William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

physical.
    “Now Miss Latterly, you admit you were—indeed still are—a woman rather past her first youth, without significant background, and in drastically impoverished circumstances—and you accepted an invitation to visit Shelburne Hall, the country home of the Grey family?”
    “I accepted an invitation to visit Lady Callandra Daviot,” Hester corrected.
    “At Shelburne Hall,” he said sharply. “Yes?”
    “Yes.”
    “Thank you. And during that visit you spent some time with the accused, Menard Grey?”
    She drew breath to say “Not alone,” and just in time caughtRathbone’s eye, and let out her breath again. She smiled at the prosecutor as if the implication had missed her.
    “Of course. It is impossible to stay with a family and not meet all the members who are in residence, and to spend time with them.” She was sorely tempted to add that perhaps he did not know such things, and forebore carefully. It would be a cheap laugh, and perhaps bought very dearly. This was an adversary to whom she could give no ground.
    “I believe you now have a position in one of the London infirmaries, is that so?”
    “Yes.”
    “Obtained for you by the same Lady Callandra Daviot?”
    “Obtained with her recommendation, but I believe on my own merit.”
    “Be that as it may—with her influence? No; please do not look to Mr. Rathbone for guidance. Just answer me, Miss Latterly.”
    “I do not require Mr. Rathbone’s assistance,” she said, swallowing hard. “I cannot answer you, with or without it. I do not know what passed between Lady Callandra and the governors of the infirmary. She suggested I apply there, and when I did, they were satisfied with my references, which are considerable, and they employed me. Not many of Miss Nightingale’s nurses find it difficult to obtain a position, should they desire it.”
    “No indeed, Miss Latterly.” He smiled thinly. “But not many of them do desire it, as you do—do they? In fact, Miss Nightingale herself comes from an excellent family who could provide for her for the rest of her life.”
    “That my family could not, and that my parents are both dead, is the foundation of the case that brings us here, sir,” she said with a hard note of victory in her voice. Whatever he thought or felt, she knew the jury understood that, and it was they who decided, after all each counsel could say.
    “Indeed,” he said with a flicker of irritation. Then he proceeded to ask her again how well she had known the victim, and to imply very subtly but unmistakably that she had fallen in love with him, succumbed to his now well-established charm, and because he had rejected her, wished to blacken his name. Indeed he skirted close to suggesting she might havecollaborated to conceal the crime, and now to defend Menard Grey.
    She was horrified and embarrassed, but when the temptation to explode in fury came too close, she looked across at Menard Grey’s face and remembered what was truly important.
    “No, that is untrue,” she said quietly. She thought of accusing him of sordidness, but caught Rathbone’s eye again and refrained.
    Only once did she see Monk. She felt a tingle of pleasure, even sweetness, to recognize the outrage in his expression as he glared at the counsel for the prosecution.
    When the prosecution suddenly changed his mind and gave up, she was permitted to remain in the courtroom, since she was no longer of importance, and she found room to sit and listen while Callandra testified. She too was first questioned by Rathbone and then, with more politeness than he had used before, by the counsel for the prosecution. He judged the jury rightly that they would not view with sympathy any attempt to bully or insult an army surgeon’s widow—and a lady. Hester did not watch Callandra, she had no fear for her; she concentrated on the faces of the jurymen. She saw the emotions flicker and change: anger, pity, confusion, respect, contempt.
    Next Monk was called and sworn. She had not noticed in the waiting room how well he was dressed. His jacket was of excellent cut, and only the best woolen broadcloth hung in quite that way. What vanity. How, on police pay, did he manage such a thing? Then she thought with a flicker of pity that probably he did not know himself—not now. Had he wondered? Had he perhaps been afraid of the vanity or the ruthlessness the answer might reveal? How terrible it must be to look at the bare evidence of yourself, the completed acts,