Acceptable Loss

CHAPTER 12

Rathbone rode home in a hansom sometime after Margaret had left the courtroom with her mother. It had been another good day. When Winchester had first presented his case, Rathbone had feared that there would be no effective defense. Now he was more than hopeful; he knew there was a real and very considerable likelihood that the jury would have a reasonable doubt as to Ballinger’s guilt.

Although, the irony of it was that the picture that emerged of Parfitt was so repellent that the jury would be reluctant to hang the man who had killed him. In fact, Rathbone judged that several of them would want to shake the killer’s hand and turn a blind eye to the law.

And there was a level at which this entire trial was not so much about who had killed Parfitt, quickly and more mercifully than he deserved, but about who had staked him, used him, and reaped the lion’s share of his profit. Rathbone had seen the anger in Monk’s face that drove him to pursue the deeper levels of the affair, and the guilt that his instinct had been too powerful to simply abandon the murder case in the beginning. There must have been moments when he would gladly have marked it “unsolved” and shelved it.

Now Monk was going to fail anyway, because no one would hang for the crime-either the lesser crime of strangling Parfitt or the greater crime of having created his opportunity in the first place, and then fed him with money and skill until he became a monster.

He understood Monk and wished that his failure were avoidable, particularly that Rathbone himself did not have to be such a powerful instrument in bringing it about. But he had no choice. The hansom pulled up outside his house. It was dark, and the streetlamps were shedding yellow light in the misty evening. Branches swayed, the leaves drifting in the wind. The air smelled of earth and rain.

The butler opened the door. Margaret was waiting for him in the withdrawing room. She was standing in the middle of the floor, as if she had heard him come and had risen to her feet. She looked tired. There were signs of strain in her face, and she was definitely pale, but her eyes were bright. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, she came to him quickly, putting her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek, and then the mouth.

Then she pulled away quickly. “We’re going to win, aren’t we? I can see it in the jurors’ faces. They’ll acquit him.” She closed her eyes. “Thank God for that.”

He held her tightly. “We’re not there yet, but yes, I think they’ll acquit.”

She opened her eyes again.

“They have to know that he didn’t kill that wretched man, not just that Monk can’t prove it.”

“It isn’t Monk, Margaret. It’s-”

“Yes, it is!” she responded vehemently. “Monk is the one who arrested him and brought the charge. I know he doesn’t run the prosecution in court because he isn’t a lawyer, but he’s behind it, and everyone knows that. Don’t quibble! You have to have them know it was somebody else, probably Rupert Cardew. They aren’t bringing that girl to say she stole his cravat, are they!”

“No, of course not. They can’t. She’s dead.” He watched her face, afraid of what he would see in it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said quietly. “But I’m afraid prostitutes come to a bad end quite often. And she lied. I don’t know why. Maybe he threatened her. But it doesn’t matter now. You have to make sure the jury understands that she was killed, almost certainly by Rupert Cardew. That’s a good thing, for the case. Then they’ll really know Papa was innocent.”

“Do you hear what you are saying, Margaret?” he asked, pushing her a little farther from him, looking into her face. He saw the fear there, tightly controlled, the fierce protection, the urgency. There was no awareness at all that she had said anything to cast a shadow over her integrity.

“That justice will be done, and we’ll be safe again,” she replied.

Should he argue? Was there any point, or would she only be angry, and then push a further wedge between them? He knew he should not say it, and yet the words slipped out of his mouth: “Don’t you care that she’s dead, perhaps murdered?”

“Of course I’m sorry! I’m not heartless,” she retorted with a touch of anger. “But she had a life that was always going to end badly.” She shook her head. “There’s nothing we can do about it. We have to fight for complete justice-exoneration for Papa. And then perhaps Monk will put it right by charging Rupert Cardew again. He can, can’t he? I mean, there’s no double jeopardy or anything like that, because he didn’t stand trial. He might even have killed Hattie as well. Then if you can’t prove he killed Mickey Parfitt, you could always hang him for killing her.”

