A sudden, fearful death (37 page)

Reasonable doubt would be
sufficient to gain an acquittal in law and avoid the hangman's noose. But to
save Sir Herbert's reputation and honor there must be no doubt at all. That
meant he must provide another suspect for the public to blame. They were the
ultimate jury.

But first he must seek an acquittal
before the court. He read the letters again. They required an explanation, a
different interpretation that was both innocent and believable. For that he
would have to see Sir Herbert himself.

It was another hot day, sultry with
an overcast sky. He disliked visiting the prison at any time, but in the close,
oppressive heat it was more unpleasant than usual. The odors were of clogged
drains, closed rooms containing exhausted bodies, fear ebbing slowly to
despair. He could smell the stone as the doors closed behind him with a hard,
heavy clang and the warder led him to the room where he would be permitted to
interview Sir Herbert Stanhope.

It was bare gray stone with only a
simple wooden table in the center and a chair on either side. One high window,
barred and with an iron grille, let in the light high above the eye level of
even the tallest man. The warder looked at Rathbone.

"Call when you want out,
sir." And without adding anything further he turned and left Rathbone
alone with Sir Herbert. In spite of the fact that they were both prominent men,
they had not met before, and they regarded each other with interest. For Sir
Herbert it might well prove to be a matter of his life or death. Oliver
Rathbone's skill was the only shield between him and the noose. Sir Herbert's
eyes narrowed and he concentrated intensely, weighing the_face he saw with its
broad forehead, curious very dark eyes for a man otherwise fair, long sensitive
nose and beautiful mouth.

Rathbone also regarded Sir Herbert
carefully. He was bound to defend this man, a famous public figure, at least in
the medical world. The center of the case upon which would rest a good many
reputations—his own included, if he did not conduct himself well. It was a
terrible responsibility to have a man's life in one's hands—not as it was for
Sir Herbert, where it lay on the dexterity of the fingers, but simply upon
one's judgment of other human beings, the knowledge of the law, and the
quickness of your wits and your tongue.

Was he innocent? Or guilty?

"Good afternoon, Mr.
Rathbone," Sir Herbert said at last, inclining his head but not offering
his hand. He was dressed in his own clothes. He had not yet stood trial, and
therefore was legally innocent. He must still be treated with respect, even by
jailers.

"How do you do, Sir
Herbert," Rathbone replied, walking to the farther chair. "Please
sit down. Time is precious, so I will not waste it with pleasantries we may
both take for granted."

Sir Herbert smiled bleakly and
obeyed. "This is hardly a social occasion," he agreed. "I assume
you have acquainted yourself with the facts of the case as the prosecution is
presenting it?"

"Naturally." He sat on
the hard chair, leaning a little across the table. "They have a good case,
but not impeccable. It will not be difficult to raise a reasonable doubt. But
I wish to do more than that or your reputation will not be preserved."

"Of course." A look of
dry, harsh amusement crossed Sir Herbert's broad face. Rathbone was impressed
that he was disposed to fight rather than to sink into self-pity, as a lesser
man might have. He was certainly not handsome, nor was he a man to whom charm
came easily, but he quite obviously had a high intelligence and the willpower
and strength of nerve which had taken him to the forefront of a most demanding
profession. He was used to having other men's lives in his hands, to making
instant decisions which weighed life and death, and he flinched from neither.
Rathbone was obliged to respect him, an emotion he did not always feel toward
his clients.

"Your solicitor has already
informed me that you have absolutely denied killing Prudence Barrymore,"
he continued. "May I assume that you would give me the same assurance?
Remember, I am bound to offer you the best defense I can, regardless of the
circumstances, but to lie to me would be most foolish because it will impair my
ability. I need to be in possession of all the facts or I cannot defend you
against the prosecutor's interpretation of them." He watched closely as
Sir Herbert looked at him steadily, but he saw no flicker in his face, no
nervous movement, and he heard no wavering in his voice.

