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.'
Sir Herbert rose also. He was pale and the marks of anxiety were plain in his face now that he had stopped concentrating on specific questions. The gravity of his situation overwhelmed him, arid for all the force of logic and Rathbone's assurances, if the verdict was against him, he faced the rope, and the reality of that crowded out everything else.
He made as if to speak, and then found no words.
Rathbone had stood in cells like this more times than he could count, with all manner of both men and women, each facing the fear in their own way. Some were openly terrified, others masked their feelings with pride or anger. Sir Herbert was outwardly calm, but Rathbone knew the sick anxiety he must feel inside, and was helpless to do anything to help. Whatever he said, as soon as he was gone and the great door closed behind him, Sir Herbert would be alone for the long dragging hours, to swing from hope to despair, courage to terror. He must wait, and leave the battle to someone else.
'I will put my best people onto it,' Rathbone said aloud, gripping Sir Herbert's hand in his own. 'In the meantime, try to think over any conversation with Miss Barrymore that you can. It will be helpful to us to refute the interpretation they have put upon your regard for her.'
'Yes.' Sir Herbert composed his face into an expression of calm intelligence. 'Of course. Good day, Mr. Rathbone. I shall look forward to your next visit…'.
'In two or three days' time,' Rathbone said in answer to the unasked question, then he turned to the door and called for the jailer.
Rathbone had every intention of doing all he could to find another suspect in the case. If Sir Herbert were innocent, then someone else was guilty. There was no one in London better able to unearth the truth than Monk. Accordingly he sent a letter to Monk's lodgings in Fitzroy Street, stating his intention to call upon him that evening on a matter of business. It never occurred to him that Monk might be otherwise engaged.
And indeed Monk was not. Whatever his personal inclinations, he needed every individual job, and he needed Rathbone's goodwill in general. Many of his most rewarding cases, both professionally and financially, came through Rathbone.
He welcomed him in and invited him to be seated in the comfortable chair, himself sitting in the one opposite and regarding him curiously. There had been nothing in his letter as to the nature of the present case.
Rathbone pursed his lips.
'I have an extremely difficult defense to conduct,' he began carefully, watching Monk's face. 'I am assuming my client is innocent The circumstantial evidence is poor, but the evidence of motive is strong, and no other immediate suspect leaps to mind.'
'Any others possible?' Monk interrupted.
'Oh indeed, several.'
'With motive?'
Rathbone settled a little more comfortably in his seat.
'Certainly, although there was no proof that it is powerful enough to have precipitated the act. One may deduce it rather than observe evidence of it.'
'A nice distinction.' Monk smiled. 'I presume your client's motive is rather more evident?'
'I'm afraid so. But he is by no means the only suspect, merely by some way the best.'
Monk looked thoughtful. 'He denies the act. Does he deny the motive?'
'He does. He claims that the perception of it is a misunderstanding, not intentional, merely somewhat… emotionally distorted.' He saw Monk's gray eyes narrow. Rathbone smiled. 'I perceive your thoughts. You are correct. It is Sir Herbert Stanhope. I am quite aware that it was you who found the letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister.'
Monk's eyebrows rose.
