'And yet you ask me to help you disprove their content?'
'Not disprove their content,' Rathbone argued. 'Simply show that Miss Barrymore's infatuation with Sir Herbert did not mean that he killed her. There are very credible other possibilities, one of which may prove to be the truth.'
'And you are content with the possibility?' Monk asked. 'Or do you wish me to provide proof of the alternative as well?'
'Possibility first,' Rathbone said dryly. 'Then when you have that, of course an alternative would be excellent. It is hardly satisfactory simply to establish doubt. It is not certain a jury will acquit on it, and it assuredly will not save the man's reputation. Without the conviction of someone else, he will effectively be ruined.'
'Do you believe him innocent?' Monk looked at Rathbone with acute interest. 'Or is that something you cannot tell me?'
'Yes I do,' Rathbone answered candidly. 'I have no grounds for it, but I do. Are you convinced of his guilt?'
'No,' Monk replied with little hesitation. 'I rather think not, in spite of the letters.' His face darkened as he spoke. 'It seems she was infatuated with him, and he may have been flattered and foolish enough to encourage her. But on reflection-I have given it a great deal of thought-murder seems a somewhat hysterical reaction to a young woman's emotions, no doubt embarrassing but not dangerous to him. Even if she was intensely in love with him,' he said the words as though they were distasteful to him, 'there was nothing she could do that would do more than cause him a certain awkwardness.' He seemed to retreat inside himself and Rathbone was aware that the thoughts hurt him. 'I would have thought a man of his eminence, working very often with women,' he continued, 'must have faced similar situations before. I do not share your certainty of his innocence, but I am sure there is more to the story than we have discovered so far. I accept your offer. I shall be most interested to see what else I can learn.'
'Why were you involved in it in the first place?' Rathbone asked curiously.
'Lady Callandra wished the matter looked into. She is on the Board of Governors of the hospital and had a high regard for Prudence Barrymore.'
'And this answer satisfies her?' Rathbone did not conceal his surprise. 'I would have thought as a governor of the hospital she would have been most eager to vindicate Sir Herbert! He is unquestionably their brightest luminary; almost anyone could be better spared than he.'
A flicker of doubt darkened Monk's eyes.
'Yes,' he said slowly. 'She does seem to be well satisfied. She has thanked me, paid me, and released me from the case.'
Rathbone said nothing, his mind filled with conjecture, conclusionless, one thought melting into another, but worrying.
'Hester does not believe it is the answer,' Monk continued after a moment or two.
Rathbone's attention was jerked back by the sound of her name. 'Hester? What has she to do with it?'
Monk smiled with a downturn of the corners of his mouth. He regarded Rathbone with amusement, and Rathbone had the most uncomfortable sensation that his uneasy and very personal feelings for Hester were transparent in his face. Surely she would have had confided in Monk? That would be too-no, of course she would not. He dismissed the thought. It was disturbing and offensive.
'She knew Prudence in the Crimea,' Monk replied. The easy use of Nurse Barrymore's given name startled Rathbone. He had thought of her as the victim; his concern had been entirely with Sir Herbert. Now suddenly her reality came to him with a painful shock. Hester had known her, perhaps cared for her. With chilling clarity he saw again how like Hester she must have been. Suddenly he was cold inside.
Monk perceived the shock in him. Surprisingly there was none of the ironic humor Rathbone expected, instead only a pain devoid of adulteration or disguise.
'Did you know her?' he asked before his brain censored the words. Of course Monk had not known her. How could he?
'No,' Monk replied quietly, his voice full of hurt. 'But I have learned a great deal about her.' His gray eyes hardened, cold and implacable. 'And I intend to see the right man with the noose around his neck for this.' Then suddenly the ruthless, bitter smile was there on his lips. 'I don't only mean in order to avoid a miscarriage of justice. Of course I don't want that-but neither do I intend to see Stanhope acquitted and no one in his place. I won't allow them to let this one go unresolved.'
Rathbone looked at him closely, studying the passion so plain in his face.
'What did you learn of her which moves you this profoundly?'
'Courage,' Monk answered. 'Intelligence, dedication to learning, a will to fight for what she believed and what she wanted. She cared about people, and there was no equivocation or hypocrisy in her.'
Rathbone had a sudden vision of a woman not unlike Monk himself, in some ways strange and complex, in others burningly simple. He was not surprised that Monk cared so much that she was dead, even that he felt an identity with her loss.
'She sounds like a woman who could have loved very deeply,' Rathbone said gently. 'Not one who would have accepted rejection without a struggle.'
Monk pursed his lips, doubt in his eyes, reluctant and touched with anger.
'Nor one to resort to pleading or blackmail,' he said, but his voice held more hurt than conviction.
Rathbone rose to his feet.
'If there is another story we have not touched yet, find it. Do whatever you can that will ekpose other motives. Someone killed her.'
Monk's face set hard. 'I will,' he promised, not to Rathbone but to himself. His smile was sour. 'I assume Sir Herbert is paying for this?'
'He is,' Rathbone replied. 'If only we could unearth a strong motive in someone else! There is a reason why someone killed her, Monk.' He stopped. 'Where is Hester working now?'
Monk smiled, the amusement going all the way to his eyes. 'In the Royal Free Hospital.'
'What?' Rathbone was incredulous. 'In a hospital? But I thought she…' He stopped. It was none of Monk's business that Hester had been dismissed before, although of course he knew it. The thoughts, the amusement, the anger, and the instinct to defend, in spite of himself, were all there in his eyes as Rathbone stared at him.
There were times when Rathbone felt uniquely close to Monk, and both liked and disliked him intensely with two warring parts of his nature.
'I see,' he said aloud. 'Well, I suppose it could prove useful. Please keep me informed.'
'Of course,' Monk agreed soberly. 'Good day.'
Rathbone never doubted that he would also go to see Hester. He argued with himself, debating the reasons for and against such a move, but he did it with his brain, even while his feet were carrying him toward the hospital. It would be difficult to find her; she would be busy working. Quite possibly she knew nothing helpful about the murder anyway. But she had known Prudence Barrymore. Perhaps she also knew Sir Herbert. He could not afford to ignore her opinion. He could hardly afford to ignore anything!
He disliked the hospital. The very smell of the place offended his senses, and his consciousness of the pain and the distress colored all his thoughts. The place was in less than its normal state of busy, rather haphazard order since Sir Herbert's arrest. People were confused, intensely partisan over the issue of his innocence or guilt.
He asked to see Hester, explaining who he was and his purpose, and he was shown into a small, tidy room and requested to wait. He was there, growing increasingly impatient and short-tempered, for some twenty minutes before the door opened and Hester came in.
It was over three months since he had last seen her, and although he had thought his memory vivid, he was still taken aback by her presence. She looked tired, a little pale, and there was a splash of blood on her very plain gray dress. He found the sudden feeling of familiarity both pleasant and disturbing.
'Good afternoon, Oliver,' she said rather formally. 'I am told you are defending Sir Herbert and wish to speak to me on the matter. I doubt I can help. I was not here at the time of the murder, but of course I shall do all I can.' Her eyes met his directly with none of the decorum he was used to in women.
In that instant he was powerfully aware that she had known and liked Prudence Barrymore, and that her emotions would crowd her actions in the matter. It both pleased and displeased him. It would be a nuisance professionally. He needed clarity of observation. Personally, he found indifference to death a greater tragedy than
