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THREE
athbone's cross-examination of Hester began as soon as ‘court resumed the next morning. She took her place again in the witness stand. She was wearing a plain, blue-gray dress, not unlike the sort of uniform a nurse would wear, but more flatteringly cut, and she knew it made the most of her fair coloring and steady wide gray eyes. She wanted to appear both competent and feminine, and of course respectable. Tremayne had mentioned this to her, quite unnecessarily. She understood what a jury wanted and what kind of person they would believe. During Monks many cases there had been times when she had testified, or seen others do so, and watched the faces of the jurors.
“May I add my admiration to that of the court, Mrs. Monk,” Rathbone began. “It is a brave and charitable work that you do.”
“Thank you.” She did not trust him, even though she knew he did admire her, intensely, even with a degree of envy for her passion. Too often thought had robbed him of action. She simply cared enough to take the risk anyway. Now he stood elegantly in the middle of the floor, and complimented her.
“How much of your time do you put to your work in Portpool Lane, Mrs. Monk?” he went on.
Tremayne moved in his seat uneasily. Hester knew it was because he was waiting for Rathbone to attack, and he did not know from which direction it would come.
“It varies,” Hester replied, meeting Rathbone's eyes. “At times of crisis we work all the time, taking turns to sleep. At other times when there is relatively little to do, I may not go in every day, perhaps only two or three times a week.”
“A crisis?” Rathbone turned the word over as if tasting it. “What would constitute a crisis, Mrs. Monk?”
The question sounded innocent, and yet Hester sensed a trap in it, if not now, then later, after he had led her carefully with other questions. The ease with which he asked it was like a warning. Why was he defending Jericho Phillips? What had happened to him while she had not been paying attention?
He was waiting for her answer. It felt as if everyone in the court was looking at her, waiting with him.
“Several people seriously injured at once, perhaps in a fight,” she answered levelly “Or worse than that, in the winter, seven or eight people with pneumonia, or bronchitis, or perhaps consumption. And then a bad wound, or gangrene on top of it.”
He looked impressed. “And how do you cope with all of that?”
Tremayne stared forward, as if he would object, but no one was listening or watching him.
“We don't always succeed,” Hester replied. “But we help. Most of the time it isn't nearly as bad as that.”
“Don't you get the same people in again and again?” Rathbone asked.
“Yes, of course. Any doctor does.” She smiled very slightly. “What has that to do with it? You try to help whom you can, one person, one day at a time.”
“Or day, and night, and day,” he amended.
“If necessary.” She was anxious now as well. He was making a heroine out of her, as if he had temporarily forgotten that she was there to give the evidence that would damn Jericho Phillips.
“You have a marvelous dedication to the poor and the wretched, Mrs. Monk.” Rathbone said it with respect, even admiration, but she was waiting for the question beyond, the one that hid an attack.
“Thank you. I don't think of it that way, but simply as an attempt to do what you can,” she answered.
“You say that quite casually, Mrs. Monk.” Rathbone moved back and then turned and walked the other way. The gesture had a grace that drew the eyes. He looked up at her again. “But surely you are speaking of a passion, a self-sacrifice that is far beyond that which most people experience?”
“I don't see it as such,” she answered, not merely in modesty, but because it was true. She loved her work. She would be hypocritical were she to allow it to be painted as a nobility, at cost to herself.
Rathbone smiled. “I expected that you would say that, Mrs. Monk. There are some women, like your mentor, Miss Nightingale, whose life is to give their time and emotion to bettering the lot of others.”
There was a murmur of approval around the room.
Tremayne rose to his feet, his expression confused and unhappy. Something was happening that he did not understand, but he knew it was dangerous. “My lord, I am aware that Sir Oliver is long and well acquainted with Mrs. Monk, and that Lady Rathbone also gives her time freely to the Portpool Lane Clinic. Admirable as this is, there is no question in Sir Oliver's observations, and they seem irrelevant to the case against Jericho Phillips.”
Sullivan raised his eyebrows. “Sir Oliver, in the unlikelihood that Mrs. Monk is unaware of your regard for her, would it not be better to make such remarks privately?”
Rathbone colored, perhaps at the implication, but he was not disconcerted with his tactic. “The relevance will become clear, my lord,” he replied, with an edge to his voice. “If you will permit me?” But without waiting he turned again to Hester.
Reluctantly Tremayne resumed his seat.
“Were you acquainted with the late Commander Durban, Mrs. Monk?” Rathbone asked mildly.
He knew the circumstances of the Louvain case; he had played a major part in it. Of course he already knew that she did not know Durban, except through Monk.
