William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

dissuaded by his violent temper, Miss Cuthbertson?” he resumed.
    Now suddenly she was pale.
    “Violent temper?” she repeated. “That is nonsense, sir. Mr. Taunton is the gentlest of men.”
    But the crowd watching her intently had seen the difference between disbelief and shock. They knew from the tightness of her body beneath its fashionable gown and huge skirts that she was perfectly aware what Rathbone alluded to. Her confusion was to hide it, not to understand it.
    “If I were to ask Mr. Archibald Purbright, would he agree with me?” Rathbone said smoothly. “I doubt Mrs. Waldemar would think so.”
    Lovat-Smith shot to his feet, his voice husky with assumed bewilderment.
    “My lord, who is Archibald Purbright? My learned friend has made no previous mention of such a person. If he has evidence he must testify to it here, where the Crown may question him and weigh its validity. We cannot accept—”
    “Yes, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” Hardie interrupted him. “I am quite aware that Mr. Purbright has not been called.” He turned to Rathbone, eyebrows raised inquiringly. “Perhaps you had better explain yourself?”
    “I do not intend to call Mr. Purbright, my lord, unless Miss Cuthbertson should make it necessary.” It was a bluff. He had no idea where to find Archibald Purbright.
    Hardie turned to Nanette.
    She stood stiffly, white-faced.
    “It was a solitary incident, and some time ago.” She almost choked on her words. “The man had been cheating. I regret having to say so, but it is true.” She shot a look of loathing at Rathbone. “And Mrs. Waldemar would bear me out on that!”
    The moment’s tension evaporated. Lovat-Smith smiled.
    “And Mr. Taunton was no doubt quite understandably extremely frustrated and felt a burning sense of injustice,” Rathbone agreed. “As would we all. To have done your best, to feel you deserve to win because you are the better player, and to be constantly cheated out of your victory would be enough to try the temper of most of us.”
    He hesitated, taking a step or two casually and turning. “And in this instance, Mr. Taunton lashed out with such extreme violence that he was only prevented from doing Mr. Purbright a serious, perhaps fatal, injury by the overpowering strength of two of his friends.”
    Suddenly the tension was back again. Gasps of shock were clearly audible amid rustles of movement, scrapings of shoes as people sat sharply upright. In the dock Sir Herbert’s lips curled in the very smallest smile. Even Hardie stiffened.
    Lovat-Smith hid his surprise with difficulty. It was there on his face only for an instant, but Rathbone saw it. Their eyes met, then Rathbone looked back at Nanette.
    “Do you not think it is possible, Miss Cuthbertson—indeed, do you not in your heart fear—that Mr. Taunton may have felt just the same sense of frustration and injustice with Miss Barrymore for persistently refusing him when she had no other admirer at hand, and no justifiable reason, in his view, for her actions?” His voice was calm, even solicitous. “Might he not have lashed out at her, if perhaps she were foolish enough to have mocked him or in some way slighted him to make her rejection plain? There were no friends to restrain him in the hospital corridor at that early hour of the morning. She was tired after a long night nursing the sick, and she would not expect violence—”
    “No!” Nanette exploded furiously, leaning over the railing toward him, her face flushed again. “No! Never! It is quite monstrous to say such a thing! Sir Herbert Stanhope killed her”—she shot a look of loathing across at the dock and the jurors followed her eyes—“because she threatened to expose his affair with her,” she said loudly. “We all know it. It wasn’t Geoffrey. You are simply saying that because you are desperate to defend him.” She directed another blazing glance at the dock, and even Sir Herbert seemed discomfited. “And you have nothing else,” she accused him. “You are despicable, sir, to slander a good man for one miserable mistake.”
    “One miserable mistake is all it needs, ma’am,” Rathbone said very levelly, his voice hushing the sudden murmur and movement in the room. “A strong man can strangle a woman to death in a very few moments.” He held up his hands, fine, beautiful hands with long fingers. He made a quick, powerful wrenching movement with them, and heard a woman gasp and the rattle of taffeta as she collapsed