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But on the other hand Rathbone’s account of it having been all in Prudence’s feverish overemotional imagination was something which with any other woman would have been only too easily believable. And was Monk guilty of having credited Prudence with a moral strength, a single-minded dedication to duty, that was superhuman, overlooking her very ordinary, mortal weaknesses? Had he once again created in his imagination a woman totally different from, and inferior to, the real one?
It was a painful thought. And yet wounding as it was, he could not escape it. He had read into Hermione qualities she did not have, and perhaps into Imogen Latterly too. How many other women had he so idealized—and hopelessly misread?
It seemed where they were involved he had neither judgment nor even the ability to learn from his mistakes.
At least professionally he was skilled—more than skilled, he was brilliant. His cases were record of that; they were a list of victory after victory. Even though he could remember few details, he knew the flavor, knew from other men’s regard for him that he seldom lost. And no one spoke lightly of him or willingly crossed his will. Men who served with him gave of their best. They might dread it, obey with trepidation, but when success came they were elated and proud to be part of it. It was an accolade to have served with Monk, a mark of success in one’s career, a stepping-stone to greater things.
But with another, all too familiar, jar of discomfort, he was reminded of Runcorn’s words by the memory of having humiliated the young constable who was working with him on that case so long ago which hovered on the edge of his memory with such vividness. He could picture the man’s face as he lashed him with words of scorn for his timidity, his softheartedness with witnesses who were concealing truth, evading what was painful for them, regardless of the cost to others. He felt a sharp stab of guilt for the way he had treated the man, who was not dilatory, nor was he a coward, simply more sensitive to others’ feelings and approaching the problem with a different way of solving it. Perhaps his way was less efficient than Monk’s, but not necessarily of less moral worth. Monk could see that now with the wisdom of hindsight, the clearer knowledge of himself. But at the time he had felt nothing but contempt and he had made no effort to conceal it.
He could not remember what had happened to the man, if he had remained on the force, discouraged and unhappy, or if he had left. Please God, Monk had not ruined him.
But rack his brain as he might, he found no clue to memory at all, no shred of the man’s life that stayed with him. And that probably meant that he had not cared one way or the other what happened to him—which was an added ugly thought.
Work. He must pursue Rathbone’s problem and strive just as hard to prove Stanhope innocent as he had done to prove him guilty. Perhaps a great deal more was needed, even for his own satisfaction. The letters were proof of probability, certainly not proof conclusive. But the only proof conclusive would be that it was impossible for him to have done it, and since he had both means and opportunity, and certainly motive, they could not look for that. The alternative was to prove that someone else was guilty. That was the only way to acquit him without question. Mere doubt might help him elude the hangman’s rope, but not redeem his honor or his reputation.
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Was he innocent?
Far worse than letting a guilty man go free was the sickening thought of the slow, deliberate condemnation and death of an innocent one. That was a taste with which he was already familiar, and he would give everything he knew, all he possessed, every moment of his nights and days, rather than ever again contribute to that happening. That once still haunted his worst dreams, the white hopeless face staring at him in the middle of the night. The fact that he had struggled to prevent it was comfortless in its chill attempt at self-justification.
There may not be any evidential proof that anyone else was guilty; no footprints, pieces of torn cloth, witnesses who had seen or overheard, no lies in which to catch anyone.
If not Sir Herbert, who?
He did not know where to begin. There were two options: prove someone else guilty, which might not be possible; or cast such strong doubt on Sir Herbert’s guilt that a jury could not accept it. He had already done all that he could think of in the former. Until some new idea occurred to him, he would pursue the latter. He would seek out Sir Herbert’s colleagues and learn his reputation among them. They might prove impressive character witnesses, if nothing more.
There followed several days of routine, excessively polite interviews in which he struggled to provoke some comments deeper than fulsome professional praise, carefully expressed disbelief that Sir Herbert could have done such a thing, and rather nervous agreement to testify on his behalf—if it were strictly necessary. The hospital governors were transparently nervous of becoming involved in something which they feared might prove to be very ugly before it was finished. It was painfully apparent in their faces that they did not know whether he was guilty or not, or where they should nail their colors to avoid sinking with a lost cause.
