Free A Dangerous Mourning by Anne Perry Page A

become separated, when she saw Monk. She hesitated, uncertain whether to speak to him or not. Hearing the evidence over again, recounting it herself, she had felt all the turmoil of emotions renewed, and her anger with him had been swept away.
    But perhaps he still felt just as contemptuous of her? She
    stood, unable to decide whether to commit herself and unwilling to leave.
    He took the matter out of her hands by walking over, a slight pucker between his brows.
    "Well, Miss Latterly, do you believe your friend Mr. Rathbone is equal to the task?"
    She looked at his eyes and saw the anxiety in him. The sharp retort died away, the irrelevancies as to whether Rathbone was her friend or not. Sarcasm was only a defense against the fear that they would hang Menard Grey.
    "I think so," she said quietly. "I was watching the jurors' faces while you were testifying. Of course I do not know what is yet to come, but up until now, I believe they were more deeply horrified by the injustices of what happened, and our helplessness to prevent it, than by the murder itself. If Mr. Rathbone can keep this mood until they go to consider their verdict, it may be favorable. At least—" She stopped, realizing that no matter what the jurors believed in blame, the fact remained undeniable. They could not return a verdict of not guilty, regardless of any provocation on earth. The weighing lay with the judge, not with them.
    Monk had perceived it before her. The bleak understanding was in his eyes.
    "Let us trust he is equally successful with his lordship," he said dryly. “Life in Coldbath Fields would be worse than the rope."
    "Will you come again tomorrow?" she asked him.
    "Yes—in the afternoon. The verdict will not be in till then. Will you?"
    "Yes—" She thought what Pomeroy would have to say. "But I will not come until late either, if you really do not believe the verdict will come in early. I do not wish to ask for time from the infirmary without good reason."
    "And will they consider your desire to hear the verdict to be a good reason?" he said dryly.
    She pulled a small face, not quite a smile. "No. I shall not phrase my request in quite those terms."
    "Is it what you wished—the infirmary?" Again he was as frank and direct as she recalled, and his understanding as comfortable.
    "No—" She did not think of prevaricating. "It is full of incompetence, unnecessary suffering, ridiculous ways of doing things which could so easily be reorganized, if only they would give up their petty self-importances and think of the end and not the means." She warmed to the subject and his interest. "A great deal of the trouble lies with their whole belief of nursing and the nature of people who should work in it. They pay only six shillings a week, and some of that is given in small beer. Many of the nurses are drunk half the time. But now the hospital provides their food, which is better than their eating the patients' food, which they used to. You may imagine what type of men and women it attracts! Most of them can neither read nor write." She shrugged expressively. "They sleep just off the wards, there are far too few basins or towels for them, and nothing more than a little Conde's fluid and now and again soap to wash themselves— even their hands after cleaning up waste."
    His smile became wider and thinner, but there was a gleam of sympathy in his eyes.
    "And you?" she asked. "Are you still working for Mr. Runcorn?" She did not ask if he had remembered more about himself, that was too sensitive and she would not probe. The subject of Runcorn was raw enough.
    "Yes. "He pulled a face.
    "And with Sergeant Evan?" She found herself smiling.
    "Yes, Evan too." He hesitated. He seemed about to add something when Oliver Rathbone came down the steps dressed for the street and without his wig and robes. He looked very trim and well pleased.
    Monk's eyes narrowed, but he refused to comment.
    "Do you think we may be hopeful, Mr. Rathbone?" Hester asked