Anne Perry - A Sudden, Fearful Death

"Was it a legitimate question to raise?" he asked.

"Yes, of course it was. She was normally a highly intelligent woman, but there was nothing whatever to make anyone, even a fool, think that Sir Herbert would leave his wife and seven children and ruin himself professionally, socially, and financially for her. It's preposterous."

"And what makes you think she believed he would?"

"The letters, damn it! And they are in her hand, there is no question about that. The sister identified them."

"Then perhaps you do have a tormented woman with two quite distinct sides to her nature-one rational, brave, and efficient, the other quite devoid of judgment and even of self-preservation?" Henry suggested.

"I suppose so."

"Then why do you blame yourself? What is it you have done that is so wrong?"

"Shattered dreams-robbed Barrymore of his most precious belief-and perhaps a lot of others as well, certainly Monk."

"Questioned it," Henry corrected. "Not robbed them- not yet."

"Yes I have. I've made them doubt. It is tarnished. It won't ever be the same again."

"What do you believe?"

Oliver thought for a long time. The starlings were quiet at last. In the gathering dusk the perfume of the honeysuckle was even stronger.

"I believe there is something damned important that I don't know yet," he answered finally. "Not only don't I know it, I don't even know where to look."

"Then go with your beliefs," Henry advised, his voice comfortable and familiar in the near darkness. "If you don't have knowledge, it is all you can do."

The second day was occupied with Lovat-Smith's calling a tedious procession of hospital staff who all testified to Prudence's professional ability, and he was meticulous at no point to slight her. Once or twice he looked across at Rathbone and smiled, his gray eyes brilliant. He knew the precise values of all the emotions involved. It was pointless hoping he would make an error. One by one he elicited from them observations of Prudence's admiration for Sir Herbert, the inordinate number of times he chose her alone to work with him, their obvious ease with each other, and finally her apparent devotion to him.

Rathbone did what he could to mitigate the effect, pointing out that Prudence's feelings for Sir Herbert did not prove his feelings for her, and that he was not even aware that on her part it was more than professional, let alone that he had actively encouraged her. But he had an increasingly unpleasant certainty that he had lost their sympathy. Sir Herbert was not an easy man to defend; he did not naturally attract their liking. He appeared too calm, too much a man in command of his own destiny. He was accustomed to dealing with those who were desperately dependent upon him for the relief of bodily pain, even the continuance of their physical existence.

Rathbone wondered if he were frightened behind that masklike composure, if he understood how close he was to the hangman's noose and his own final pain. Was his mind racing, his imagination bringing out his body in cold sweat? Or did he simply believe such a thing could not happen?

Was it innocence which armored him against the reality of his danger?

What had really happened between himself and Prudence?

Rathbone went as far as he dared in trying to paint her as a woman with fantasies, romantic delusions, but he saw the faces of the jurors and felt the wave of dislike when he disparaged her, and knew he dared do little more than suggest, and leave the thought in their minds to germinate as the trial progressed. Henry's words kept coming back to him. Go with your beliefs.

But he should not have quarreled with Monk. That had been self-indulgent. He needed him desperately. The only way to save Sir Herbert from the gallows, never mind his reputation, was to find whoever did kill Prudence Barrymore. Even the escape of reasonable doubt was beginning to recede. Once he even heard a sharp note of panic in his own voice as he rose to cross-examine, and it brought him out in a sweat over his body. Lovat-Smith would not have missed it. He would know he was winning, as a dog on the chase scents the kill.

The third day was better. Lovat-Smith made his first tactical error. He called Mrs. Barrymore to the stand to testify to Prudence's spotless moral character. Presumably he had intended her to heighten the emotional pitch of sympathy for Prudence. Mrs. Barrymore was the bereaved mother, it was a natural thing to do, and in his position Rathbone would most certainly have done the same. He admitted as much to himself.

Nevertheless it proved a mistake.

Lovat-Smith approached her with deference and sympathy, but still all the cocky assurance in his stance that Rathbone had seen the previous day. He was winning, and he knew it. It was the sweeter for being against Oliver Rathbone.

"Mrs. Barrymore," he began with a slight inclination of his head, "I regret having to ask you to do this, painful as it must be for you, but I am sure you are as keen as the test of us that justice should be done, for all our sakes."

She looked tired, her fair skin puffy around the eyes, but she was perfectly composed, dressed in total black, which became her fair coloring and delicate features.

"Of course," she agreed. "I shall do my best to answer you honestly."

"I am sure you will," Lovat-Smith said. Then, sensing the judge's impatience, he began. "Naturally you have known Prudence all her life, probably no one else knew her as well as you did. Was she a romantic, dreaming sort of girl, often falling in love?"

"Not at all," she said with wide-open eyes. "In fact, the very opposite. Her sister, Faith, would read novels and imagine herself the heroine. She would daydream of handsome young men, as most girls do. But Prudence was quite different. She seemed only concerned with study and learning more all the time. Not really healthy for a young girl." She looked puzzled, as if the anomaly still confused her.

"But surely she must have had girlhood romances?" Lovat-Smith pressed. "Hero worship, if you will, of young men from time to time?" But the knowledge of her answer was plain in his face, and in the assurance of his tone.

"No," Mrs. Barrymore insisted. "She never did. Even the new young curate, who was so very charming and attracted all the young ladies in the congregation, seemed to awaken no interest in Prudence at all." She shook her head a little, setting the black ribbons on her bonnet waving.

The jury members were listening to her intently, uncertain how much they believed her or what they felt, and the mixture of concentration and doubt was plain in their expressions.

Rathbone glanced quickly up at Sir Herbert. Oddly enough, he seemed uninterested, as if Prudence's early life were of no concern to him. Did he not understand the importance of its emotional value to the jury's grasp of her character? Did he not realize how much hinged upon what manner of woman she was-a disillusioned dreamer, an idealist, a noble and passionate woman wronged, a blackmailer?

"Was she an unemotional person?" Lovat-Smith asked, investing the question with an artificial surprise.

"Oh no, she felt things intensely," Mrs. Barrymore assured him. "Most intensely-so much so I feared she would make herself ill." She blinked several times and mastered herself only with great difficulty. "That seems so foolish now, doesn't it? It seems as if it has brought about her very death! I'm sorry, I find it most difficult to control my feelings." She shot a look of utter hatred at Sir Herbert across in the dock, and for the first time he looked distressed. He rose to his feet and leaned forward, but before he could do anything further one of the two jailers in the dock with him gripped his arms and pulled him back.

There was a gasp, a sigh around the court. One of the jurors said something which was inaudible. Judge Hardie opened his mouth, and then changed his mind and remained silent. Rathbone considered objecting and decided not to. It would only alienate the jury still further.