William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

the sounds of sympathy and agreement from the crowd, little murmurs, shiftings and nods, matters of affirmation.
    “Yes, Lady Stanhope, I believe it is,” he said gently. “And I am sure there are many thousands of people who will agree with you. I don’t think I have anything further to ask you, but my learned friend may. Please would you remain there, just in case.”
    He walked slowly back to his seat, meeting Lovat-Smith’s glance as he did so, and knowing his opponent was weighing up what he might gain or lose by questioning Lady Stanhope. She had the jury’s sympathy. If he appeared to embarrass or fluster her he might jeopardize his own position, even if he discredited her testimony. How much ofthe jurors’ verdict would rest on fact, how much on anticipation, emotion, prejudice, whom they believed or liked, and whom they did not?
    Lovat-Smith rose and approached the witness stand with a smile. He did not know how to be humble, but he understood charm perfectly.
    “Lady Stanhope, I also have very little to ask you and shall not keep you long. Have you ever been to the Royal Free Hospital?”
    She looked surprised. “No—no I have never had the need, fortunately. All my confinements have been at home, and I have never required an operation.”
    “I was thinking rather more of a social visit, ma’am, not as a patient. Perhaps out of interest in your husband’s profession?”
    “Oh no, no, I don’t think that would be at all necessary, and really not suitable, you know?” She shook her head, biting her lip. “My place is in the home, with my family. My husband’s place of work is not—not appropriate …” She stopped, uncertain what else to add.
    In the gallery two elderly women glanced at each other and nodded approvingly.
    “I see.” Lovat-Smith turned a little sideways, glancing at the jury, then back at Lady Stanhope. “Did you ever meet Nurse Prudence Barrymore?”
    “No.” Again she was surprised. “No, of course not.”
    “Do you know anything about the way in which a skilled nurse normally works with a surgeon caring for a patient?”
    “No.” She shook her head, frowning with confusion. “I have no idea. It is—it is not anything that occurs to me. I care for my house and my children.”
    “Of course, and most commendable,” Lovat-Smith agreed with a nod of his head. “That is your vocation and your skill.”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you really are not in a position to say whether your husband’s relationship with Miss Barrymore was unusual, or personal, or whether it was not—are you?”
    “Well—I …” She looked unhappy. “I—I don’t know.”
    “There is no reason why you should, ma’am,” Lovat-Smith said quietly. “Neither would any other lady in your position. Thank you. That is all I have to ask you.”
    A look of relief crossed her face, and she glanced up at Sir Herbert. He smiled at her briefly.
    Rathbone rose again.
    “Lady Stanhope, as my learned friend has pointed out, you know nothing about the hospital or its routines and practices. But you do know your husband and his personality, and you have for nearly a quarter of a century?”
    She looked relieved. “Yes, yes I do.”
    “And he is a good, loyal, and affectionate husband and father, but dedicated to his career, not socially skilled, not a ladies’ man, not sensitive or aware of the emotions and daydreams of young women?”
    She smiled a little ruefully, looked up at the dock as if uncertain, apology plain in her face. “No sir, not at all, I am afraid.”
    A shadow of relief, almost satisfaction, touched Sir Herbert. It was a complex emotional expression, and the jury noticed it with approval.
    “Thank you, Lady Stanhope,” Rathbone said with rising confidence. “Thank you very much. That is all.”
    Rathbone’s last witness was Faith Barker, Prudence’s sister, recalled now for the defense. When he had first spoken to her she had been utterly convinced that Sir Herbert was guilty. He had murdered her sister, and for her that was a crime for which there was no forgiveness. But Rathbone had spoken to her at length, and finally she had made pronounced concessions. She was still uncertain, and there was no mercy in her for Sir Herbert, but on one point at least she was adamant, and he felt the risk of what else she might say was worth it.
    She took the stand with her head high, face pale, and marked with the depth of grief. Her anger also was unmistakable, and she shot Sir Herbert in