“You said it as if you would like that,” he observed. Why was he provoking a quarrel, pushing her away? All she wanted was for her father to be free from all taint or suggestion of wrongdoing. Was that not natural? Wouldn’t he do exactly the same if it were his father? Wouldn’t Lord Cardew fight just as hard and as ruthlessly for Rupert, when that time came? Would he ask Rathbone again to defend him? Would Rathbone accept?

Would Monk even be in command of the River Police anymore to pursue it? Or by then would it be some new man?

Hester would not have found this loyalty so cut and dried. She was far more complex, more torn by conflicting passions and convictions. And yet at this moment, at least, she was easier for him to understand. She would weep for Hattie; she would not accept that it had been inevitable; and she would weep for Rupert Cardew, and his father. What about for Monk? He was her own. She would fight for him, blindly, without care for injury, weariness, even temporary defeat, just as Margaret fought for her father. But would Hester be sure that Monk was right? He thought not. It would not lessen her love for him, but she would consider the possibility that he had been mistaken, even that the error had been moral as well as factual.

Was that good, or bad?

Margaret was staring at him, her eyes puzzled and angry. “If he’s guilty, then he deserves it,” she replied. “I don’t like it, but I accept it. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t find the difference between right and wrong so simple.”

“He murdered Parfitt, and probably Hattie as well, and he was looking to see my father hang for it. What is complicated about that?” There was challenge in her face, a stiffness, nothing anymore that he could reach out and touch.

“Proving it,” he said coolly. “But I will go to see your father tomorrow and ask how hard he wishes me to press the issue. He has until Monday morning to decide. As it is now, I think we have a good chance of reasonable doubt. I could call him to testify, and he can swear his innocence, but that will allow Winchester the opportunity to cross-question him. He may prefer not to do that. It is his choice, not yours or mine.” He put a finality into his voice, closing the subject from any further discussion. He sounded cold, and he knew it, but he felt cold inside, as if a door had been shut, and he did not know how to open it again.

In the morning he went to see Arthur Ballinger in Newgate Prison. He had to wait some little time before at last Ballinger was brought to see him. In the gray light he looked tired, and for the first time Rathbone was acutely aware of how afraid he was. Pity twisted inside Rathbone for Margaret, and he wished he had been gentler with her, but he did not know now how to retrace his steps.

“Oliver!” Ballinger said sharply. “Why are you here? I thought it was going well?”

“It is,” Rathbone replied. Why did this man make him feel so uncomfortable? He had spoken to scores of clients in circumstances like these, both the guilty and the innocent. He cleared his throat. “I need to know if you wish to testify yourself or not. You don’t need to make up your mind until Monday morning, but you must give it very serious consideration.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it will give Winchester the opportunity to cross-question you, and I can’t protect you from anything he says, nor can I foresee what it might be. Don’t underestimate him. As it is, I believe we have a very good chance of a verdict of not guilty, because there is more than reasonable doubt.”

“Doubt?” Ballinger said unhappily. “Reasonable doubt is the same as saying they believe I am guilty but they can’t prove it. I need ‘not guilty,’ Oliver, with certainty.” He took a breath. “I need them to believe that someone else killed that wretched creature.”

“They will say ‘not guilty,’ ” Rathbone assured him. “And you cannot be charged again. It is finished.”

“In court, perhaps, but not in the public mind. There I am still ruined. For God’s sake, man, can’t you see that?” Ballinger controlled the panic rising in his voice with obvious difficulty. “Saying that the case was inadequate is not enough.” He fixed Rathbone with an intense gaze. “I need them to know that they had the wrong man, Oliver. I need that! There is another man out there that the police should be pursuing. I imagine it is Rupert Cardew. They must go after him as diligently as they did after me. I don’t give a damn if his father is a decent man that everyone admires, or how sorry for him they might feel. My family is decent too.”

He hesitated for several seconds, and Rathbone was about to speak again when Ballinger seemed to reach some decision, and continued. “And you have no idea what good I’ve done that I don’t boast about, or seek reward for. But that won’t stay anyone’s hand, or their tongues.”

