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A wave of horror spread through the court like a wind through dry trees.
Patterson called for order and was ignored until he shouted above the roar. ‘I will have order! Or I will clear the court!’
Slowly the noise subsided and people standing took their seats again.
Lyons was still on his feet. ‘My lord, Mr Juster’s suggestion is monstrous! There is no evidence whatever to say when those bones were buried or whose they were, as he well knows. For God’s sake, they could have been plague victims from the Middle Ages!’
‘Rubbish!’ Juster said fiercely. ‘They cannot be dated, not exactly, but we know perfectly well they were centuries more recent than that.’ He turned to face Patterson’s glare. ‘My lord, all I want to imply was that Miss Radnor was party to the imprisonment of the children whose blood was used. She may have had knowledge of further involvement of Mr Rand’s keeping other . . . blood suppliers . . . against their will. Does this court really think he developed such extraordinary skill in the art of taking blood from one person and giving it to another at his first attempt? It is a marvellous thing he has done. Superb! It is a triumph of skill, science, art and persistence. It is not some lucky guess that nobody has tried to achieve before him.’
Patterson’s face was still grim.
‘Your point is taken, Mr Juster, but you are very close to being in contempt of this court, or even of earning a dismissal of the case and a retrial, in which you will not appear. Perhaps Mr Lyons will be able to question Mrs Monk and give her room either to substantiate your accusations or dismiss them. If that is not so, then I will consider whether to continue with this trial. Do you understand me, sir?’
Juster bowed. Perhaps it looked humble, to the body of the court, but Rathbone saw the satisfaction on his face. He had established a perfect motive in the eyes of everyone, most especially the jury. Imagination would do the rest.
Juster very wisely yielded to Lyons.
Rathbone was so tense he could feel his nails digging into his palms again as Juster sat down near him. He wanted to tell Juster exactly how dangerously he was behaving, that he had overplayed his hand and jeopardised the whole case. Patterson could declare a mistrial for the way Juster had introduced the subject of the bones from the orchard, which had no proven connection with Rand, or anyone else still alive. Ordering the jury to ignore it was pointless. How could anyone ignore such a thing? It would haunt the imagination of every person in the court, or who read of it from the newspapers afterwards.
Juster did not look at him, as if he felt Rathbone’s fury. It was exactly the sort of chance that Rathbone had taken, and earned himself disbarment. Juster had been the one who had defended him. That was a debt of which he had never once reminded Rathbone, but Rathbone himself could not forget. No man of any honour whatever, would.
Lyons faced Hester and she looked back at him, stiff and pale. Was she afraid of Lyons, of making a slip that could not be retrieved, or simply haunted by the memory of what had happened at the cottage? Please heaven, Juster would make certain the jury believed it was the last of these, even if he had to do so in his final questioning of her.
‘Mrs Monk,’ Lyons began, his voice respectful, even gentle. ‘Are those three children still alive, as far as you know? You do know, don’t you? You have not forgotten them in the events that have happened since then?’
‘They are recovering well,’ she replied. ‘At least as far as physical health is concerned. They still have nightmares. So do I.’
Lyons was annoyed, but he did his best to conceal it.
Juster did not. He was openly pleased.
Rathbone held his breath.
‘Mrs Monk, please restrict yourself to answering my questions, without adding your own . . . diagnoses,’ Lyons said tartly. He might have meant it to sound critical to the jurors. They did not see it that way. Rathbone saw one of the jurors frown. Lyons’ manner with Hester displeased him.
Perhaps Lyons saw it. He hurried on.
‘Will you describe for the court your relationship with Miss Radnor, during your acquaintance with her, before your stay in the cottage, during it, and since, if there was one.’
Hester looked a little puzzled. ‘She was the daughter of the patient,’ she began. ‘Our only concern was to save his life, and to assure her that all the treatment was to that end. She helped a great deal with the general care, cooking, laundry and so forth. She helped nurse him, as she had done at home, seeing to his more personal needs.’
‘I meant the relationship between her and you,’ Lyons corrected her.
‘She was devoted to her father. We spoke of nothing else but his needs, his treatment, what we could do to make him comfortable. Once or twice she asked me if I believed he would recover. I always referred her to Mr Rand.’
‘And in the cottage? If you were there as reluctantly as you say you were – in effect a prisoner – did you not ask her to assist you in escaping?’ he said incredulously.
‘I thought about it—’ Hester answered.
‘Yes or no, Mrs Monk?’ he cut across her words. ‘You did, or you didn’t?’
Hester looked at him wearily. ‘It is impossible to answer so simply, Mr Lyons. Her only care was her father’s survival. That was always quite plain—’
‘So you did not!’ His face lit with triumph for a moment. ‘You do not know, beyond doubt, that she would not have helped you, were you to ask. May I suggest, Mrs Monk, that your medical knowledge and interest, your understanding of the dramatically beneficial effect of Mr Rand’s work, was sufficient for you to wish to be part of it? You did not want to escape. You wanted to see it through. You wanted to be part of its success. You are a military nurse, you have seen dozens, perhaps hundreds of deaths in the battlefield, and you knew what this meant – didn’t you?’
It was a question to which there was only one possible answer. No one would believe her were she to deny it.
Sh
