William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

concentration and even a certain humility. If Rathbone had schooled him he could not have done better. “She was tireless in her duties,” he added. “Never late, never absent without cause. Her memory was phenomenal and shelearned with remarkable rapidity. And no one ever had cause to question her total morality in any area whatsoever. She was altogether an excellent woman.”
    “And handsome?” Rathbone asked with a slight smile.
    Sir Herbert’s eyes opened wider in surprise. He had obviously not expected the question, or thought of an answer beforehand.
    “Yes—yes I suppose she was. I am afraid I notice such things less than most men. In such circumstances I am more interested in a woman’s skills.” He glanced at the jury in half apology. “When you are dealing with the very ill, a pretty face is little help. I do recall she had very fine hands indeed.” He did not look down at his own beautiful hands resting on the witness box railing.
    “She was very skilled?” Rathbone repeated.
    “I have said so.”
    “Enough to perform a surgical operation herself?”
    Sir Herbert looked startled, opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped.
    “Sir Herbert?” Rathbone prompted.
    “She was an excellent nurse,” he said earnestly. “But not a doctor! You have to understand, the difference is enormous. It is an uncrossable gulf.” He shook his head. “She had no formal training. She knew only what she learned by experience and observation on the battlefield and in the hospital at Scutari.” He leaned a trifle farther forward, his face creased with concentration. “You have to understand the difference between such haphazardly gained knowledge, unorganized, without reference to cause and effect, to alternatives, possible complication—without knowledge of anatomy, pharmacology, the experience and case notes of other doctors—and the years of formal training and practice and the whole body of lateral and supplementary learning such education provides.” Again he shook his head, more vehemently this time. “No, Mr. Rathbone, she was an excellent nurse, I have never known better—but she was most certainly not a doctor. And to tell you the truth”—he faced Rathbone squarely, his eyes brilliantly direct—“I believethat the tales we have heard of her performing operations in the field of battle did not come in that form from her. She was not an arrogant woman, nor untruthful. I believe she must have been misunderstood, and possibly even misquoted.”
    There were quite audible murmurs of approval from the body of the court, several people nodded and glanced at neighbors, and on the jury benches two members actually smiled.
    It had been a brilliant move emotionally, but tactically it made Rathbone’s next question more difficult to frame. He debated whether to delay it, and decided it would be seen as evasive.
    “Sir Herbert …” He walked a couple of steps closer to the witness box and looked up. “The prosecution’s evidence against you was a number of letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister in which she writes of her profound feelings toward you, and the belief that you returned those feelings and would shortly make her the happiest of women. Is this a realistic view, a practical and honest one? These are her own words, and not misquoted.”
    Sir Herbert shook his head, his face creased with confusion.
    “I simply cannot understand it,” he said ruefully. “I swear before God, I have never given her the slightest cause to think I held her in that kind of regard, and I have spent hours, days, trying to think of anything I could have said or done that could give her such an impression, and I honestly can think of nothing.”
    He shook his head again, biting his lip. “Perhaps I am casual in manner, and may have allowed myself to speak
informally to
those with whom I work, but I truly cannot see how any person would have interpreted my remarks as statements of personal affection. I simply spoke to a trusted colleague in whom I had the utmost confidence.” He hesitated. Several jurors nodded in sympathy and understanding. From their faces it seemed they too had had suchexperiences. It was all eminently reasonable. A look of profound regret transformed his features.
    “Perhaps I was remiss?” he said gravely. “I am not a romantic man. I have been happily married for over twenty years to the only woman whom I have ever regarded in that light.” He smiled self-consciously.
    Above