back, a very slight smile touching his lips.
As on every day so far, the court was packed with spectators and journalists, and this morning there was an air of expectancy among them and something not unlike hope. The defense was about to begin, there might at last be disclosures, drama, even evidence toward another murderer. Everyone's eyes were to the front, the noise was not talking but the myriad tiny rustles and creaks of movement as one fabric rubbed against another, whalebone shifted pressure, and the leather soles of boots scraped on the floor.
Rathbone was not as well prepared as he would have liked, but there was no more time. He must look as if he not only knew Sir Herbert was innocent but also who was guilty. He was acutely aware of the eyes of every juror intent upon him; every movement was watched, every inflection of his voice measured.
'My lord, gentlemen of the jury,' he began with a very slight smile. 'I am sure you will appreciate it is much easier for the prosecution to prove that a man is guilty of a crime man for the defense to prove he is not. Unless, of course, you can prove that someone else is. And unfortunately I cannot do that-so far. Although it is always possible something may emerge during the evidence yet to come.'
The whisper of excitement was audible, even the hasty scratching of pencil on paper.
'Even so,' he continued, 'the prosecution has failed to demonstrate that Sir Herbert Stanhope killed Prudence Barrymore, only that he could have. As could many others: Geoffrey Taunton, Nanette Cuthbertson, Dr. Beck are only some. The main thrust of his argument'-he indicated Lovat-Smith with a casual gesture-'is that Sir Herbert had a powerful motive, as evidenced by Prudence's own letters to her sister, Faith Barker.'
His smile broadened a fraction and he looked squarely at the jury.
'However, I will show you that those letters are open to a quite different interpretation, one which leaves Sir Herbert no more culpable than any other man might be in his position and with his skills, his personal modesty, and the other urgent and powerful calls upon his attention.'
There was more fidgeting on the public benches. A fat woman in the gallery leaned forward and stared at Sir Herbert in the dock.
Before Hardie could become restive, Rathbone proceeded to the point.
'I shall now call my first witness, Sir Herbert Stanhope himself.'
It took several moments for Sir Herbert to disappear from the dock down the stairs and reappear in the body of the court. Leaving his escort of jailers behind, he crossed the floor to mount the steps to the witness stand, walking very uprightly, an immaculately dressed and dignified figure. All the time there was a hush in the room as if everyone had held their breath. The only sound was the scratching of pencils on paper as the journalists sought to catch the mood in words.
As soon as Sir Herbert reached the top of the steps and turned there was a ripple of movement as a hundred heads craned forward to look at him, and everyone shifted very slightly in their seats. He stood square-shouldered, head high, but Rathbone watching him felt it was assurance, not arrogance. He glanced at the jury's faces and saw interest and a flash of reluctant respect.
The clerk swore him in, and Rathbone moved to the center of the floor and began.
'Sir Herbert, you have been chief surgeon at the Royal Free Hospital for approximately the last seven years. During that time you must have been assisted by many nurses, probably even hundreds, would you say?'
Sir Herbert's slight eyebrows rose in surprise.
'I never thought of counting,' he said frankly. 'But, yes, I suppose so.'
'Of very varying degrees of skill and dedication?'
'I am afraid that is true.' Sir Herbert's mouth curled almost imperceptibly in wry, self-mocking amusement.
'When did you first meet Prudence Barrymore?'
Sir Herbert concentrated in thought for a moment. The court was utterly silent, every eye in the room upon his face. There was no hostility in the jurors' total attention, only a keen awaiting.
'It must have been in July of 1856,' he replied. 'I cannot be more exact than that, I am afraid.' He drew breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.
Rathbone noted it with inner satisfaction. He was going to obey. Thank God for that! He affected innocence. 'Do you recall the arrival of all the new nurses, Sir Herbert?'
'No, of course not. There are scores of them. Er…' Then again he stopped. A bitter amusement stirred Rathbone. Sir Herbert was obeying him so very precisely; it was a betrayal of the depth of the fear he was concealing. Rathbone judged he was not a man who obeyed others easily.
'And why did you note Miss Barrymore in particular?' he asked.
'Because she was a Crimean nurse,' Sir Herbert replied. 'A gentlewoman who had dedicated herself to the care of the sick, at some considerable cost to herself, even risk of her own life. She did not come because she required to earn her living but because she wished to nurse.'
Rathbone was aware of a low murmur of agreement from the crowd and the open expressions of approval on the jurors' faces.
'And was she as skilled and dedicated as you had hoped?'
'More so,' Sir Herbert replied, keeping his eyes on Rathbone's face. He stood a little forward in the box, his hands on the rails, arms straight. It was an attitude of concentration and even a certain humility. If Rathbone had schooled him he could not have done better. 'She was tireless in her duties,' he added. 'Never late, never absent without cause. Her memory was phenomenal and she learned with remarkable rapidity. And no one ever had cause to question her total morality in any area whatsoever. She was altogether an excellent woman.'
'And handsome?' Rathbone asked with a slight smile.
Sir Herbert's eyes opened wider in surprise. He had obviously not expected the question, or thought of an answer beforehand.
'Yes-yes I suppose she was. I am afraid I notice such things less than most men. In such circumstances I am more interested in a woman's skills.' He glanced at the jury in half apology. 'When you are dealing with the very ill, a pretty face is little help. I do recall she had very fine hands indeed.' He did not look down at his own beautiful hands resting on the witness box railing.
'She was very skilled?' Rathbone repeated.
'I have said so.'
'Enough to perform a surgical operation herself?'
Sir Herbert looked startled, opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped.
'Sir Herbert?' Rathbone prompted.
'She was an excellent nurse,' he said earnestly. 'But not a doctor! You have to understand, the difference is enormous. It is an uncrossable gulf.' He shook his head. 'She had no formal training. She knew only what she learned by experience and observation on the battlefield and in the hospital at Scutari.' He leaned a trifle farther forward, his face creased with concentration. 'You have to understand the difference between such haphazardly gained knowledge, unorganized, without reference to cause and effect, to alternatives, possible complication- without knowledge of anatomy, pharmacology, the experience and case notes of other doctors-and the years of formal training and practice and the whole body of lateral and supplementary learning such education provides.' Again he shook his head, more vehemently this time. 'No, Mr. Rathbone, she was an excellent nurse, I have never known better-but she was most certainly not a doctor. And to tell you the truth'-he faced Rathbone squarely, his eyes brilliantly direct-'I believe that the tales we have heard of her performing operations in the field of battle did not come in that form from her. She was not an arrogant woman, nor untruthful. I believe she must have been misunderstood, and possibly even misquoted.'
There were quite audible murmurs of approval from the body of the court, several people nodded and glanced at neighbors, and on the jury benches two members actually smiled.
It had been a brilliant move emotionally, but tactically it made Rathbone's next question more difficult to frame. He debated whether to delay it, and decided it would be seen as evasive.
'Sir Herbert…' He walked a couple of steps closer to the witness box and looked up. 'The prosecution's evidence against you was a number of letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister in which she writes of her profound feelings toward you, and the belief that you returned those feelings and would shortly make her the
