'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.
'However, I admit it took me aback when she insisted in pursuing the course of working in the Royal Free Hospital in London. She was no longer needed in the same way. There are hundreds of other women perfectly able and willing to do the sort of work in which she was involved, and it was totally unsuited to a woman of her birth and background.'
'Did you point that out to her and try to dissuade her?' Lovat-Smith asked.
'I did more than that, I offered her marriage.' There was only the faintest touch of pink in his cheeks. 'However, she was set upon her course.' His mouth tightened. 'She had very unrealistic ideas about the practice of medicine, and I regret to say it of her, but she valued her own abilities quite out of proportion to any service she might have been able to perform. I think her experiences during the war gave her ideas that were impractical at home in peacetime. I believe she would have come to realize that, with good guidance.'
'Your own guidance, Mr. Taunton?' Lovat-Smith said courteously, his blue eyes wide.
'And that of her mother, yes,' Geoffrey agreed.
'But you had not yet succeeded?'
'No, I regret we had not.'
'Do you have any knowledge as to why?'
'Yes I do. Sir Herbert Stanhope encouraged her.' He shot a look of contempt at the dock.
Sir Herbert stared at him quite calmly, not a shadow of guilt or evasion in his face.
A juror smiled to himself. Rathbone saw it, and knew the elation of a small victory.
'Are you quite sure?' Lovat-Smith asked. 'That seems an extraordinary thing to do. He, of all people, must surely have known that she had no abilities and no chance whatever of acquiring any beyond those of an ordinary nurse: to fetch and carry, to empty slops, prepare poultices, to change linen and bandages.' He enumerated the points on his short strong hands, waving them with natural energy and expression. 'To watch patients and call a doctor in case of distress, and to administer medicines as directed. What else could she conceivably do here in England? We have no field surgeries, no wagon loads of wounded.'
'I have no idea,' Geoffrey said with acute distaste twisting his features. 'But she told me quite unequivocally that he had said there was a future for her, with advancement.' Again the anger and disgust filled him as he glanced across at Sir Herbert.
This time Sir Herbert winced and shook his head a little, as if, even bound to silence, he could not bear to let it pass undenied.
'Did she speak of her personal feelings for Sir Herbert?' Lovat-Smith pursued.
'Yes. She admired him intensely and believed that all her future happiness lay with him. She told me so-in just those words.'
Lovat-Smith affected surprise.
'Did you not attempt to disabuse her, Mr. Taunton? Surely you must have been aware that Sir Herbert Stanhope is a married man.' He waved one black-clad arm toward the dock. 'And could offer her nothing but a professional regard, and that only as a nurse, a position immeasurably inferior to his own. They were not even colleagues, in any equal sense of the term. What could she have hoped for?'
'I have no idea.' He shook his head, his mourn twisted with anger and pain. 'Nothing of any substance at all. He lied to her-that is the least of his offenses.'
'Quite so,' Lovat-Smith agreed sagely. 'But that is for the jury to decide, Mr. Taunton. It would be improper for us to say more. Thank you, sir. If you will remain there, no doubt my learned friend will wish to question you.' Then he stopped, turning on his heel and looking back at the witness stand. 'Oh! While you are here, Mr. Taunton: were you in the hospital on the morning of Nurse Banymore's death?' His voice was innocuous, as if the questions were merely by the way.
'Yes,' Geoffrey said guardedly, his face pale and stiff.
Lovat-Smith inclined his head. 'We have heard that you have a somewhat violent temper when you are provoked beyond endurance.' He said it with a half smile, as if it were a foible, not a sin. 'Did you quarrel with Prudence and lose control of yourself that morning?'
'No!' Geoffrey's hands were white-knuckled on the railing.
'You did not murder her?' Lovat-Smith added, eyebrows raised, his voice with a slight lift in it.
'No I did not!' Geoffrey was shaking, emotion naked in his face.
There was a ripple of sympathy from somewhere in the gallery, and from another quarter a hiss of disbelief.
Hardie lifted his gavel, then let it fall without sound.
Rathbone rose from his seat and replaced Lovat-Smith on the floor of the court. His eyes met Lovat-Smith's for an instant as they passed. He had lost the momentum, the brief ascendancy, and they both knew it.
He stared up at the witness stand.
'You tried to disabuse Prudence of this idea that her personal happiness lay with Sir Herbert Stanhope?' he asked mildly.
'Of course,' Geoffrey replied. 'It was absurd.'
'Because Sir Herbert is already married?' He put his hands in his pockets and stood very casually.
'Naturally,' Geoffrey replied. 'There was no way whatsoever in which he could offer her anything honorable except a professional regard. And if she persisted in behaving as if there were more, then she would lose even that.' His face tightened, showing his impatience with Rathbone for pursuing something so obvious, and so painful.
Rathbone frowned.
'Surely it was a remarkably foolish and self-destructive course of action for her to have taken? It could only bring embarrassment, unhappiness, and loss.'
'Precisely,' Geoffrey agreed with a bitter curl to his mouth. He was about to add something further when Rathbone interrupted him.
'You were very fond of Miss Barrymore, and had known her over a period of time. Indeed, you also knew her family. It must have distressed you to see her behaving in such a way?'
'Of course!' A flicker of anger crossed Geoffrey's face and he looked at Rathbone with mounting irritation.
'You could see danger, even tragedy, ahead for her?' Rathbone pursued.
'I could. And so it has transpired!'