From Mrs. Flaherty he got tight-lipped silence and a total refusal to offer any opinion at all or to testify in court should she be asked. She was frightened, and like many who feel themselves defenseless, she froze. Monk was surprised to find he understood her with more patience than he had expected of himself. Even as he stood in the bleak hospital corridor and saw her pinched face with its pale skin and bright spots of color on the cheekbones, he realized her vulnerability and her confusion.
Berenice Ross Gilbert was entirely different. She received him in the room where the Board of Governors normally met, a wide gracious chamber with a long mahogany table set around with chairs, sporting prints on the walls and brocade curtains at the windows. She was dressed in deepest teal green trimmed with turquoise. It was expensive, and remarkably flattering to her auburn coloring. Its huge skirts swept around her, but she moved them elegantly without effort.
She regarded Monk with amusement, looking over his features, his strong nose, high cheekbones, and level unflinching eyes. He saw the spark of interest light in her face and the smile curve her lips. It was a look he had seen many times before, and he understood its meaning with satisfaction.
“Poor Sir Herbert.” She raised her arched brows. “A perfectly fearful thing. I wish I knew what to say to help, but what can I do?” She shrugged graceful shoulders. “I have no idea what the man’s personal weaknesses may have been. I always found him courteous, highly professional, and correct at all times. But then”—she smiled at Monk, meeting his eyes—“if he were seeking an illicit romance, he would not have chosen me with whom to have it.” The smile widened. He knew she was telling both the truth and a lie. She expected him to decipher its double meanings. She was no trivial pastime to be picked up and put down; but on the other hand, she was a sophisticated and elegant woman, almost beautiful in her own way, perhaps better than beautiful—full of character. She had thought Prudence prim, naive, and immeasurably inferior to herself in all aspects of charm and allure.
Monk had no specific memories, and yet he knew he had stood in this position many times before, facing a wealthy, well-read woman who had found him exciting and was happy to forget his office and his purpose.
He smiled back at her very slightly, enough to be civil, not enough to betray any interest himself.
“I am sure it was part of your duties as a governor of the hospital, Lady Ross Gilbert, to be aware of the morals and failings of members of the staff. And I imagine you are an acute judge of human nature, particularly in that area.” He saw her eyes glisten with amusement. “What is Sir Herbert’s reputation? Please be honest—euphemisms will serve neither his interest nor the hospital’s.”
“I seldom deal in euphemisms, Mr. Monk,” she said, still with the curl of a smile on her lips. She stood very elegantly, leaning a little against one of the chairs. “I wish I could tell you something more interesting, but I have never heard a word of scandal about Sir Herbert.” She pulled a sad, mocking little face. “Rather to the contrary, he appears to be a brilliant surgeon but personally a boringly correct man, rather pompous, self-opinionated, socially, politically, and religiously orthodox.”
She was watching Monk all the time. “I doubt if he ever had an original idea except in medicine, in which he is both innovative and courageous. It seems as if that has drained all his creative energies and attentions, and what is left is tedious to a degree.” The laughter in her eyes was sharp and the interest in them more and more open, betraying that she did not believe for an instant that he fell into that category.
“Do you know him personally, Lady Ross Gilbert?” he asked, watching her face.
Again she shrugged, one shoulder a fraction higher than the other. “Only as business required, which is very little. I have met Lady Stanhope socially, but not often.” Her voice altered subtly, a very delicately implied contempt. “She is a very retiring person. She prefers to spend her time at home with her children—seven, I believe. But she always seemed most agreeable—not fashionable, you understand, but quite comely, very feminine, not in the least a strident or awkward creature.” Her heavy eyelids lowered almost imperceptibly. “I daresay she is in every way an excellent wife. I have no reason to doubt it.”
“And what of Nurse Barrymore?” he asked, again watching her face, but he saw no flicker in her expression, nothing to betray any emotion or knowledge that troubled her.
“I knew of her only the little I observed myself or what was reported to me by others. I have to confess, I never heard anything to her discredit.” Her eyes searched his face. “I think, frankly, that she was just as tedious as he is. They were well matched.”
“An interesting use of words, ma’am.”
She laughed quite openly. “Unintentional, Mr. Monk. I had no deeper meaning in my mind.”
