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Rathbone opened his eyes very wide. There was total silence in the room except for Lovat-Smith letting out his breath very slowly.
“Well of course violence is all relative,” Rathbone said smoothly. “But I would have thought your attack upon Mr. Archibald Purbright, because he cheated you at a game of billiards—frustrating, of course, but hardly momentous—that was violent, was it not? If your friends had not restrained you, you would have done the man a near-fatal injury.”
Geoffrey was ashen, shock draining him.
Rathbone gave him no time.
“Did you not lose your temper similarly with Miss Barrymore when she behaved with such foolishness and refused you yet again? Was that really so much less infuriating to you than losing a game of billiards to a man everyone knew was cheating anyway?”
Geoffrey opened his mouth but no coherent sound came.
“No.” Rathbone smiled. “You do not have to answer that! I quite see that it is unfair to ask you. The jury will come to their own decisions. Thank you, Mr. Taunton. I have no further questions.”
Lovat-Smith rose, his eyes bright, his voice sharp and clear.
“You do not have to answer it again, Mr. Taunton,” he said bitterly. “But you may if you chose to. Did you murder Miss Barrymore?”
“No! No I did not!” Geoffrey found speech at last. “I was angry, but I did her no harm whatsoever! For God’s sake.” He glared across at the desk. “Stanhope killed her. Isn’t it obvious?”
Involuntarily everyone, even Hardie, looked at Sir Herbert. For the first time Sir Herbert looked profoundly uncomfortable, but he did not avert his eyes, nor did he blush. He looked back at Geoffrey Taunton with an expression which seemed more like frustration and embarrassment than guilt.
Rathbone felt a surge of admiration for him, and in that moment a renewed dedication to seeing him acquitted.
“To some of us.” Lovat-Smith smiled patiently. “But n
ot all—not yet. Thank you, Mr. Taunton. That is all. You may be excused.”
Geoffrey Taunton climbed down the steps slowly, as if he were still uncertain if he should, or could add something more. Then finally he realized the opportunity had slipped, if it was ever there, and he covered the few yards of the floor to the public benches in a dozen strides.
The first witness of the afternoon was Berenice Ross Gilbert. Her very appearance caused a stir even before she said anything at all. She was calm, supremely assured, and dressed magnificently. It was a somber occasion, but she did not choose black, which would have been in poor taste since she was mourning no one. Instead she wore a jacket of the deepest plum shot with charcoal gray, and a huge skirt of a shade similar but a fraction darker. It was wildly flattering to her coloring and her age, and gave her an air both distinguished and dramatic. Rathbone could hear the intake of breath as she appeared, and then the hush of expectancy as Lovat-Smith rose to begin his questions. Surely such a woman must have something of great import to say.
“Lady Ross Gilbert,” Lovat-Smith began. He did not know how to be deferential—something in his character mocked the very idea—but there was respect in his voice, whether for her or for the situation. “You are on the Board of Governors of the hospital. Do you spend a considerable time there?”
“I do.” Her voice was vibrant and very clear. “I am not there every day, but three or four in the week. There is a good deal to be done.”
“I am sure. Most admirable. Without the generous gift of service of people like yourself, such places would be in a parlous state,” Lovat-Smith acknowledged, although whether that was true was debatable. He spent no further effort on the thought. “Did you see Prudence Barrymore often?”
“Of course. The moral welfare and the standards and duties of nurses were a matter I was frequently asked to address. I saw poor Prudence on almost every occasion I was there.” She looked at him and smiled, waiting for the next obvious question.
“Were you aware that she worked very frequently with Sir Herbert Stanhope?”
“Of course.” There were the beginnings of regret in her voice. “To begin with I assumed it was merely coincidence, because she was an excellent nurse.”
“And later?” Lovat-Smith prompted.
She lifted one shoulder in an eloquent posture. “Later I was forced to realize that she was devoted to him.”
“Do you mean more than could be accounted by the duties that would fall to her because of her skill?” Lovat-Smith phrased the question carefully, avoiding any slip that would allow Rathbone to object.
“Indeed,” Berenice said with a modest share of reluctance. “It became obvious that her admiration for him was intense. He is a fine surgeon, as we all know, but Prudence’s devotion to him, the extra duties she performed of her own volition, made it unmistakable that her feelings were more than merely professional, no matter how dedicated and conscientious.”
“Did you see evidence that she was in love with Sir Herbert?” Lovat-Smith asked it with a gentle, unassuming voice, but his words carried to the very back of the room in the total silence.
“Her eyes lit at mention of him, her skin glowed, she gained an extra, inward energy.” Berenice smiled and pulled a slightly rueful face. “I can think of no other explanation when a woman behaves so.”
“Nor I,” Lovat-Smith admitted. “Given the moral welfare of nurses was your concern, Lady Ross Gilbert, did you address her on the subject?”
“No,” she said slowly, as if still giving the matter thought. “To be frank I never saw evidence that her morality was in jeopardy. To fall in love is part of the human condition.” She looked quizzically beyond Lovat-Smith to the public benches. “If it is misplaced, and hopeless of any satisfactory conclusion, it is sometimes safer for the morals than if it is returned.” She hesitated, affecting discomfort. “Of course at that time I had no idea the whole affair would end as it has.”
