William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

his life or death. Oliver Rathbone’s skill was the only shield between him and the noose. Sir Herbert’s eyes narrowed and he concentrated intensely, weighing the face he saw with its broad forehead, curious very dark eyes for a man otherwise fair, long sensitive nose and beautiful mouth.
    Rathbone also regarded Sir Herbert carefully. He was bound to defend this man, a famous public figure, at least in the medical world. The center of the case upon which would rest a good many reputations—his own included, if he did not conduct himself well. It was a terrible responsibility to have a man’s life in one’s hands—not as it was for Sir Herbert, where it lay on the dexterity of the fingers, but simply upon one’s judgment of other human beings, the knowledge of the law, and the quickness of your wits and your tongue.
    Was he innocent? Or guilty?
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Rathbone,” Sir Herbert said at last, inclining his head but not offering his hand. He was dressed in his own clothes. He had not yet stood trial, and therefore was legally innocent. He must still be treated with respect, even by jailers.
    “How do you do, Sir Herbert,” Rathbone replied, walking to the farther chair. “Please sit down. Time is precious, so I will not waste it with pleasantries we may both take for granted.”
    Sir Herbert smiled bleakly and obeyed. “This is hardly a social occasion,” he agreed. “I assume you have acquainted yourself with the facts of the case as the prosecution is presenting it?”
    “Naturally.” He sat on the hard chair, leaning a little across the table. “They have a good case, but not impeccable. It will not be difficult to raise a reasonable doubt. But I wish to do more than that or your reputation will not be preserved.”
    “Of course.” A look of dry, harsh amusement crossed Sir Herbert’s broad face. Rathbone was impressed that he was disposed to fight rather than to sink into self-pity, as a lesser man might have. He was certainly not handsome, nor was he a man to whom charm came easily, but he quite obviously had a high intelligence and the willpower and strength of nerve which had taken him to the forefront of a most demanding profession. He was used to having other men’s lives in his hands, to making instant decisions which weighed life and death, and he flinched from neither. Rathbone was obliged to respect him, an emotion he did not always feel toward his clients.
    “Your solicitor has already informed me that you have absolutely denied killing Prudence Barrymore,” he continued. “May I assume that you would give me the same assurance? Remember, I am bound to offer you the best defense I can, regardless of the circumstances, but to lie to me would be most foolish because it will impair my ability. I need to be in possession of all the facts or I cannot defend you against the prosecutor’s interpretation of them.” Hewatched closely as Sir Herbert looked at him steadily, but he saw no flicker in his face, no nervous movement, and he heard no wavering in his voice.
    “I did not kill Nurse Barrymore,” he answered. “Nor do I know who did, although I may guess why, but I have no knowledge. Ask me whatever you wish.”
    “I shall pursue those points myself.” Rathbone leaned a little back in his chair, not comfortably, since it was wooden and straight. He regarded Sir Herbert steadily. “Means and opportunity are immaterial. A large number of people possessed both. I assume you have thought hard to see if there is anyone who could account for your time that morning and there is no one? No, I assumed not, or you would have told the police and we should not now be here.”
    The ghost of a smile lit Sir Herbert’s eyes, but he made no comment.
    “That leaves motive,” Rathbone went on. “The letters Miss Barrymore wrote to her sister, and which are now in the hands of the prosecution, suggest most forcibly that you had a romantic liaison with her, and that when she realized that it could come to nothing she became troublesome to you, threatened you in some way, and to avoid a scandal you killed her. I accept that you did not kill her. But were you having an affair with her?”
    Sir Herbert’s thin lips tightened in a grimace.
    “Most certainly not. The idea would be amusing, it is so far from the truth, were it not mortally dangerous. No, Mr. Rathbone. I had never even thought of Miss Barrymore in that light.” He looked shiftily surprised. “Nor any woman other