William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

right.”
    He smiled at her bleakly. “Thank you. Now I wish to think.”
    He called her a hansom, handed her up into it, and she rode home in wordless turmoil.
    As Rathbone came into the cell Sir Herbert rose from the chair where he had been sitting. He looked calm, as if he had slept well and expected the day to bring him vindication at last. He looked at Rathbone apparently without seeing the total change in his manner.
    “I have reread Prudence’s letters,” Rathbone said without waiting for him to speak. His voice sounded brittle and sharp.
    Sir Herbert heard the tone in it and his eyes narrowed.
    “Indeed? Does that have significance?”
    “They have also been read by someone who knew Prudence Barrymore and herself had nursing experience.”
    Sir Herbert’s expression did not alter, nor did he say anything.
    “She writes in very precise detail of a series of operations you performed on women, mostly young women. It isapparent from what she wrote that those operations were abortions.”
    Sir Herbert’s eyebrows rose.
    “Precisely,” he agreed. “But Prudence never attended any of them except before and afterwards. I performed the actual surgery with the assistance of nurses who had not sufficient knowledge to have any idea of what I was doing. I told them it was for tumors—and they knew no differently. Prudence’s writings of her opinions are proof of nothing at all.”
    “But she knew it,” Rathbone said harshly. “And that was the pressure she exerted over you: not for marriage—she would probably not have married you if you had begged her—but for your professional weight behind her application to attend a medical school.”
    “That was absurd.” Sir Herbert dismissed the very idea with a wave of his hand. “No woman has ever studied medicine. She was a good nurse, but she could never have been more. Women are not suitable.” He smiled at the idea, derision plain in his face. “It requires a man’s intellectual fortitude and physical stamina—not to mention emotional balance.”
    “And moral integrity—you missed that,” Rathbone said with scalding sarcasm. “Was that when you killed her—when she threatened to expose you for performing illegal operations if you did not at least put in a recommendation for her?”
    “Yes,” Sir Herbert said with total candor, meeting Rathbone’s eyes. “She would have done it. She would have ruined me. I was not going to permit that.”
    Rathbone stared at him. The man was actually smiling.
    “There is nothing you can do about it,” Sir Herbert said very calmly. “You cannot say anything, and you cannot withdraw from the case. It would prejudice my defense totally. You would be disbarred, and they would probably declare a mistrial anyway. You still would not succeed.”
    He was right, and Rathbone knew it—and looking at SirHerbert’s smooth, comfortable face, he knew he knew it also.
    “You are a brilliant barrister.” Sir Herbert smiled quite openly. He put his hands in his pockets. “You have defended me almost certainly successfully. You do not need to do anything more now except give a closing speech—which you will do perfectly, because you cannot do anything else. I know the law, Mr. Rathbone.”
    “Possibly,” Rathbone said between his teeth. “But you do not know
me
, Sir Herbert.” He looked at him with a hatred so intense his stomach ached, his breath was tight in his chest, and his jaw throbbed with a pain where he had clenched it. “But the trial is not over yet.” And without waiting for Sir Herbert to do or say anything else, to give any instructions, he turned on his heel and marched out.

12
    T
HEY STOOD
in Rathbone’s office in the early morning sun, Rathbone white-faced, Hester filled with confusion and despair, Monk incredulous with fury.
    “Damn it, don’t stand there!” Monk exploded. “What are you going to do? He’s guilty!”
    “I know he’s guilty,” Rathbone said between his teeth. “But he’s also right—there is nothing I can do. The letters are not proof, and anyway, we’ve already read them into evidence once, we can’t go back now and try to tell the court they mean something else. It’s only Hester’s interpretation. It’s the right one—but I can’t repeat anything Sir Herbert said to me in confidence—even if I didn’t care about being disbarred, which I do! They’d declare a mistrial anyway.”
    “But there must be something,” Hester protested, desperately