William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

departure out into the darkening streets, the lamplighter passing on his way, one light glowing into life after another along the length of the pavement.
    So Geoffrey had a violent temper, even murderous. His step lightened. It was a small thing so far, but definitely a break in the gloom around Sir Herbert Stanhope.
    It did not explain Prudence’s dreams or their reality, and that still burdened him, but it was a beginning.
    And it would be an acute satisfaction to him to take it to Rathbone. It was something he had not found for himself, and Monk could imagine the look of surprise—and obligation—in Rathbone’s clever, self-possessed face when he told him.

10
    A
S IT HAPPENED
, Rathbone was too relieved to hear Monk’s news of Geoffrey Taunton for his irritation to be more than momentary. There was a flash of anger at the smoothly complacent look on Monk’s face, the tone of arrogant satisfaction in his voice, and then Rathbone’s brain concentrated on what he would do with the knowledge, how best to use it.
    When he went to see Sir Herbert briefly before the day’s session began, he found him pensive, an underlying tension apparent in the nervous movement of his hands and the occasional gesture to adjust his collar or straighten his waistcoat. But he had sufficient control of himself not to ask how Rathbone thought the trial was progressing.
    “I have a little news,” Rathbone said immediately the jailer left them alone.
    Sir Herbert’s eyes widened and for a moment he held his breath. “Yes?” His voice was husky.
    Rathbone felt guilty; what he thought was not enough for real hope. It would need all his skill to make it count.
    “Monk has learned of a very unfortunate incident in Geoffrey Taunton’s recent past,” he said calmly. “A matter of catching an acquaintance cheating at billiards and becoming seriously violent. Apparently he attacked the manand had to be hauled off him before he injured him, perhaps mortally.” He was overstating the case a little, but Sir Herbert needed all the encouragement he could offer.
    “He was in the hospital at the time she was killed,” Sir Herbert said with a quick lift in his voice, his eyes alight. “And Heaven knows, he had motive enough. She must have confronted him—the stupid woman.” He looked at Rathbone intently. “This is excellent! Why are you not better pleased? He is at least as good a suspect as I!”
    “I am pleased,” Rathbone said quietly. “But Geoffrey Taunton is not in the dock—not yet. I have a great deal to do yet before I can put him there. I just wished you to know: there is every hope, so keep your courage high.”
    Sir Herbert smiled. “Thank you—that is very honest of you. I appreciate you cannot say more. I have been in the same position with patients. I do understand.”
    As it chanced, Lovat-Smith unwittingly played into Rathbone’s hands. His first witness of the day was Nanette Cuthbertson. She crossed the floor of the courtroom and mounted the steps to the witness stand gracefully, maneuvering her skirts up the narrow way with a single flick of her wrist. She turned at the top to face him, a calm smile on her face. She was dressed in dark brown, which was at once very sober and extremely flattering to her coloring and warm complexion. There was a murmur of appreciation around the crowd, and several people sat up a little straighter One of the jurors nodded to himself, and another straightened his collar.
    Their interest had been less sharp this morning. The revelations they had expected were not forthcoming. They had looked for their emotions to be torn one way and then another as piece after piece of evidence was revealed, while Sir Herbert appeared one moment guilty, the next innocent, and two giant protagonists battled each other across the courtroom floor.
    Instead it had been a rather tedious procession of ordinary people offering their opinions that Prudence Barrymore was an excellent nurse, but not a great heroine, andthat she had suffered the very ordinary feelings of many young women in that she had imagined a man to be in love with her, when in fact he was merely being civil. It was sad, even pathetic, but not the stuff of high drama. No one had yet offered a satisfactory alternative murderer, and yet quite clearly she had been murdered.
    Now at last here was an interesting witness, a dashing and yet demure young woman. They craned forward, eager to see why she had been called.
    “Miss