ever exaggerate?" he said desperately. "Paint her achievements as more than they were, or glamorize the war in the Crimea?"
At last he provoked emotion, but it was not what he wanted.
"No she did not." The young woman's face flushed hot with anger. "It's downright wicked of you to say that! She always told the truth. And she never spoke about the Crimea at all, except to tell us about Miss Nightingale's ideas. She never praised herself at all. And I'll not listen to you say different! Not to defend that man who killed her, or anything else, I'll swear to that."
It was no help to him at all, and yet perversely he was pleased. He had had a long fruitless week, and had heard very little that was of use, and only precisely what he had foreseen. But no one had destroyed his picture of Prudence. He had found nothing that drew her as the emotional, blackmailing woman her letters suggested.
But what was the truth?
The last person he saw was Lady Stanhope. It was an emotionally charged meeting, as it was bound to be. Sir Herbert's arrest had devastated her. She required all the courage she could draw on to maintain a modicum of composure for her children's sake, but the marks of shock, sleeplessness, and much weeping were only too evident in her face. When he was shown in, Arthur, her eldest son, was at her elbow, his face white, his chin high and defiant.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Monk," Lady Stanhope said very quietly. She seemed at a loss to understand precisely who he was and why he had come. She blinked at him expectantly. She was seated on a carved, hard-backed chair, Arthur immediately behind her, and she did not rise when Monk came in.
"Good afternoon, Lady Stanhope," he replied. He must force himself to be gentle with her. Impatience would serve no one; it was a weakness, and he must look at it so. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stanhope," he added, acknowledging Arthur.
Arthur nodded. "Please be seated, Mr. Monk," he invited, rectifying his mother's omission. "What can we do for you, sir? As you may imagine, my mother is not seeing people unless it is absolutely necessary. This time is very difficult for us."
"Of course," Monk conceded, sitting in the offered chair. "I am assisting Mr. Rathbone in preparing a defense for your father, as I believe I wrote you."
"His defense is that he is innocent," Arthur interrupted. "The poor woman was obviously deluded. It happens to unmarried ladies of a certain age, I believe. They construct fantasies, daydreams about eminent people, men of position, dignity. It is usually simply sad and a little embarrassing. On this occasion it has proved tragic also."
With difficulty Monk suppressed the question that rose to his lips. Did this smooth-faced, rather complacent young man think of the death of Prudence Barrymore, or only of the charge against his father?
"That is one thing that is undeniable," he agreed aloud. "Nurse Barrymore is dead, and your father is in prison awaiting trial for murder."
Lady Stanhope gasped and the last vestige of color drained from her cheeks. She clutched at Arthur's hand resting on her shoulder.
"Really, sir!" Arthur said furiously. "That was unnecessary! I would think you might have more sensitivity toward my mother's feelings. If you have some business with us, please conduct it as briefly and circumspectly as you can. Then leave us, for pity's sake."
Monk controlled himself with an effort. He could remember doing this before, sitting opposite stunned and frightened people who did not know what to say and could only sit mesmerized by their grief. He could see a quiet woman, an ordinary face devastated by tormenting loss, white hands clenched in her lap. She too had been unable to speak to him. He had been filled with a rage so vast the taste of it was still familiar in his mouth. But it had not been against her, for her he felt only a searing pity. But why? Why now, after all these years, did he remember that woman instead of all the others?
Nothing came, nothing at all, just the emotion filling his mind and making his body tense.
"What can we do?" Lady Stanhope asked again. "What can we say to help Herbert?"
Gradually, with uncharacteristic patience, he drew from them a picture of Sir Herbert as a quiet, very proper man with an ordinary domestic life, devoted to his family, predictable in all his personal tastes. His only appetite seemed