William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

Sir Herbert said desperately, his fists clenched, his powerful jaw gritted tight. “God damn it—I never had the slightest personal interest in the woman! Nor did I ever say anything which could …” Suddenly sheer, blind horror filled him. “Oh God!” He stared at Rathbone, terror in his eyes.
    Rathbone waited, teetering on the edge of hope.
    Sir Herbert swallowed. He tried to speak, but his lips were dry. He tried again.
    “I praised her work! I praised it a great deal. Do you think she could have misinterpreted that as admiration for her person? I praised her often!” There was a fine sweat of fear on his lip and brow. “She was the finest nurse I ever had. She was intelligent, quick to learn, precise to obey, and yet not without initiative. She was always immaculately clean. She never complained of long hours, and she fought like a tiger to save a life.” His eyes were fixed on Rathbone’s. “But I swear before God, I never meant anything personal by my praise for her—simply what I said. No more, never more!” He put his head in his hands. “God preserve me from working with young women—young women of good family who expect and desire suitors.”
    Rathbone had a very powerful fear that he was going to get his wish—and be preserved from working with anyone at all—although he doubted God had anything to do with it.
    “I will do everything I can,” he said with a voice far firmer and more confident than he felt. “Keep your spirits high. There is very much more than a reasonable doubt, and your own manner is one of our strongest assets. Geoffrey Taunton is by no means clear, nor Miss Cuthbertson. And there are other possibilities also—Kristian Beck, for one.”
    “Yes.” Sir Herbert rose slowly, forcing himself to regain his composure. Years of ruthless self-discipline finally conquered his inner panic. “But reasonable doubt. Dear Heaven—that would ruin my career!”
    “It does not have to be forever,” Rathbone said with complete honesty. “If you are acquitted, the case will remain open. It may be a very short time, a few weeks, before they find the true killer.”
    But they both knew that even reasonable doubt had still to be fought for to save Sir Herbert from the gallows—and they had only a few days left.
    Rathbone held out his hand. It was a gesture of faith. Sir Herbert shook it, holding on longer than was customary, as if it were a lifeline. He forced a smile which had more courage in it than confidence.
    Rathbone left with a greater determination to fight than he could recall in years.
    After his testimony Monk left the court, his stomach churning and his whole body clenched with anger. He did not even know against whom to direct it, and that compounded the pain inside him. Had Prudence really been so blind? He did not wish to think of her as fallible to such a monstrous degree. It was so far from the woman for whom he had felt such grief at the crowded funeral in the church at Hanwell. She had been brave, and noble, and he had felt a cleanness inside from having known of her. He had understood her dreams, and her fierce struggle, and the priceshe had paid for them. Something in him felt at one with her.
    And yet he was so flawed himself in his judgment or he would never have loved Hermione. And the very word
love
seemed inappropriate when he thought of the emotion he had felt, the turmoil, the need, the loneliness. It was not for any real woman, it was for what he had imagined her to be, a dream figure who would fill all his own emptinesses, a woman of tenderness and purity, a woman who both loved and needed him. He had never looked at the reality—a woman afraid of the heights and the depths of feeling, a small, craven woman who hugged her safety to her and was content to stand on the edge of all the heat of the battle.
    How could Monk, of all people, condemn Prudence Barrymore for misjudgment?
    And yet it still hurt. He strode across Newgate Street regardless of horses shying and drivers shouting at him and a light gig veering out of his way. He was nearly run down by a black landau; the footman riding at the side let fly at Monk a string of language that caused even the coachman to sit a little more upright in surprise.
    Without making any deliberate decision, Monk found himself going in the general direction of the hospital, and after twenty minutes’ swift walking, he hailed a hansom and completed the rest of the journey. He did not even know if Hester was on