William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

your interpretation of morality,” she replied. Never once did she glance toward Monk on the public benches, or Hester beside him.
    Everyone was listening now, straining not to miss a word or an inflection.
    “In what category of morality do you find the question difficult to answer?” Hardie asked her, twisting sideways to face her. “Remember you are on oath, madam.”
    Rathbone made a last attempt to save his own reputation.
    “Are you saying he had an affair with someone, Lady Ross Gilbert?” He invested the tone with surprise and disbelief.
    Someone in the gallery coughed and was instantly hissed into silence.
    “No,” Berenice answered.
    “Then what are you saying?” Hardie looked confused. “Please make yourself plain!”
    Now there was total silence in the room. Every face was turned toward her. Rathbone did not dare to interrupt again in case she lost the opportunity. He might not be able to offer her another.
    Still she hesitated.
    Sir Herbert leaned over the edge of the dock railing, his face tight, the first flicker of real fear touching him.
    “Have you some charge of immorality to bring against Sir Herbert?” Rathbone heard his voice rising with pretended outrage. “You had better make it, madam, or cease these insinuations!”
    “I am on oath,” she said very quietly, looking at no one. “I know that he performed abortions upon many women, at a price. I know it for a fact, because I was the person who referred them to him for help.”
    There was utter, prickling soundlessness. No one moved. There was not even a sigh of breath.
    Rathbone did not dare look up at the dock. He pretended disbelief.
    “What?”
    “I was the person who referred them to him for help,” she repeated slowly and very clearly. “I suppose you would have to say that is immoral. It might be questionable, done for charity—but for payment …” She let the words hang in the air.
    Hardie was staring at Berenice.
    “This is of the utmost seriousness, Lady Ross Gilbert. Do you have any conception of the meaning of what you have just said?”
    “I believe so.”
    “And yet when you came in the witness stand before, you said nothing of this!”
    “I did not need to. I was not asked.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Are you telling us, madam, that you are so naive that you had no idea of the importance of this evidence?”
    “It did not seem to be relevant,” she replied, her voice trembling a little. “The prosecution charged that Nurse Barrymore had tried to force Sir Herbert into marrying her. I know that was absurd. She would never have done anything of the sort. Nor would he have behaved in such a way. I knew it then, and I know it now.”
    In the dock Sir Herbert was ashen, looking desperately at Rathbone.
    Hardie pursed his lips.
    Lovat-Smith stared from Hardie to Berenice, then to Rathbone. He still was not totally sure what was happening.
    Rathbone clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his flesh. It was slipping away again. He was guilty of murder. And he could not be tried for it twice.
    He strode forward a couple of paces.
    “Ah! Then you are not for an instant suggesting that Prudence Barrymore knew of this and was blackmailing Sir Herbert? You are not saying that—are you!” It was a challenge, hard and defiant.
    Lovat-Smith rose very slightly to his feet, still confused.
    “My lord, would you please instruct my learned friend to allow the witness to answer for herself and to not interpret for her what she has, or has not, said?”
    Rathbone could hardly endure the tension. He dared not interrupt again. He must not be seen to condemn his own client. He turned to Berenice. Please God she would take her opportunity!
    “Lady Ross Gilbert?” Hardie prompted.
    “I—I don’t recall the question,” she said wretchedly.
    Rathbone answered before Hardie could reword it and make it innocuous.
    “You are not saying that Prudence Barrymore was blackmailing Sir Herbert, are you?” he demanded, his voice louder and sharper than he had intended.
    “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, she was blackmailing him.”
    “But,” Rathbone protested, as if horror-stricken, “but you said—why, for God’s sake? You said yourself she had no wish whatever to marry him!”
    Berenice stared at him with unmitigated hatred.
    “She wanted him to help her gain medical training. I know that from deduction—not observation. You cannot charge me with concealing it.”
    “Ch—charge you?” Rathbone