Rathbone looked at him and felt profoundly sorry for him. He was right. The talk, the suspicion, would remain, the belief that somehow he had escaped justice. He would be saved from the punishment of the law, but not of society.

“Are you sure you want to, Arthur?” he said gently. “This case is still very lightly balanced. Emotions are high. Don’t ever mistake Winchester for a fool because he occasionally makes people laugh. He will go for your throat if he has the chance.”

“Then, I won’t give him the chance,” Ballinger said bitterly. “Rupert Cardew is a dissolute and violent young man, and he should answer to the law like anyone else. Parfitt was a scab on the backside of humanity, but Hattie Benson was simply an ignorant young woman who made her living in the only way she could imagine. She had little alternative but the match factory, or a sweatshop somewhere. Whoever killed her should hang for it, and I can see that in the jurors’ faces, even if you can’t.”

Rathbone knew that he was right, but he was still afraid of the risk. It seemed brutal to warn Ballinger, but it would be a betrayal of Rathbone’s duty not to.

“You would be safer to leave it as it is,” he said gently. “I have to tell you that. The risk is considerable.”

“What does ‘considerable’ mean?” Ballinger said sharply.

“The balance is with us now, but not heavily. That could alter. They could hear something, the mood could change on an attitude, an answer they don’t understand, a witness saying something …”

“I’ll take that chance. I will not leave that courtroom with the world believing I am guilty but I escaped because I had a good lawyer.”

“There is a chance you could be found guilty.” Rathbone said it, and the words all but choked him. “Sometimes it depends on a thing as trivial as a like or dislike. It’s skill and chance as well as justice. For heaven’s sake, Arthur, you know that!”

“Are you advising me against trying to clear myself?”

Rathbone hesitated. He was not sure. If it were he and he knew himself innocent, the practicality of not seeking more than to escape the noose might not be enough for him. He might believe more deeply than at an intellectual level that truth would prevail. Would he insist on fighting, or would he be cautious, careful, willing to settle for the lesser prize?

Perhaps he would. Monk would not. Hester wouldn’t even consider it. She would always fight for the best, the ultimate-win, lose, or draw-he had no doubt of it. But was she wise?

More to the point, would she do that when giving medical treatment to someone unable to make their own decision, lacking the strength or the knowledge and depending upon her? No. He knew the answer without even considering. She would not take the risk with someone else’s life.

But she would cut off a gangrened limb rather than let the patient’s whole body become infected and die.

“Oliver!” Ballinger said sharply.

“I think you should find another way of clearing yourself. Perhaps do all you can to help Monk, or anyone else, to prove who it was and bring them to trial. It will be slower, but-”

“No,” Ballinger said firmly. “I will do it now. I won’t subject my family to this horror any longer. And for God’s sake, you can’t expect me to leave my fate in the hands of William Monk!”

“But-”

“Are you refusing to take my instructions, Oliver?”

“No. I am advising you, but in the end I will do as you wish.” He felt like a coward saying it, as if in some oblique way he had betrayed Ballinger, but he had no choice.

They spoke only a little longer, and he left. Outside, a fine rain soaked him thoroughly before he was able to get a hansom, and it perfectly suited his mood.

He was unable to let the matter go. He went straight to Portpool Lane, to the clinic, on the chance that-in spite of the fact that it was Saturday-Hester might be there. He might learn more about exactly what had happened to Hattie Benson. He felt guilty as he walked in through the familiar, shabby entrance. One of the girls who had seen him before greeted him cheerfully.

He was guilty because he wished to see Hester, even if she was abrasive, unsympathetic, or told him things he would prefer not to know. There was something clean, even astringent, about her beliefs. He could not remember a time in all their friendship when she had tried to manipulate him. Heaven knows there had been some uncomfortable times, some quarrels, many differences of opinion. He had thought her outrageous, and he had said so. She had thought him pompous, and had said that too. But they had been honest, not only in word but in intent. Just at the moment, he would welcome that.

