A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [154]
“Did you read them?”
“Naturally.”
Lovat-Smith produced a sheaf of papers and handed them up to Monk.
“Are these the letters Mrs. Barker gave you?”
Monk looked at them, although there was no need. He knew them immediately.
“They are.”
“Would you read to the court the first one I have marked with a red ribbon, if you please?”
Obediently, in a tight hard voice, Monk read:
“My dearest Faith,
“What a marvelous day I have had! Sir Herbert performed splendidly. I could not take my eyes from his hands. Such skill is a thing of beauty in itself. And his explanations are so lucid I had not the slightest difficulty in following him and appreciating every point.
“He has said such things to me, I am singing inside with the sheer happiness of it. All my dreams hang in the balance, and he has it all in his power. I never thought I should find anyone with the courage. Faith, he truly is a wonderful man—a visionary—a hero in the best sense—not rushing around conquering other peoples who should be left alone, or battling to discover the source of some river or other—but crusading here at home for the great principles which will help tens of thousands. I cannot tell you how happy and privileged I am that he has chosen me!
“Until next time, your loving sister,
Prudence.”
“And the second one I have marked, if you will?” Lovat-Smith continued.
Again Monk read, and then looked up, no emotion in his eyes or his features. Only Rathbone knew him well enough to be aware of the revulsion inside him for the intrusion into the innermost thoughts of a woman he admired.
The room was in silence, every ear strained. The jury stared at Sir Herbert with undisguised distaste.
“Are the others in a similar vein, Mr. Monk?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“Some are,” Monk replied. “Some are not.”
“Finally, Mr. Monk, would you read the letter I have marked with a yellow ribbon.”
In a low hard voice, Monk read:
“Dear Faith,
“Just a note. I feel too devastated to write more, and so weary I could sleep with no desire to wake. It was all a sham. I can scarcely believe it even now, when he has told me face to face. Sir Herbert has betrayed me completely. It was all a lie—he only wished to use me—all his promises meant nothing. But I shall not let it rest at that. I have power, and I shall use it!
Prudence.”
There was a sigh of breath, a rustle as heads turned from Monk to stare up at the dock. Sir Herbert looked strained; his face showed the lines of tiredness and confusion. He did not look frightened so much as lost in a nightmare which made no sense to him. His eyes rested on Rathbone with something close to desperation.
Lovat-Smith hesitated, looking at Monk for several moments, then decided against asking him anything further. Again, he was not sufficiently certain of the answer.
“Thank you,” he said, looking toward Rathbone.
Rathbone racked his brains for something to say to mitigate what they had all just heard. He did not need to see Sir Herbert’s white face as at last fear overtook the benign puzzlement he had shown so long. Whether he understood the letters or not, he was not naive enough to miss their impact on the jury.
Rathbone forced himself not to look at the jurors, but he knew from the nature of the silence, the reflected light on the pallor of their faces as they turned sideways to look up at the dock, that there was condemnation already in their minds.
What could he ask Monk? What could he possibly say to mitigate this? Nothing whatever came to him. He did not even trust Monk. Might his anger against Sir Herbert for having betrayed Prudence, however unintentionally, blind him now to any kinder interpretation? Even if it did not, what was his opinion worth?
“Mr. Rathbone?” Judge Hardie looked at him with pursed lips.
“I have no questions of this witness, thank you, my lord.”
“That is the case for the prosecution, if you please, my lord,” Lovat-Smith