A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [138]
But he should not have quarreled with Monk. That had been self-indulgent. He needed him desperately. The only way to save Sir Herbert from the gallows, never mind his reputation, was to find whoever did kill Prudence Barrymore. Even the escape of reasonable doubt was beginning to recede. Once he even heard a sharp note of panic in his own voice as he rose to cross-examine, and it brought him out in a sweat over his body. Lovat-Smith would not have missed it. He would know he was winning, as a dog on the chase scents the kill.
The third day was better. Lovat-Smith made his first tactical error. He called Mrs. Barrymore to the stand to testify to Prudence’s spotless moral character. Presumably he had intended her to heighten the emotional pitch of sympathy for Prudence. Mrs. Barrymore was the bereaved mother, it was a natural thing to do, and in his position Rathbone would most certainly have done the same. He admitted as much to himself.
Nevertheless it proved a mistake.
Lovat-Smith approached her with deference and sympathy, but still all the cocky assurance in his stance that Rathbone had seen the previous day. He was winning, and he knew it. It was the sweeter for being against Oliver Rathbone.
“Mrs. Barrymore,” he began with a slight inclination of his head, “I regret having to ask you to do this, painful as it must be for you, but I am sure you are as keen as the rest of us that justice should be done, for all our sakes.”
She looked tired, her fair skin puffy around the eyes, but she was perfectly composed, dressed in total black, which became her fair coloring and delicate features.
“Of course,” she agreed. “I shall do my best to answer you honestly.”
“I am sure you will,” Lovat-Smith said. Then, sensing the judge’s impatience, he began. “Naturally you have known Prudence all her life, probably no one else knew her as well as you did. Was she a romantic, dreaming sort of girl, often falling in love?”
“Not at all,” she said with wide-open eyes. “In fact, the very opposite. Her sister, Faith, would read novels and imagine herself the heroine. She would daydream of handsome young men, as most girls do. But Prudence was quite different. She seemed only concerned with study and learning more all the time. Not really healthy for a young girl.” She looked puzzled, as if the anomaly still confused her.
“But surely she must have had girlhood romances?” Lovat-Smith pressed. “Hero worship, if you will, of young men from time to time?” But the knowledge of her answer was plain in his face, and in the assurance of his tone.
“No,” Mrs. Barrymore insisted. “She never did. Even the new young curate, who was so very charming and attracted all the young ladies in the congregation, seemed to awaken no interest in Prudence at all.” She shook her head a little, setting the black ribbons on her bonnet waving.
The jury members were listening to her intently, uncertain how much they believed her or what they felt, and the mixture of concentration and doubt was plain in their expressions.
Rathbone glanced quickly up at Sir Herbert. Oddly enough, he seemed uninterested, as if Prudence’s early life were of no concern to him. Did he not understand the importance of its emotional value to the jury’s grasp of her character? Did he not realize how much hinged upon what manner of woman she was—a disillusioned dreamer, an idealist, a noble and passionate woman wronged, a blackmailer?
“Was she an unemotional person?” Lovat-Smith asked, investing the question with an artificial surprise.
“Oh no, she felt things intensely,” Mrs. Barrymore assured him. “Most intensely—so much so I feared she would make herself ill.” She blinked several times and mastered herself only with great difficulty. “That seems so foolish now, doesn’t it? It seems as if it has brought about her very death! I’m sorry, I find it most difficult to control my feelings.” She shot a look of utter hatred at Sir