He realized, as he spoke to Squeaky Robinson-who lived here and so was always around-that he also felt a different guilt. This one was edged with acute discomfort; he was afraid of what he might learn here.

“Upstairs,” Squeaky said, pointing a finger over his shoulder. “Can’t leave it alone. Should be at home, that one. But the boy’s off with Monk, boating or some such.”

“Thank you,” Rathbone said quickly, and walked on past him before he could be ensnared in conversation. He went up the stairs two at a time, in spite of their narrowness. He knew every turn and creak, every unevenness, and did not miss his step.

He found Hester making beds in one of the larger rooms, which was unoccupied. She heard the creak of the door as he pushed it wider, and turned to see him, surprise widening her eyes.

“Oliver?” She dropped the sheet, and it fell on the bed in white folds, and he smelled the pleasant cleanliness of fresh cotton. “Is something wrong?” She looked at him more closely. “What is it?”

There was no point in trying to approach it obliquely, with her, of all people. “I need to know more about how Hattie Benson left here, and anything else you can tell me about her.”

She studied his face. “Why?”

That was the one response he had not foreseen. “What do you mean, why? She was going to testify. Then she left here and was found later that day floating in the river. She was unquestionably murdered, and almost as certainly by whoever murdered Parfitt. You know all this.”

“If I knew who killed her, Oliver, I would say so, whoever it was,” she replied. “I have the confidences of no one, and no loyalties other than to pursue the truth. I had a duty to protect her, and I failed. I have no duty to protect whoever killed her. You might have.” She did not fill in the rest of the thought; it was unnecessary.

It made him hesitate for a moment. “I … I believe the only way I can best serve my client is by knowing as much of the truth as I can,” he said slowly. “You may find it hard to believe it was Rupert Cardew who killed her, but if it was-and it is possible-it would not only gain an acquittal for Arthur Ballinger, but it would restore his reputation, without which he is ruined.” He hesitated again, seeking a way of saying what he had to more gently. There was none. “And I appreciate that an acquittal for Ballinger means that Monk was wrong, and you cannot separate your emotions from that. I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“It’s loyalties again,” she said with a twist of irony in her smile. “Yours is to Ballinger, because he is Margaret’s father. Mine is against him, because that would make William wrong. But it’s hardly the same depth of importance, is it?” It was not a question so much as a reproof. “Do you think I would see an innocent man hanged rather than have my husband shown up in a mistake? What would that make me? Or him?”

“Nor would I see a guilty man go free because he is my father-in-law,” he responded.

“He is your client,” she corrected him. “That binds you to give him the best defense you can, unless you actually know that he is guilty. Then you would have a problem with which I could not help you. But you don’t know that, or you wouldn’t be here asking me about Hattie.”

“Don’t chop logic with me, Hester,” he pleaded. “You don’t know who is guilty either, or you would have told Monk and it would be all finished, except for the sentencing.”

A sudden, deep compassion filled her face. He did not immediately understand it. Then he realized what his own words had been-“all finished, except for the sentencing,” not “except for the trial.” Some part of him feared that Ballinger was guilty, and she had seen that.

“I have to know, Hester,” he said, his throat dry. “He wants to testify. I need to know what to prepare for. Can’t you understand that?”

“Oh.” There was a finality in her voice, an intensity of emotion that made him suddenly afraid.

“What is it?” he said. “You know how she went. You would have insisted on finding out. Tell me.”

Her face was pale, her eyes terribly, blazingly direct. He knew that whatever the truth was, it was going to hurt one of them. The only question was which one, and how much.

“Margaret took her to the door,” Hester said quietly. “There she met another woman, who was well spoken and wore ordinary clothes, at least an ordinary shawl, but had excellent-quality and most unusual leather gloves, hand-tooled with a little design above the wrist.”

Rathbone felt as if he had been punched. The shock left him without breath. “It can’t be,” he said after a moment regaining his voice. “You must be wrong. Who said Margaret took her to the door? Someone is lying.”

