Anne Perry - The Sins of the Wolf

“Very well, sir. Your courtesy does you credit,” Gilfeather said between his teeth, the smile vanished from his face. “But nevertheless a closeness must exist, a relief to share what must still cause you deep emotion?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me, sir, did Miss Latterly always appear as dowdy as she does here today? She is a young woman, and not of displeasing form or feature. This must have been an extraordinary ordeal for her. She has been confined first in Newgate Prison in London, and now here in Edinburgh. She is on trial for her life. We cannot judge fairly her charms from the way in which we see her now.”

“That is true,” Moncrieff agreed carefully.

“Did you like her, Doctor?”

“There is little time for friendship, Mr. Gilfeather. Your question admirably illustrates your assumption that those who were not there cannot comprehend what it was like. I admired her and found her excellent to work with, as I have already said.”

“Come, sir!” Gilfeather said grimly, his voice suddenly raised and harsh. “Do not be disingenuous with me! Do you expect us to believe that in two years you were so dedicated to your duty day and night that the natural man never emerged in you?” He spread his hands wide, his face smiling. “You never once, during lulls in battle, times when the summer sunshine shone in the fields, when there was time for picnics… oh yes, we are not totally ignorant of what happened out there! There were war correspondents, you know… even photographs! Do you expect us to believe, sir, that all that time you never saw Miss Latterly as a young and not unpleasing woman?”

Moncrieff smiled.

“No sir, I do not ask you to. I had not even thought of the matter, but since you raise it, she is not at all unlike my wife, who has many of the same qualities of courage and honesty.”

“But who was not a nurse in the Crimea, and thus able to share your emotions, sir!”

Moncrieff smiled.

“You are mistaken, sir. She was most certainly in the Crimea, and most able to understand as much of my feelings as another person could.”

Gilfeather was defeated, and he knew it.

“Thank you, Doctor. That is all I have to ask you. Unless my learned friend has anything to add, you may go.”

“No, thank you,” Argyll declined generously. “Thank you, Dr. Moncrieff.”

The court adjourned early for lunch, newspaper correspondents racing out to send messengers flying with the latest word, jostling each other, even knocking people over in their excitement. The judge had retired in considerable ill humor.

A hundred things were on the edge of Rathbone’s tongue to say to Argyll. In the end he said none of them; each seemed too obvious when it came to the point, unnecessary, merely betraying his own fears.

He had not thought himself hungry, and yet in the dining room of the inn he ate luncheon without even being aware of it. He looked down and found his plate empty.

At last he could contain himself no longer.

“Miss Nightingale this afternoon,” he said aloud.

Argyll looked up, his fork still in his hand.

“Aye,” he agreed. “A formidable woman from what I have seen of her-which is little enough, just a few brief words this morning. I confess, I am not sure how much to lead her and how much I should simply point her in the right direction and let her destroy Gilfeather, if he is rash enough to attack her.”

“You must have her say something he will have to attack,” Rathbone said urgently, laying down his knife and fork. “He is too experienced to say anything to her unless you force him to. He will not leave her on the stand a moment longer than she has to be, unless you have her say something he cannot leave uncontested.”

“Yes…” Argyll said thoughtfully, abandoning what little was left of his meal. “I think you are right But what? She is not a material witness to anything here in Edinburgh. She has presumably never heard of the Farralines. She knows nothing of what happened. All she can testify is that Hester Latterly was a skilled and diligent nurse. Her sole value to us is her own reputation-the esteem in which she is held. Gilfeather will certainly not challenge that.”

Rathbone thought wildly, his brain in a whirl. Florence Nightingale was not a woman to be manipulated into anything, not by Argyll, and not by Gilfeather. What possible thing was there she could say that was pertinent to the case and which Gilfeatfier would have to challenge? Hester’s courage was not in doubt, nor her capability as a nurse.

Then the beginning of an idea formed in his mind, just a shadow. Slowly, feeling for its shape, he explained it to Argyll, fumbling for words, then, as he saw Argyll’s eyes brighten, gathering confidence.

By the time the court commenced its afternoon session, he was sitting behind Argyll, in precisely the same position as before, but feeling a spark of excitement, something which might even be mistaken for hope. But still he did not look at the gallery, and only once, for a moment, at Hester.

“Call Florence Nightingale,” the usher’s voice boomed out, and there were gasps of indrawn breath around the room. A woman in the gallery screamed and stifled the sound with her hand clasped over her face.

The judge banged his gavel. “I will have order in the court! Another outburst like that and I shall have the place cleared. Is that understood? This is a court of law, not a place of entertainment. Mr. Argyll, I hope this witness is relevant to the case, and not merely a piece of exhibitionism and an attempt to win some kind of public sympathy. If it is, I assure you it will fail. Miss Latterly is on trial here, and Miss Nightingale’s reputation is irrelevant!”

Argyll bowed gravely and said nothing.

Every eye was turned towards the doorway, necks were craned and bodies twisted to see as a slender, upright figure came in, crossed the floor without looking to right or left, and climbed the steps to the witness-box. She was not imposing. She was really quite ordinary looking, with brownish hair, straight and severely swept from her face, very level brows and regular features. The whole cast of her countenance was too determined to be pretty, and without the inner light and serenity which fires beauty. It was not an easy face; it was even a little frightening.

She swore as to her name and place of residence in a firm and clear voice, and stood waiting for Argyll to begin.

“Thank you for traveling this considerable distance and leaving your own most important work to testify in this case, Miss Nightingale,” he said gravely.

“Justice is also important, sir,” she replied, staring very directly at him. “And in this instance, also a matter of life”-she hesitated-”and death.”

“Quite so.”

Rathbone had warned him passionately about the danger of patronizing her, or seeming in the slightest way to condescend to her, or state the obvious. Please heaven he remembered!

“We are all aware that you have no knowledge of the facts of this case, ma’am,” Argyll proceeded. “But the prisoner, Hester Latterly, has been well known to you in the past, has she not? And you feel able to speak of her character?”

“I have known Hester Latterly since the summer of 1854,” Florence replied. “And I am willing to answer any questions as to her character that you care to put to me.”

“Thank you.” Argyll adopted a relaxed posture, his head a little to one side. “Miss Nightingale, there has been some speculation as to why a young lady of gentle birth and good education should choose an occupation such as nursing, which previously has been carried out largely by women of low degree and, frankly, of pretty rough habits.”

Behind Argyll, Rathbone sat forward on the edge of his seat, his body aching with tension. The courtroom was silent Every juror was watching Florence as if she had been the only living person there.