William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

wait, and leave the battle to someone else.
    “I will put my best people onto it,” Rathbone said aloud, gripping Sir Herbert’s hand in his own. “In the meantime, try to think over any conversation with Miss Barrymore that you can. It will be helpful to us to refute the interpretation they have put upon your regard for her.”
    “Yes.” Sir Herbert composed his face into an expression of calm intelligence. “Of course. Good day, Mr. Rathbone. I shall look forward to your next visit….”
    “In two or three days’ time,” Rathbone said in answer to the unasked question, then he turned to the door and called for the jailer.
    Rathbone had every intention of doing all he could to find another suspect in the case. If Sir Herbert were innocent, then someone else was guilty. There was no one in London better able to unearth the truth than Monk. Accordingly he sent a letter to Monk’s lodgings in Fitzroy Street, stating his intention to call upon him that evening on a matter of business. It never occurred to him that Monk might be otherwise engaged.
    And indeed Monk was not. Whatever his personal inclinations, he needed every individual job, and he needed Rathbone’s goodwill in general. Many of his most rewarding cases, both professionally and financially, came through Rathbone.
    He welcomed him in and invited him to be seated in the comfortable chair, himself sitting in the one opposite and regarding him curiously. There had been nothing in his letter as to the nature of the present case.
    Rathbone pursed his lips.
    “I have an extremely difficult defense to conduct,” he began carefully, watching Monk’s face. “I am assuming my client is innocent. The circumstantial evidence is poor, but the evidence of motive is strong, and no other immediate suspect leaps to mind.”
    “Any others possible?” Monk interrupted.
    “Oh indeed, several.”
    “With motive?”
    Rathbone settled a little more comfortably in his seat.
    “Certainly, although there was no proof that it is powerful enough to have precipitated the act. One may deduce it rather than observe evidence of it.”
    “A nice distinction.” Monk smiled. “I presume your client’s motive is rather more evident?”
    “I’m afraid so. But he is by no means the only suspect, merely by some way the best.”
    Monk looked thoughtful. “He denies the act. Does he deny the motive?”
    “He does. He claims that the perception of it is a misunderstanding, not intentional, merely somewhat … emotionally distorted.” He saw Monk’s gray eyes narrow. Rathbone smiled. “I perceive your thoughts. You are correct. It is Sir Herbert Stanhope. I am quite aware that it was you who found the letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister.”
    Monk’s eyebrows rose.
    “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 savethe 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