“I did not kill Nurse
Barrymore," he answered. "Nor do I know who did, although I may guess
why, but I have no knowledge. Ask me whatever you wish."

"I shall pursue those points
myself." Rathbone leaned a little back in his chair, not comfortably,
since it was wooden and straight. He regarded Sir Herbert steadily. "Means
and opportunity are immaterial. A large number of people possessed both. I
assume you have thought hard to see if there is anyone who could account for
your time that morning and there is no one? No, I assumed not, or you would
have told the police and we should not now be here."

The ghost of a smile lit Sir
Herbert's eyes, but he made no comment.

'That leaves motive," Rathbone
went on. "The letters Miss Barrymore wrote to her sister, and which are
now in the hands of the prosecution, suggest most forcibly that you had a
romantic liaison with her, and that when she realized that it could come to
nothing she became troublesome to you, threatened you in some way, and to avoid
a scandal you killed her. I accept that you did not kill her. But were you
having an affair with her?"

Sir Herbert's thin lips tightened
in a grimace.

"Most certainly not. The idea
would be amusing, it is so far from the truth, were it not mortally dangerous.
No, Mr. Rathbone. I had never even thought of Miss Barrymore in that
light." He looked shiftily surprised. "Nor any woman other than my
wife. Which may sound unlikely, most men's morals being as they are." He
shrugged, a deprecating and amused gesture. "But I have put all my energy
into my professional life, and all my passion."

His eyes were very intent upon
Rathbone's face. He had a gift of concentration, as if the person to whom he
was speaking at that moment were of the utmost importance to him, and his
attention was absolute. Rathbone was acutely conscious of the power of his
personality. But for all tbat, he believed the passion in him was of the mind,
not of the body. It was not a self-indulgent race. He could see no weakness in
it, no ungoverned appetite. "I have a devoted wife, Mr. Rathbone,"
Sir Herbert continued. "And seven children. My home life is amply sufficient.
The human body holds much fascination for me, its anatomy and physiology, its
diseases and their healing. I do not lust after nurses." The amusement was
there again, briefly. "And quite frankly, if you had known Nurse Barrymore
you would not have assumed I might. She was handsome enough, but unyielding,
ambitious, and very unwomanly."

Rathbone pursed his lips a trifle.
He must press the issue, whatever his own inner convictions. "In what way
unwomanly, Sir Herbert? I have been led to suppose she had admirers; indeed,
one who was so devoted to her he pursued her for years, in spite of her
continued rejection of him."

Sir Herbert's light, thin eyebrows
rose. "Indeed? You surprise me. But to answer your question: she was
perverse, displeasingly outspoken and opinionated on certain subjects, and
uninterested in home or family. She took little trouble to make herself
appealing." He leaned forward. "Please understand me, none of this is
criticism." He shook his head. "I have no desire to have hospital nurses
flirting with me, or with anyone else. They are there to care for the sick, to
obey orders, and to keep a reasonable standard of morality and sobriety.
Prudence Barrymore did far better than mat. She was abstemious in her
appetites, totally sober, punctual, diligent in her work, and at times gifted.
I think I can say she was the best nurse I had ever known, and I have known
hundreds."

"A thoroughly decent, if
somewhat forbidding, young woman," Rathbone summed up.

"Quite," Sir Herbert
agreed, sitting back in his chair again. "Not the sort with whom one
flirts, given one were so inclined, and I am not." He smiled ruefully.
"But believe me, Mr. Rathbone, if I were, I should not choose such a
public place in which to do so, still less would I indulge myself in my place
erf work, which to me is the most important in my life. I would never
jeopardize it for such a relatively trivial satisfaction."

Rathbone did not doubt him. He had
spent his professional life, and carved a brilliant reputation, by judging when
a man was lying and when he was not. There were a score of tiny signs to watch
for, and he had seen none of them.

"Then what is the explanation
of her letters?" he asked levelly and quite quietly. There was no change
in his tone; it was simply an inquiry to which he fully expected an acceptable
answer.

Sir Herbert's face took on an
expression of rueful apology.

