William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

The case was hardly an ornament to his career, and it was looking increasingly as if it might not even save Sir Herbert’s life, let alone his reputation.
    He faced Berenice Ross Gilbert with an air of casual confidence he did not feel. Deliberately he stood at ease. The jury must believe he had some tremendous revelation in hand, some twist or barb that would at a stroke destroy Lovat-Smith’s case.
    “Lady Ross Gilbert,” he began with a charming smile. “Prudence Barrymore was an excellent nurse, was she not? With far above the skills and abilities of the average?”
    “Most certainly,” she agreed. “She had considerable actual medical knowledge, I believe.”
    “And she was diligent in her duties?”
    “Surely you must know this?”
    “I do.” Rathbone nodded. “It has already been testified to by several people. Why does it surprise you, then, that Sir Herbert should have chosen her to work with him in a large number of his surgical cases? Would that not be in the interest of his patients?”
    “Yes—of course it would.”
    “You testified that you observed in Prudence the very recognizable signs of a woman in love. Did you observe any of these signs in Sir Herbert, when in Prudence’s presence, or anticipating it?”
    “No I did not,” she replied without hesitation.
    “Did you observe any change in his manner toward her, any departure from that which would be totally proper and usual between a dedicated surgeon and his best and most responsible nurse?”
    She considered only a moment before replying. For the first time she looked across at Sir Herbert, just a glance, and away again.
    “No—he was always as usual,” she said to Rathbone. “Correct, dedicated to his work, and with little attention to people other than the patients, and of course the teaching of student doctors.”
    Rathbone smiled at her. He knew his smile was beautiful.
    “I imagine men have been in love with you, possibly many men?”
    She shrugged very slightly, a delicate gesture of amusement and concurrence.
    “Had Sir Herbert treated you as he treated Prudence Barrymore, would you have supposed that he was in love with you? Or that he considered abandoning his wife and family, his home and reputation, in order to ask you to marry him?”
    Her face lit with amusement.
    “Good Heavens, no! It would be totally absurd. Of course not.”
    “Then for Prudence to imagine that he was in love with her was unrealistic, was it not? It was the belief of a woman who could not tell her dreams from reality?”
    A shadow crossed her face, but it was impossible to read it.
    “Yes—yes it was.”
    He had to press home the point.
    “You said she had some medical skill, ma’am. Do youhave any evidence that it was surgical skill of a degree where she was capable of performing amputations herself, unaided and successfully? Was she indeed not a mere nurse, but a surgeon?”
    There was an unhappy murmur around the room and a confusion of emotions.
    Berenice’s eyebrows shot up.
    “Good Heavens. Of course not! If you forgive me, Mr. Rathbone, you have no knowledge whatever of the medical world if you can ask such a question. A woman surgeon is absurd.”
    “Then in that respect also, she had lost the ability to distinguish between daydreams and reality?”
    “If that is what she said, then most certainly she had. She was a nurse, a very good one, but certainly not a doctor of any sort. Poor creature, the war must have unhinged her. Perhaps we are at fault if we did not see it.” She looked suitably remorseful.
    “Perhaps the hardships she endured and the suffering she saw unbalanced her mind,” Rathbone agreed. “And her wish to be able to help led her to imagine she could. We may never know.” He shook his head. “It is a tragedy that such a fine and compassionate woman, with so intense a desire to heal, should have been strained beyond the point she could endure with safety to her own nature; and above all that she should end her life by such a means.” He said that for the jury, not that it had any relevance to the evidence, but it was imperative to keep their sympathy. He had destroyed Prudence’s reputation as a heroine; he must not take from her even the role of honorable victim.
    Lovat-Smith’s last witness was Monk.
    He climbed the steps of the witness box stone-faced and turned to the court coldly. As before, he had caught snatches of what Rathbone had drawn from Berenice Ross Gilbert from those who were