A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [119]
“Do you believe him innocent?” Monk looked at Rathbone with acute interest. “Or is that something you cannot tell me?”
“Yes I do,” Rathbone answered candidly. “I have no grounds for it, but I do. Are you convinced of his guilt?”
“No,” Monk replied with little hesitation. “I rather think not, in spite of the letters.” His face darkened as he spoke. “It seems she was infatuated with him, and he may have been flattered and foolish enough to encourage her. But on reflection—I have given it a great deal of thought—murder seems a somewhat hysterical reaction to a young woman’s emotions, no doubt embarrassing but not dangerous to him. Even if she was intensely in love with him,” he said the words as though they were distasteful to him, “there was nothing she could do that would do more than cause him a certain awkwardness.” He seemed to retreat inside himself and Rathbone was aware that the thoughts hurt him. “I would have thought a man of his eminence, working very often with women,” he continued, “must have faced similar situations before. I do not share your certainty of his innocence, but I am sure there is more to the story than we have discovered so far. I accept your offer. I shall be most interested to see what else I can learn.”
“Why were you involved in it in the first place?” Rathbone asked curiously.
“Lady Callandra wished the matter looked into. She is on the Board of Governors of the hospital and had a high regard for Prudence Barrymore.”
“And this answer satisfies her?” Rathbone did not conceal his surprise. “I would have thought as a governor of the hospital she would have been most eager to vindicate Sir Herbert! He is unquestionably their brightest luminary; almost anyone could be better spared than he.”
A flicker of doubt darkened Monk’s eyes.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “She does seem to be well satisfied. She has thanked me, paid me, and released me from the case.”
Rathbone said nothing, his mind filled with conjecture, conclusionless, one thought melting into another, but worrying.
“Hester does not believe it is the answer,” Monk continued after a moment or two.
Rathbone’s attention was jerked back by the sound of her name. “Hester? What has she to do with it?”
Monk smiled with a downturn of the corners of his mouth. He regarded Rathbone with amusement, and Rathbone had the most uncomfortable sensation that his uneasy and very personal feelings for Hester were transparent in his face. Surely she would have had confided in Monk? That would be too—no, of course she would not. He dismissed the thought. It was disturbing and offensive.
“She knew Prudence in the Crimea,” Monk replied. The easy use of Nurse Barrymore’s given name startled Rathbone. He had thought of her as the victim; his concern had been entirely with Sir Herbert. Now suddenly her reality came to him with a painful shock. Hester had known her, perhaps cared for her. With chilling clarity he saw again how like Hester she must have been. Suddenly he was cold inside.
Monk perceived the shock in him. Surprisingly there was none of the ironic humor Rathbone expected, instead only a pain devoid of adulteration or disguise.
“Did you know her?” he asked before his brain censored the words. Of course Monk had not known her. How could he?
“No,” Monk replied quietly, his voice full of hurt. “But I have learned a great deal about her.” His gray eyes hardened, cold and implacable. “And I intend to see the right man with the noose around his neck for this.” Then suddenly the ruthless, bitter smile was there on his lips. “I don’t only mean in order to avoid a miscarriage of justice. Of course I don’t want that—but neither do I intend to see Stanhope acquitted and no one in his place. I won’t allow them to let this one go unresolved.”
Rathbone