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10
AS IT HAPPENED, Rathbone was too relieved to hear Monk’s news of Geoffrey Taunton for his irritation to be more than momentary. There was a flash of anger at the smoothly complacent look on Monk’s face, the tone of arrogant satisfaction in his voice, and then Rathbone’s brain concentrated on what he would do with the knowledge, how best to use it.
When he went to see Sir Herbert briefly before the day’s session began, he found him pensive, an underlying tension apparent in the nervous movement of his hands and the occasional gesture to adjust his collar or straighten his waistcoat. But he had sufficient control of himself not to ask how Rathbone thought the trial was progressing.
“I have a little news,” Rathbone said immediately the jailer left them alone.
Sir Herbert’s eyes widened and for a moment he held his breath. “Yes?” His voice was husky.
Rathbone felt guilty; what he thought was not enough for real hope. It would need all his skill to make it count.
“Monk has learned of a very unfortunate incident in Geoffrey Taunton’s recent past,” he said calmly. “A matter of catching an acquaintance cheating at billiards and becoming seriously violent. Apparently he attacked the man and had to be hauled off him before he injured him, perhaps mortally.” He was overstating the case a little, but Sir Herbert needed all the encouragement he could offer.
“He was in the hospital at the time she was killed,” Sir Herbert said with a quick lift in his voice, his eyes alight. “And Heaven knows, he had motive enough. She must have confronted him—the stupid woman.” He looked at Rathbone intently. “This is excellent! Why are you not better pleased? He is at least as good a suspect as I!”
“I am pleased,” Rathbone said quietly. “But Geoffrey Taunton is not in the dock—not yet. I have a great deal to do yet before I can put him there. I just wished you to know: there is every hope, so keep your courage high.”
Sir Herbert smiled. “Thank you—that is very honest of you. I appreciate you cannot say more. I have been in the same position with patients. I do understand.”
As it chanced, Lovat-Smith unwittingly played into Rathbone’s hands. His first witness of the day was Nanette Cuthbertson. Sh
e crossed the floor of the courtroom and mounted the steps to the witness stand gracefully, maneuvering her skirts up the narrow way with a single flick of her wrist. She turned at the top to face him, a calm smile on her face. She was dressed in dark brown, which was at once very sober and extremely flattering to her coloring and warm complexion. There was a murmur of appreciation around the crowd, and several people sat up a little straighter One of the jurors nodded to himself, and another straightened his collar.
Their interest had been less sharp this morning. The revelations they had expected were not forthcoming. They had looked for their emotions to be torn one way and then another as piece after piece of evidence was revealed, while Sir Herbert appeared one moment guilty, the next innocent, and two giant protagonists battled each other across the courtroom floor.
Instead it had been a rather tedious procession of ordinary people offering their opinions that Prudence Barrymore was an excellent nurse, but not a great heroine, and that she had suffered the very ordinary feelings of many young women in that she had imagined a man to be in love with her, when in fact he was merely being civil. It was sad, even pathetic, but not the stuff of high drama. No one had yet offered a satisfactory alternative murderer, and yet quite clearly she had been murdered.
Now at last here was an interesting witness, a dashing and yet demure young woman. They craned forward, eager to see why she had been called.
“Miss Cuthbertson,” Lovat-Smith began as soon as the necessary formalities had been completed. He knew the anticipation and the importance of keeping the emotion high. “You knew Prudence Barrymore from your childhood days together, did you not?”
“I did,” Nanette replied candidly, her chin lifted, her eyes downcast.
“You knew her well?”
“Very well.”
No one was bothering to look at Sir Herbert. They all stared at Nanette, waiting for the evidence for which she had been called.
Only Rathbone surreptitiously glanced sideways and up toward the dock. Sir Herbert was sitting well forward, peering at the witness stand in profound concentration. His face had a look on it almost of eagerness.
“Was she a romantic?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“No, not in the slightest.” Nanette smiled ruefully. “She seemed of an extremely practical turn of mind. She took no trouble to be charming or to attract gentlemen.” She covered her eyes, then looked up again. “I dislike speaking ill of one who is not here to answer for herself, but for the sake of preventing injustice, I must say what is true.”
“Of course. I am sure we all understand,” Lovat-Smith said a trifle sententiously. “Have you any knowledge of her ideas in the matter of love, Miss Cuthbertson? Young ladies sometimes confide in each other from time to time.”
She looked suitably modest at mention of such a subject.
“Yes. I am afraid she would not look at anyone else but Sir Herbert Stanhope. There were other, eminently suitable and quite dashing gentlemen who admired her, but she would have none of them. All the time she spoke only of Sir Herbert, his dedication, his skill, how he had helped her and shown her great care and attention.” A frown crossed her face, as if what she was about to say both surprised and angered her, but never once did she lift her eyes to look at the dock. “She said over and over that she believed he was going to make all her dreams come true. She seemed to light up with excitement and a sort of inner life when she spoke his name.”
Lovat-Smith stood in the very center of the floor, his gown less than immaculate. He had little of the grace of Rathbone, and yet he was so vibrant with suppressed energy that he commanded everyone’s attention. Even Sir Herbert was temporarily forgotten.
“And did you gather, Miss Cuthbertson,” he asked, “that she was in love with him and believed him to be in love with her, and that he would shortly make her his wife?”
“Of course,” Nanette agreed, her eyes wide. “What other possible meaning could there have been?”
“Indeed, none that I know of,” Lovat-Smith agreed. “Were you aware of the change in her beliefs, a time when she realized that Sir Herbert did not return her feelings after all?”
