Anne Perry - A Sudden, Fearful Death

"Yes," she conceded reluctantly. "Yes, I see."

He waited. At last the crowd on the public benches was caught. He could hear the rustle of taffeta and bombazine as they craned forward. They did not totally understand what was to come, but they knew drama when they smelled it, and they knew fear.

Nanette took a deep breath. "Yes-I would," she said in a strangled voice.

"Indeed." Rathbone nodded. "So I had been led to believe." He walked a pace or two, then turned to her again. "In fact, you are very fond of Mr. Taunton yourself, are you not? Sufficiently so to have marred your affection for Miss Barrymore when he persistently courted her in spite of her repeated refusal of his offers?"

There was a mutter of anger around the room. Several jurors shifted uncomfortably.

– Nanette was truly appalled. The tide of scarlet ran right to the dark line of her hair, and she clung to the rail of the witness box as if to support herself. The rustle of embarrassment increased, but in no one did it exceed curiosity. No one looked away.

"If you suggest that I lie, sir, you are mistaken," Nanette said at length.

Rathbone was politeness itself.

"Not at all, Miss Cuthbertson. I suggest that your perception of the truth, like that of most of us in the grip of extreme emotion, is likely to be colored by our own imperatives. That is not to lie, simply to be mistaken."

She glared at him, confused and wretched, but not able to think of a retaliation.

But Rathbone knew the tone of drama would pass and reason reassert itself. He had achieved little to help Sir Herbert yet.

"You cared for him enough not to be dissuaded by his violent temper, Miss Cuthbertson?" he resumed.

Now suddenly she was pale.

"Violent temper?" she repeated. "That is nonsense, sir. Mr. Taunton is the gentlest of men."

But the crowd watching her intently had seen the difference between disbelief and shock. They knew from the tightness of her body beneath its fashionable gown and huge skirts that she was perfectly aware what Rathbone alluded to. Her confusion was to hide it, not to understand it.

"If I were to ask Mr. Archibald Purbright, would he agree with me?" Rathbone said smoothly. "I doubt Mrs. Waldemar would think so."

Lovat-Smith shot to his feet, his voice husky with assumed bewilderment.

"My lord, who is Archibald Purbright? My learned friend has made no previous mention of such a person. If he has evidence he must testify to it here, where the Crown may question him and weigh its validity. We cannot accept-"

"Yes, Mr. Lovat-Smith," Hardie interrupted him. "I am quite aware that Mr. Purbright has not been called." He turned to Rathbone, eyebrows raised inquiringly. "Perhaps you had better explain yourself?"

"I do not intend to call Mr. Purbright, my lord, unless Miss Cuthbertson should make it necessary." It was a bluff. He had no idea where to find Archibald Purbright.

Hardie turned to Nanette.

She stood stiffly, white-faced.

"It was a solitary incident, and some time ago." She almost choked on her words. "The man had been cheating. I regret having to say so, but it is true." She shot a look of loathing at Rathbone. "And Mrs. Waldemar would bear me out on that!"

The moment's tension evaporated. Lovat-Smith smiled.

"And Mr. Taunton was no doubt quite understandably extremely frustrated and felt a burning sense of injustice," Rathbone agreed. "As would we all. To have done your best, to feel you deserve to win because you are the better player, and to be constantly cheated out of your victory would be enough to try the temper of most of us."

He hesitated, taking a step or two casually and turning. "And in this instance, Mr. Taunton lashed out with such extreme violence that he was only prevented from doing Mr. Purbright a serious, perhaps fatal, injury by the overpowering strength of two of his friends."

Suddenly the tension was back again. Gasps of shock were clearly audible amid rustles of movement, scrapings of shoes as people sat sharply upright. In the dock Sir Herbert's lips curled in the very smallest smile. Even Hardie stiffened.

Lovat-Smith hid his surprise with difficulty. It was there on his face only for an instant, but Rathbone saw it. Their eyes met, then Rathbone looked back at Nanette.

"Do you not think it is possible, Miss Cuthbertson- indeed, do you not in your heart fear-that Mr. Taunton may have felt just the same sense of frustration and injustice with Miss Barrymore for persistently refusing him when she had no other admirer at hand, and no justifiable reason, in his view, for her actions?" His voice was calm, even solicitous. "Might he not have lashed out at her, if perhaps she were foolish enough to have mocked him or in some way slighted him to make her rejection plain? There were no friends to restrain him in the hospital corridor at that early hour of the morning. She was tired after a long night nursing the sick, and she would not expect violence-"

"No!" Nanette exploded furiously, leaning over the railing toward him, her face flushed again. "No! Never! It is quite monstrous to say such a thing! Sir Herbert Stanhope killed her"-she shot a look of loathing across at the dock and the jurors followed her eyes-"because she threatened to expose his affair with her," she said loudly. "We all know it It wasn't Geoffrey. You are simply saying that because you are desperate to defend him." She directed another blazing glance at the dock, and even Sir Herbert seemed discomfited. "And you have nothing else," she accused him. "You are despicable, sir, to slander a good man for one miserable mistake."

"One miserable mistake is all it needs, ma'am," Rathbone said very levelly, his voice hushing the sudden murmur and movement in the room. "A strong man can strangle a woman to death in a very few moments." He held up his hands, fine, beautiful hands with long fingers. He made a quick, powerful wrenching movement with them, and heard a woman gasp and the rattle of taffeta as she collapsed somewhere behind him.

Nanette looked as if she too might faint.

Hardie banged sharply with his gavel, his face hard.

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet, and then subsided again.

Rathbone smiled. "Thank you, Miss Cuthbertson. I have nothing further to ask you."

Geoffrey Taunton was a different matter. Rathbone knew from Lovat-Smith's stance as he took the floor that he was in two minds as to whether he should have called Taunton at all. Should he leave bad alone rather than risk making it worse, or should he, try to retrieve it with a bold attack? He was a brave man. He chose the latter, as Rathbone had been sure he would. Of course Geoffrey Taunton had been outside, as prospective witnesses always were, in case a previous testimony should color theirs, so he had no idea what had been said of him. Nor had he noticed Nanette Cuthbertson, now seated in the public gallery, her face tense, her body rigid as she strained to catch every word, at once dreading it, and yet unable to warn him in any way.

"Mr. Taunton," Lovat-Smith began, a note of confidence ringing in his voice to belie what Rathbone knew he felt. "You were well acquainted with Miss Barrymore and had been for many years," he went on. "Had you any reason to know her feelings for Sir Herbert Stanhope? I would ask you not to speculate, but to tell us only what you observed for yourself, or what she told you."

"Of course," Geoffrey agreed, smiling very slightly and perfectly confident. He was serenely unaware of the reason people were staring at him with such intensity, or why all the jurors looked but avoided his eyes. "Yes, I was aware for some years of her interest in medicine, and I was not surprised when she chose to go to the Crimea to help our wounded men in the hospital at Scutari." He rested his hands on the railing in front of him. He looked quite casual and fresh.