sir Herbert, and this is no use at all. I suppose what you had better do is see if you can find out what pressure she intended to use. And if you can find none, it may tend to vindicate him.” She screwed up her face. “That is not very good, is it?”
“Almost no good at all,” he agreed, making himself smile back.
“What can I do that would be useful?” she asked frankly.
“Find me evidence to suggest that it was someone else.”
He saw a flicker of doubt in her face, or perhaps it was anxiety, or unhappiness. But she did not explain it.
“What is it?” he pressed. “Do you know something?”
“No,” she said too quickly. Then she met his eyes. “No, I know
of no evidence whatever to implicate anyone else. I believe the police have looked fairly thoroughly at all the other people it might be. I know Monk thought quite seriously about Geoffrey Taunton and about Nanette Cuthbertson. I suppose you might pursue them?”
“I shall certainly do so, naturally. What of the other nurses here? Have you formed any impression as to their feelings for Nurse Barrymore?”
“I’m not sure if my impressions are of much value, but it seems to me they both admired and resented her, but they would not have harmed her.” She looked at him with a curious expression, half wry, half sad. “They are very angry with Sir Herbert. They think he did it, and there is no pity for him.” She leaned a little against one of the benches. “You will be very ill-advised to call any of them as witnesses if you can help it.”
“Why? Do they believe she was in love with him and he misled her?”
“I don’t know what they think.” She shook her head. “They simply accept that he is guilty. It is not a carefully reasoned matter, just the difference between the status of a doctor and that of a nurse. He had power, she had not. It is all the old resentments of the weak against the strong, the poor against the wealthy, the ignorant against the educated and the clever. But you will have to be very subtle indeed to gain anything good from them on the witness stand.”
“I take your warning,” he said grimly. The outlook was not good. She had told him nothing, but given him hope. “What is your own opinion of Sir Herbert? You have been working with him, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “It surprises me, but I find it hard to believe he used her as her letters suggest. I hope I am not being vain, but I have never caught in his eye even the slightest personal interest in me.” She looked at Rathbone carefully to judge his response. “And I have worked closely with him,” she continued. “Often late into the night, and on difficult cases when there was much room for emotion over shared success or failure. I have found him dedicated to his work, and totally correct in all particulars of his behavior.”
“Would you be prepared to swear to that?”
“Of course. But I cannot see that is useful. I daresay any other nurse who has worked with him will do the same.”
“I cannot call them without being sure they will say as you do,” he pointed out. “I wonder, could you—”
“I have already,” she interrupted. “I have spoken with a few others who worked with him now and then, most particularly the youngest and best-looking. None of them has ever found him anything but most correct.”
He felt a slight lift of spirits. If nothing else, it established a pattern.
“Now that is helpful,” he acknowledged. “Did Nurse Barrymore confide in anyone, do you know? Surely she had some particular friend.”
“None of whom I am aware.” She shook her head and made a little face. “But I shall look further. She didn’t in the Crimea. She was totally absorbed in her work; there was no time and no emotion left for much more than the sort of silent understanding that requires no effort. England and all its ties were left behind. I suppose there must have been a great deal of her I didn’t know—didn’t even think about.”
“I need to know,” he said simply. “It would make all the difference if we knew what was going on in her mind.”
“Of course.” She looked at him gravely for a moment, then straightened her shoulders. “I shall inform you of anything that I think could possibly be of use. Do you require it written down, or will a verbal report be sufficient?”
With difficulty he kept himself from smiling. “Oh, a verbal report will be far better,” he said soberly. “Then if I wish to pursue any issue further I can do it at the time. Thank you very much for your assistance. I am sure justice will be the better served.”
“I thought it was Sir Herbert you were trying to serve,” she said dryly, but not without amusement. Then she politely took her farewell and excused herself back to her duties.
He stood in the small room for a moment or two after she had gone. He felt a sense of elation slowly filling him. He had forgotten how exhilarating she was, how immediate and intelligent, how without pretense. To be with her was at once pleasingly familiar, oddly comfortable, and yet also disturbing. It was something he could not easily dismiss from his thoughts or choose when he would think about it and when he would not.
Monk had very mixed feelings about undertaking to work for Oliver Rathbone in Sir Herbert Stanhope’s defense. When he had read the letters he had believed they were proof of a relationship quite different from anything Sir Herbert had admitted. It was both shameful, on a personal and professional level, and—if she were indiscreet, as she had so obviously threatened to be—a motive for murder … a very simple one which would easily be believed by any jury.
