Anne Perry - The Sins of the Wolf

There was a titter around the room, hastily suppressed. One man in the gallery guffawed, and someone squeaked with alarm.

The judge was scarlet-faced, but events had overtaken him. He searched for words, and found none.

“Of course not, sir,” Moncrieff said quickly. “I know nothing about it, beyond what is open to every layman.”

“Did you work with Miss Latterly, sir?”

“Frequently.”

“What was your opinion of her professional ability?”

Gilfeather rose to his feet. “We are not doubting her professional ability, my lord. The prosecution is not charging she made any error in judgment as to procedure. We are quite sure all her acts were precisely what she intended them to be, and with full understanding of the consequences… at least medically speaking.”

There was another nervous giggle somewhere, instantly stifled.

“Proceed to what is relevant, Mr. Argyll,” the judge directed. “The court is waiting to hear Dr. Moncrieff’s testimony as to the character of the prisoner. Relevant or not, it is her right to have it heard.”

“My lord, I believe that competence to perform one’s duties, and to place the care of others before one’s own safety, while in great personal danger, is a profound part of a person’s character,” Argyll said with a smile.

There was a long, tense silence. No one in the gallery moved.

In spite of himself Rathbone’s eyes flickered up to Hester. She was staring at Argyll, her face white, the shadow of hope struggling in her eyes.

He felt an overwhelming sense of despair, so total for a moment he could hardly catch his breath. It was as if someone had knocked the air out of his lungs.

Perhaps it was as well Argyll was conducting the case. He cared too much to be in command of himself.

The jury was waiting, all fifteen faces turned towards the judge. This time their emotion was with Argyll, and it was plain to see.

The judge was tight-lipped with anger, but he knew the law.

“Proceed,” he said curtly.

“Thank you, my lord.” Argyll inclined his head and turned back to Moncrieff. “Dr. Moncrieff, I ask you again, what is your opinion of Miss Latterly’s professional ability, in all circumstances with which you are acquainted and competent to form a judgment?”

“Excellent, sir,” Moncrieff answered without hesitation. “She showed remarkable courage on the battlefield when there were enemy skirmishers about, working with the wounded when her own life was in danger. She worked very long hours indeed, often all day and half the night, ignoring her own exhaustion or hunger and cold.” A shadow of amusement crossed Moncrieff’s handsome face. “And she had exceptional initiative. I have on occasions thought it is unfortunate it is impossible to train women to practice medicine. More man one nurse, in cases when there was no surgeon, has performed successful operations to remove musket balls or pieces of shell, and even amputated limbs badly shattered on the field. Miss Latterly was one such.”

Argyll’s face registered the appropriate surprise.

“Are you saying, sir, that she was a surgeon… in the Crimea?”

“In extremis, yes sir. Surgery requires a steady hand, a good eye, a knowledge of anatomy, and a cool nerve. All of these qualities may be possessed by a woman as much as by a man.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” someone shouted from the gallery.

“Good God, sir!” one of the jurors exploded, then blushed scarlet.

“That is an extraordinary opinion, sir,” Argyll said very distinctly.

“War is an extraordinary occupation, thank God,” Moncrieff replied. “Were it commonplace, I fear the human race would very soon wipe itself out. But appalling as it is, it does on occasion show us qualities we would not otherwise know we possessed. Both men and women rise to heights of gallantry, and of skill, that the calm, more ordered days of peace would never inspire.

“You called me to testify as to what I know of Miss Latterly’s character, sir. I can in honesty say no other than I found her brave, honest, dedicated to her calling, and compassionate without sentimentality.

“On the negative side, so you will not believe me biased, she was opinionated, at times hasty to judge others whom she believed to be incompetent…” He smiled ruefully. “In which I regret she had much cause. And at times her sense of humor was less than discreet. She could be dictatorial and arbitrary, and when she was tired, short-tempered.

“But no one I ever knew saw a single act of personal greed or vindictiveness in her, whatever the circumstances. Nor had she personal vanity. Good heavens, man, look at her!” He waved one arm towards the dock, leaning over the railing of the witness-box. Every head in the courtroom turned at his word. “Does she look to you like a woman who would commit murder to gain a piece of personal adornment?”

Even Rathbone turned, staring at Hester, gaunt, ashen-faced, her hair screwed back, dressed in blue-gray as plain as a uniform.

Argyll smiled. “No sir, she does not. I confess, it seems you are right; a little personal vanity might be more becoming. It is a falling short, I think.”

There was a ripple around the room. In the gallery one woman put her hand on her husband’s arm. Henry Rathbone smiled wanly. Monk gritted his teeth.

“Thank you, Dr. Moncrieff,” Argyll said quickly. “That is all I mean to ask you.”

Gilfeather rose slowly, almost ponderously, to his feet.

Moncrieff faced him steadily. He was not naive enough to think the next few minutes would be easy. He was aware that he had altered, if not the tide of the battle, at least the pitch and the heat of it. In Argyll he had been facing a friend; Gilfeather was the enemy.

“Dr. Moncrieff,” he began softly. “I expect few of us here can imagine the horror and privation you and other workers in the medical field must have faced during the war. It must have been truly terrible. You spoke of hunger, cold, exhaustion and fear. Is that true, no dark exaggeration?”

“None,” Moncrieff said guardedly. “You are correct, sir. It is an experience that cannot be adequately imagined.”

“It must place the most extraordinary strain upon those called upon to endure it?”

“Yes sir.”

“I accept that you could not share it with me, for example, other than in the most superficial and unsatisfactory way.”

“Is that a question, sir?”

“No, unless you disagree with me?”

“No, I agree. One can communicate only those experiences for which there is some common language or understanding. One cannot describe sunset to a man who has not sight.”

“Precisely. That must leave you with a certain loneliness. Dr. Moncrieff.”

Moncrieff said nothing.

“And a closeness to those with whom you have shared such fearful and profound times.”

Moncrieff could not deny it, even though to judge from his face he could perceive where Gilfeather was leading him.

The jurors leaned forward, listening intently.

“Of course,” he conceded.

“And very naturally a certain impatience with the bland-ness and uncomprehension, perhaps even uselessness, of certain of the women who have no idea whatever of anything more dangerous or demanding than household management?”

“These are your words, sir, not mine.”

“But accurate, sir? Come, you are on oath. Do you not ache to share the past you speak of with such passion now?”

Moncrieff’s expression did not flicker.

“I have no need to, sir. It is beyond sharing by me, or anyone else, except in words that are spoken by the shabby and believed by the ignorant.” He leaned forward, his hands gripping the rail. “But neither do I insult the women who remained at home caring for homes and children. We all have our own challenges, and our virtues. It is too easy to compare, and I think a profitless exercise. As women who manage the domestic economy do not understand the women who went to the Crimea, so, perhaps, those who went away do not know, or pretend to know, the hardships of those who stayed at home.”