William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

dark exaggeration?”
    “None,” Moncrieff said guardedly. “You are correct, sir. It is an experience that cannot be adequately imagined.”
    “It must place the most extraordinary strain upon those called upon to endure it?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “I accept that you could not share it with me, for example, other than in the most superficial and unsatisfactory way.”
    “Is that a question, sir?”
    “No, unless you disagree with me?”
    “No, I agree. One can communicate only those experiences for which there is some common language or understanding. One cannot describe sunset to a man who has not sight.”
    “Precisely. That must leave you with a certain loneliness, Dr. Moncrieff.”
    Moncrieff said nothing.
    “And a closeness to those with whom you have shared such fearful and profound times.”
    Moncrieff could not deny it, even though to judge fromhis face he could perceive where Gilfeather was leading him.
    The jurors leaned forward, listening intently.
    “Of course,” he conceded.
    “And very naturally a certain impatience with the blandness and uncomprehension, perhaps even uselessness, of certain of the women who have no idea whatever of anything more dangerous or demanding than household management?”
    “These are your words, sir, not mine.”
    “But accurate, sir? Come, you are on oath. Do you not ache to share the past you speak of with such passion now?”
    Moncrieff’s expression did not flicker.
    “I have no need to, sir. It is beyond sharing by me, or anyone else, except in words that are spoken by the shabby and believed by the ignorant.” He leaned forward, his hands gripping the rail. “But neither do I insult the women who remained at home caring for homes and children. We all have our own challenges, and our virtues. It is too easy to compare, and I think a profitless exercise. As women who manage the domestic economy do not understand the women who went to the Crimea, so, perhaps, those who went away do not know, or pretend to know, the hardships of those who stayed at home.”
    “Very well, sir. Your courtesy does you credit,” Gilfeather said between his teeth, the smile vanished from his face. “But nevertheless a closeness must exist, a relief to share what must still cause you deep emotion?”
    “Of course.”
    “Tell me, sir, did Miss Latterly always appear as dowdy as she does here today? She is a young woman, and not of displeasing form or feature. This must have been an extraordinary ordeal for her. She has been confined first in Newgate Prison in London, and now here in Edinburgh. She is on trial for her life. We cannot judge fairly her charms from the way in which we see her now.”
    “That is true,” Moncrieff agreed carefully.
    “Did you like her, Doctor?”
    “There is little time for friendship, Mr. Gilfeather. Your question admirably illustrates your assumption that those who were not there cannot comprehend what it was like. I admired her and found her excellent to work with, as I have already said.”
    “Come, sir!” Gilfeather said grimly, his voice suddenly raised and harsh. “Do not be disingenuous with me! Do you expect us to believe that in two years you were so dedicated to your duty day and night that the natural man never emerged in you?” He spread his hands wide, his face smiling. “You never once, during lulls in battle, times when the summer sunshine shone in the fields, when there was time for picnics … oh yes, we are not totally ignorant of what happened out there! There were war correspondents, you know … even photographs! Do you expect us to believe, sir, that all that time you never saw Miss Latterly as a young and not unpleasing woman?”
    Moncrieff smiled.
    “No sir, I do not ask you to. I had not even thought of the matter, but since you raise it, she is not at all unlike my wife, who has many of the same qualities of courage and honesty.”
    “But who was not a nurse in the Crimea, and thus able to share your emotions, sir!”
    Moncrieff smiled.
    “You are mistaken, sir. She was most certainly in the Crimea, and most able to understand as much of my feelings as another person could.”
    Gilfeather was defeated, and he knew it.
    “Thank you, Doctor. That is all I have to ask you. Unless my learned friend has anything to add, you may go.”
    “No, thank you,” Argyll declined generously. “Thank you, Dr. Moncrieff.”
    The court adjourned early for lunch, newspaper correspondents racing out to send messengers