"It is embarrassing, Mr.
Rathbone. I dislike having to say this—it is highly unbecoming a gentleman to
speak so." He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "I—I have
heard of occasions in the past when young women have become ... shall I say
enamored of... certain ... prominent men." He looked at Rathbone
curiously. "I daresay you have had the experience yourself? A young woman
you have helped, or whose family you have helped. Her natural admiration and
gratitude becomes ... romantic in nature? You may have been quite unaware of it
until suddenly some chance word or look brings to your mind the reality that
she is nurturing a fantasy with you at its heart."

Rathbone knew the experience only
too well. He could remember a very pleasant feeling of being admired suddenly
turning into an acutely embarrassing confrontation with a breathless and
ardently romantic young woman who had mistaken his vanity for shyness and a
concealed ardor. He blushed hot at the recollection even now.

Sir Herbert smiled.

"I see you have. Most
distressing. And one can find that, out of sheer blindness, one's mind occupied
with one's work, one has not discouraged it plainly enough when it was still
budding, and one's silence has been misunderstood." His eyes were still
on Rathbone's face. "I fear that is what happened with Nurse Barrymore. I
swear I had no idea whatsoever. She was not the type of woman with whom one associates
such emotions." He sighed. "God only knows what I may have said or
done that she has taken to mean something quite different. Women seem to be
able to interpret words—and silence—to mean all sorts of things that never
crossed one's mind."

"If you can think of anything
specific, it would help."

Sir Herbert's face wrinkled up in
an effort to oblige.

"Really it is very
difficult," he said reluctantly. "One does not weigh what one says in
the course of duty. Naturally I spoke to her countless times. She was an
excellent nurse. I told her a great deal more than I would a lesser
woman." He shook his head sharply. "Ours was a busy professional
relationship, Mr. Rathbone. I did not speak to her as one would a social acquaintance.
It never occurred to me to watch her face to assure myself she had perceived my
remarks in a correct light. I may often have had my back to her, or even
spoken to her as I was walking away or doing something else. My regard for her
was in no way personal."

Rathbone did not interrupt him, but
sat waiting, watching his face.

Sir Herbert shrugged. "Young
women are prone to fancies, especially when they reach a certain age and are
not married." A fleeting smile of regret and sympathy touched his mouth
and vanished. "It is not natural for a woman to devote herself to a career
in such a way, and no doubt it places a strain upon the natural emotions, most
particularly when that career is an unusual and demanding one like
nursing." His gaze was earnest on Rathbone's face. "Her experiences
in the war must have left her particularly vulnerable to emotional injury, and
daydreaming is not an abnormal way of coping with circumstances that might
otherwise be unendurable."

Rathbone knew that what he said was
perfectly true, and yet he found himself feeling that it was vaguely patronizing,
and without knowing why, he resented it. He could not imagine anyone less
likely to indulge in unreality or romantic daydreams than Hester Latterly, who
in many of the ways Sir Herbert referred to, was in exactly the same
circumstances as Prudence. Perhaps he would have found her easier if she had.
And yet he would have admired her less, and perhaps liked her less too. With an
effort he refrained from saying what sprang to his mind. He returned to his
original request.

"But you can think of no
particular occasion on which she may have misinterpreted a specific remark? It
would be most helpful if we could rebut it in more than general terms."

"I realize that, but I am
afraid I can think of nothing I have ever said or done to make any woman think
my interest was more than professional." Sir Herbert looked at him with
anxiety and, Rathbone judged, a totally innocent confusion.

Rathbone rose to his feet.

"That is sufficient for this
visit, Sir Herbert. Keep your spirits up. We have some time yet in which to
learn more of Miss Barrymore and her other possible enemies and rivals. But
please continue to cast your mind back over all the times you worked together
recently and see if anything comes to you which may be of use. When we get to
court, we must have more than a general denial." He smiled. "But try
not to worry overmuch. I have excellent people who can assist me, and we will
no doubt discover a great deal more before then."