William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

the chute and landed in the laundry basket below it.”
    She was prevented from continuing immediately by the rustles and murmurs of horror in the public gallery. Several of the jurors gasped and one reached for his handkerchief.
    In the dock Sir Herbert winced very slightly, but his eyes remained steadily on Callandra.
    “At first I thought it was the skivvy,” she resumed. “Then an instant later a second body landed and scrambled to get out. It was then we looked at the first body and realized quite quickly that she was dead.”
    Again there was a gasp of indrawn breath around the room and a buzz of words, cut off instantly.
    Rathbone glanced up at the dock. Even facial expressions could matter. He had known more than one prisoner to sway a jury against him by insolence. But he need not have worried. Sir Herbert was composed and grave, his face showing only sadness.
    “I see.” Lovat-Smith held up his hand very slightly. “How did you know this first body was dead, Lady Callandra? I know you have some medical experience; I believe your late husband was an army surgeon. Would you please just describe for us what the body was like.” He smiled deprecatingly. “I apologize for asking you to relive what must be extremely distressing for you, but I assure you it is necessary for the jury, you understand?”
    “It was the body of a young woman wearing a graynurse’s dress.” Callandra spoke quietly, but her voice was thick with emotion. “She was lying on her back in the basket, sort of folded, one leg up. No one who was not rendered senseless would have remained in such a position. When we looked at her more closely, her eyes were closed, her face ashen pale, and there were purple bruise marks on her throat. She was cold to the touch.”
    There was a long sigh from the public galleries and someone sniffed. Two jurors glanced at each other, and a third shook his head, his face very grave.
    Rathbone sat motionless at his table.
    “Just one question, Lady Callandra,” Lovat-Smith said apologetically. “Did you know the young woman?”
    “Yes.” Callandra’s face was white. “It was Prudence Barrymore.”
    “One of the hospital nurses?” Lovat-Smith stepped back a yard. “In fact, one of your very best nurses, I believe? Did she not serve in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale?”
    Rathbone considered objecting that this was irrelevant: Lovat-Smith was playing for drama. But he would do his cause more harm than good by trying to deny Prudence Barrymore her moment of posthumous recognition, as Lovat-Smith would know; he could see it in his faintly cocky stance, as if Rathbone were no danger.
    “A fine woman in every respect,” Callandra said quietly. “I had the highest regard and affection for her.”
    Lovat-Smith inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am. The court offers you its appreciation for what must have been a most difficult duty for you. Thank you, I have nothing further to ask you.”
    Judge Hardie leaned forward as Callandra moved fractionally.
    “If you would remain, Lady Callandra, Mr. Rathbone may wish to speak.”
    Callandra flushed at her own foolishness, although she had not actually taken a step to leave.
    Lovat-Smith returned to his table, and Rathbone rose, approachingthe witness box and looking up at her. He was disturbed to see her so drawn.
    “Good morning, Lady Callandra. My learned friend has concluded with your identification of the unfortunate dead woman. But perhaps you would tell the court what you did after ascertaining that she was beyond your help?”
    “I—we—Dr. Beck remained with her”—Callandra stammered very slightly—“to see she was not touched, and I went to report the matter to Sir Herbert Stanhope, so that he might send for the police.”
    “Where did you find him?”
    “In the theater—operating upon a patient.”
    “Can you recall his reaction when you informed him what had happened?”
    Again faces turned toward the dock as people stared at Sir Herbert, curious and titillated by horror.
    “Yes—he was shocked, of course. He told me to go to the police station and inform the police—when he realized it was a police matter.”
    “Oh? He did not realize it immediately?”
    “Perhaps that was my fault,” she acknowledged. “I may have told him in such a way he thought it was a natural death. There are frequently deaths in a hospital.”
    “Of course. Did he appear to you to be frightened or nervous?”
    A ghost of bitter amusement