A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [135]
Rathbone studied him discreetly as Lovat-Smith drew more fine details from Mrs. Flaherty. Sir Herbert was listening with careful attention, but there was no real interest in his face. He seemed quite relaxed, his back straight, his hands clasped in front of him on the railing. It was all familiar territory and he knew it did not matter to the core of the case. He had never contested his own presence in the hospital at the time, and Mrs. Flaherty excluded only the peripheral players who were never true suspects.
Judge Hardie adjourned the court, and as they were leaving Lovat-Smith fell in step beside Rathbone, his curiously light eyes glittering with amusement.
“Whatever made you take it up?” he said quietly, but the disbelief was rich in his voice.
“Take what up?” Rathbone looked straight ahead of him as if he had not heard.
“The case, man! You can’t win!” Lovat-Smith watched his step. “Those letters are damning.”
Rathbone turned and smiled at him, a sweet dazzling smile showing excellent teeth. He said nothing.
Lovat-Smith faltered so minutely only an expert eye could have seen it. Then the composure returned and his expression became smooth again.
“It might keep your pocket, but it won’t do your reputation any good,” he said with calm certainty. “No knighthood in this sort of thing, you know.”
Rathbone smiled a little more widely to hide the fact that he feared Lovat-Smith was right.
The afternoon’s testimony was in many ways predictable, and yet it left Rathbone feeling dissatisfied, as he told his father later that evening when he visited him at his home in Primrose Hill.
Henry Rathbone was a tall, rather stoop-shouldered, scholarly man with gentle blue eyes masking a brilliant intellect behind a benign air and a rich, occasionally erratic and irreverent sense of humor. Oliver was more deeply fond of him than he would have admitted, even to himself. These occasional quiet dinners were oases of personal pleasure in an ambitious and extremely busy life.
On this occasion he was troubled and Henry Rathbone was immediately aware of it, although he had begun with all the usual trivial talk about the weather, the roses, and the cricket score.
They were sitting together in the evening light after an excellent supper of crusty bread, pâté, and French cheese. They had finished a bottle of red wine; it was not of a particularly good year, but satisfaction lent to the tongue what the vintage did not.
“Did you make a tactical error?” Henry Rathbone asked eventually.
“What makes you ask that?” Oliver looked at him nervously.
“Your preoccupation,” Henry replied. “If it had been something you had foreseen you would not still be turning it over in your mind.”
“I’m not sure,” Oliver confirmed. “In fact, I am not sure how I should approach this altogether.”
Henry waited.
Oliver outlined the case as he knew it so far. Henry listened in silence, leaning back in his chair, his legs crossed comfortably.
“What testimony have you heard so far?” he asked when Oliver finally came to an end.
“Just factual this morning. Callandra Daviot recounted how she found the body. The police and the surgeon gave the facts of death and the time and manner, nothing new or startling. Lovat-Smith played it for all the drama and sympathy he could, but that was to be expected.”
Henry nodded.
“I suppose it was this afternoon,” Oliver said thoughtfully. “The first witness after luncheon was the matron of the hospital—a tense, autocratic little woman who obviously resented being called at all. She made it quite obvious she disapproved of ‘ladies’ nursing, and even Crimean experience won no favor in her eyes. In fact, the contrary—it challenged her dominion.”
“And the jury?” Henry asked.
Oliver smiled. “Disliked her,” he said succinctly. “She cast doubt on Prudence’s ability. Lovat-Smith endeavored to keep her quiet on that but she still created a bad impression.”
“But …” Henry prompted.
Oliver gave a sharp laugh. “But she swore that Prudence pursued Sir Herbert, asked to work with him and spent far more time with