William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

no sense to him. His eyes rested on Rathbone with something close to desperation.
    Lovat-Smith hesitated, looking at Monk for several moments, then decided against asking him anything further. Again, he was not sufficiently certain of the answer.
    “Thank you,” he said, looking toward Rathbone.
    Rathbone racked his brains for something to say to mitigate what they had all just heard. He did not need to see Sir Herbert’s white face as at last fear overtook the benign puzzlement he had shown so long. Whether he understood the letters or not, he was not naive enough to miss their impact on the jury.
    Rathbone forced himself not to look at the jurors, but he knew from the nature of the silence, the reflected light on the pallor of their faces as they turned sideways to look upat the dock, that there was condemnation already in their minds.
    What could he ask Monk? What could he possibly say to mitigate this? Nothing whatever came to him. He did not even trust Monk. Might his anger against Sir Herbert for having betrayed Prudence, however unintentionally, blind him now to any kinder interpretation? Even if it did not, what was his opinion worth?
    “Mr. Rathbone?” Judge Hardie looked at him with pursed lips.
    “I have no questions of this witness, thank you, my lord.”
    “That is the case for the prosecution, if you please, my lord,” Lovat-Smith said with a faint, complacent smile.
    “In that case, since it is growing late we will adjourn, and the defense may begin its case tomorrow.”
    Callandra had not remained in court after her testimony. Part of her wished to. She hoped desperately that Sir Herbert was guilty and would be proved so beyond any doubt whatsoever, reasonable or unreasonable. The terror inside her that it had been Kristian was like a physical pain filling her body. During the day she sought every possible duty to absorb her time and deny her mind the opportunity to return to gnaw at the anxiety, turn over the arguments again and again, trying uselessly to find the solution she wanted.
    At night she fell into bed, believing herself exhausted, but after an hour or so of sleep she woke, filled with dread, and the slow hours of the morning found her tossing and turning, longing for sleep, afraid of dreams, and even more afraid of waking.
    She wanted to see Kristian, and yet she did not know what to say to him. She had seen him so often in the hospital, shared all kinds of crises in other peoples’ lives—and deaths—and yet she was now achingly aware how little she knew of him beyond the life of healing, labor, comfort, and loss. Of course she knew he was married, and that his wife was a chilly remote woman with whom he shared little tendernessor laughter, and none of the work into which he poured so much passion, none of the precious things of humor and understanding, small personal likes and dislikes such as the love of flowers, voices singing, the play of light on grass, early morning.
    But how much else was there unknown to her? Sometimes in the long hours when they had sat, talking far longer than there was any need, he had told her of his youth, his struggle in his native Bohemia, the joy he had felt as the miraculous workings of the human physiology had been revealed in his studies. He had spoken of the people he had known and with whom he had shared all manner of experiences. They had laughed together, sat in sudden sweet melancholy remembering past losses, made bearable in the certain knowledge that the other understood.
    In time she had told him of her husband, how fiercely alive he had been, full of hot temper, arbitrary opinions, sudden insights, uproarious wit, and such a wild vigor for life.
    But what of Kristian’s present? All he had shared with her stopped fifteen or twenty years ago, as if the years from then until now were lost, not to be spoken of. When had the idealism of his youth been soured? When had he first betrayed the best in himself and then tarnished everything else by performing abortions? Did he really need more money so desperately?
    No. That was unfair. She was doing it again, torturing herself by beginning that dreadful train of thought that led her eventually to Prudence Barrymore, and murder. The man she knew could not have done that. Everything she knew of him could not be an illusion. Perhaps what she had seen that day had not been what she thought? Maybe Marianne Gillespie had been suffering some complication? After all, the child within her was the