railing toward him, her face flushed again. "No! Never! It is quite monstrous to say such a thing! Sir Herbert Stanhope killed her"-she shot a look of loathing across at the dock and the jurors followed her eyes-"because she threatened to expose his affair with her," she said loudly. "We all know it It wasn't Geoffrey. You are simply saying that because you are desperate to defend him." She directed another blazing glance at the dock, and even Sir Herbert seemed discomfited. "And you have nothing else," she accused him. "You are despicable, sir, to slander a good man for one miserable mistake."
"One miserable mistake is all it needs, ma'am," Rathbone said very levelly, his voice hushing the sudden murmur and movement in the room. "A strong man can strangle a woman to death in a very few moments." He held up his hands, fine, beautiful hands with long fingers. He made a quick, powerful wrenching movement with them, and heard a woman gasp and the rattle of taffeta as she collapsed somewhere behind him.
Nanette looked as if she too might faint.
Hardie banged sharply with his gavel, his face hard.
Lovat-Smith rose to his feet, and then subsided again.
Rathbone smiled. "Thank you, Miss Cuthbertson. I have nothing further to ask you."
Geoffrey Taunton was a different matter. Rathbone knew from Lovat-Smith's stance as he took the floor that he was in two minds as to whether he should have called Taunton at all. Should he leave bad alone rather than risk making it worse, or should he, try to retrieve it with a bold attack? He was a brave man. He chose the latter, as Rathbone had been sure he would. Of course Geoffrey Taunton had been outside, as prospective witnesses always were, in case a previous testimony should color theirs, so he had no idea what had been said of him. Nor had he noticed Nanette Cuthbertson, now seated in the public gallery, her face tense, her body rigid as she strained to catch every word, at once dreading it, and yet unable to warn him in any way.
"Mr. Taunton," Lovat-Smith began, a note of confidence ringing in his voice to belie what Rathbone knew he felt. "You were well acquainted with Miss Barrymore and had been for many years," he went on. "Had you any reason to know her feelings for Sir Herbert Stanhope? I would ask you not to speculate, but to tell us only what you observed for yourself, or what she told you."
"Of course," Geoffrey agreed, smiling very slightly and perfectly confident. He was serenely unaware of the reason people were staring at him with such intensity, or why all the jurors looked but avoided his eyes. "Yes, I was aware for some years of her interest in medicine, and I was not surprised when she chose to go to the Crimea to help our wounded men in the hospital at Scutari." He rested his hands on the railing in front of him. He looked quite casual and fresh.
"However, I admit it took me aback when she insisted in pursuing the course of working in the Royal Free Hospital in London. She was no longer needed in the same way. There are hundreds of other women perfectly able and willing to do the sort of work in which she was involved, and it was totally unsuited to a woman of her birth and background."
"Did you point that out to her and try to dissuade her?" Lovat-Smith asked.
"I did more than that, I offered her marriage." There was only the faintest touch of pink in his cheeks. "However, she was set upon her course." His mouth tightened. "She had very unrealistic ideas about the practice of medicine, and I regret to say it of her, but she valued her own abilities quite out of proportion to any service she might have been able to perform. I think her experiences during the war gave her ideas that were impractical at home in peacetime. I believe she would have come to realize that, with good guidance."
"Your own guidance, Mr. Taunton?" Lovat-Smith said courteously, his blue eyes wide.
"And that of her mother, yes," Geoffrey agreed.
"But you had not yet succeeded?"
"No, I regret we had not."
"Do you have any knowledge as to why?"
"Yes I do. Sir Herbert Stanhope encouraged her." He shot a look of contempt at the dock.
Sir Herbert stared at him quite calmly, not a shadow of guilt or evasion in his face.