A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [165]
“When did you first meet Prudence Barrymore?”
Sir Herbert concentrated in thought for a moment. The court was utterly silent, every eye in the room upon his face. There was no hostility in the jurors’ total attention, only a keen awaiting.
“It must have been in July of 1856,” he replied. “I cannot be more exact than that, I am afraid.” He drew breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.
Rathbone noted it with inner satisfaction. He was going to obey. Thank God for that! He affected innocence. “Do you recall the arrival of all the new nurses, Sir Herbert?”
“No, of course not. There are scores of them. Er …” Then again he stopped. A bitter amusement stirred Rathbone. Sir Herbert was obeying him so very precisely; it was a betrayal of the depth of the fear he was concealing. Rathbone judged he was not a man who obeyed others easily.
“And why did you note Miss Barrymore in particular?” he asked.
“Because she was a Crimean nurse,” Sir Herbert replied. “A gentlewoman who had dedicated herself to the care of the sick, at some considerable cost to herself, even risk of her own life. She did not come because she required to earn her living but because she wished to nurse.”
Rathbone was aware of a low murmur of agreement from the crowd and the open expressions of approval on the jurors’ faces.
“And was she as skilled and dedicated as you had hoped?”
“More so,” Sir Herbert replied, keeping his eyes on Rathbone’s face. He stood a little forward in the box, his hands on the rails, arms straight. It was an attitude of concentration and even a certain humility. If Rathbone had schooled him he could not have done better. “She was tireless in her duties,” he added. “Never late, never absent without cause. Her memory was phenomenal and she learned with remarkable rapidity. And no one ever had cause to question her total morality in any area whatsoever. She was altogether an excellent woman.”
“And handsome?” Rathbone asked with a slight smile.
Sir Herbert’s eyes opened wider in surprise. He had obviously not expected the question, or thought of an answer beforehand.
“Yes—yes I suppose she was. I am afraid I notice such things less than most men. In such circumstances I am more interested in a woman’s skills.” He glanced at the jury in half apology. “When you are dealing with the very ill, a pretty face is little help. I do recall she had very fine hands indeed.” He did not look down at his own beautiful hands resting on the witness box railing.
“She was very skilled?” Rathbone repeated.
“I have said so.”
“Enough to perform a surgical operation herself?”
Sir Herbert looked startled, opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped.
“Sir Herbert?” Rathbone prompted.
“She was an excellent nurse,” he said earnestly. “But not a doctor! You have to understand, the difference is enormous. It is an uncrossable gulf.” He shook his head. “She had no formal training. She knew only what she learned by experience and observation on the battlefield and in the hospital at Scutari.” He leaned a trifle farther forward, his face creased with concentration. “You have to understand the difference between such haphazardly gained knowledge, unorganized, without reference to cause and effect, to alternatives, possible complication—without knowledge of anatomy, pharmacology, the experience and case notes of other doctors—and the years of formal training and practice and the whole body of lateral and supplementary learning such education provides.” Again he shook his head, more vehemently this time. “No, Mr. Rathbone, she was an excellent nurse, I have never known better—but she was most certainly not a doctor. And to tell you the truth”—he faced Rathbone squarely, his eyes brilliantly direct—“I believe that the tales we have heard of her performing operations in the field of battle did not come in that form from her. She was not an arrogant woman, nor untruthful. I believe she must have been misunderstood, and possibly even misquoted.”
There were quite audible murmurs of approval from the body