“It was Margaret herself, Oliver. She doesn’t deny it. She was afraid Rupert Cardew had paid Hattie to lie for him, and she wanted to prevent her from doing that.”

He shook his head, refusing to believe it. “But Hattie was strangled and put in the river!” He was almost shouting. “You can’t imagine that Margaret had any hand in that. It isn’t possible.”

Hester touched him, just gently, a hand on his arm. He could feel the slight warmth of her through the fabric of his jacket. “Of course I don’t think she had any willing or knowing part in it,” she agreed. “She took Hattie to the door and persuaded her to leave. Someone else met her there. I would guess it was Gwen, but I can’t be certain. That second woman took her to a house in Avonhill Street in Fulham, less than a mile from Chiswick.”

“Somewhere she would be safe,” he said quickly. “She must have left it herself, and run into one of Parfitt’s men. Margaret couldn’t know that would happen.”

“Of course not,” Hester agreed, but there was no light in her face, no relief from the sadness. “And the landlady said a man was with her. He called himself Cardew.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me?” he said incredulously. “You just said you have no duty of loyalty to anyone, only to the truth.” That was definitely an accusation. It was hard to believe Hester, of all people, to be such a hypocrite. And she hadn’t had to tell him of her loyalties: she had just proved where they lay by keeping the information about Cardew quiet. He felt more deeply betrayed than he had thought possible. He realized with a jolt of surprise how profoundly he had still cared for Hester, perhaps idealized her. It brought a sting to his eyes and his throat. Too much that he loved was melting under his hand, and slipping away.

“Do you really believe that Margaret and Gwen were working in cooperation with Rupert Cardew to murder the one witness who could have saved him, and thus condemned their father?” she asked.

“No, of course not! They …” He stopped.

“Yes? They what?” She waited.

“Perhaps she wasn’t going to save him?” he replied. “Maybe Cardew paid her to lie, and she wouldn’t go through with it. He realized that, and that’s why he killed her.”

“With Margaret’s help?” Hester’s eyebrows rose in disbelief, but there was no triumph in her face. “And Gwen’s? Can you imagine what Winchester will make of that idea on the stand?”

She was right. It was unbelievable.

“Did you really want to know that, Oliver?” Her voice broke into his nightmare. “If you did, then I apologize for not telling you. I made a wrong judgment, and I’m sorry. I know that you have to act honestly. I thought it would be impossible for you if you knew that.”

He felt dizzy, as though the room were whirling around him. She was right-of course she was right. But he did know now. The terrible thing was that he could believe it. He remembered Margaret’s face as she looked at her father. She obeyed him without thought, without judgment. He was part of the life she had always known, the fabric of her beliefs, the order in everything.

That was natural. Perhaps Henry Rathbone was the cornerstone of Rathbone’s own life. He could not think of any values, any thought or idea that they had not shared with each other over the years. Their trust was so deep, it had never needed expressing. It was as sure as sunrise; it was the safety that reassured all other doubts, so he never feared an endless fall.

“Oliver?”

He heard her voice, but it was a moment before he could recall himself to the present, the small room in the clinic, the bed with the clean sheet on it, and Hester looking at him.

“What are you going to do?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. I suppose you are certain of all this?”

“Yes.” Her voice was gentle. “Margaret told me herself, when I faced her with it. She didn’t evade it. She didn’t say it was Gwen, though. That I deduced by going out and asking people in the streets. I found a peddler who saw Hattie with another woman, and described her. I found the hansom they took to Fulham, right to the house. I took the same cab to the same house, and spoke to the woman who owns it. There might be one chance in a hundred that I’m wrong. It was another woman who looked just like Hattie, at the same time on the same day. And another Mr. Cardew rented the place for her. And our Hattie turned up dead later that day, in the river just a mile away.”

“One chance in a hundred?” he said bitterly. “Perhaps in a million.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did this landlady see Cardew’s face?” It was a desperate last throw. Rathbone knew how he sounded even asking.

“No. He stood well back in the shadows, and he had a heavy coat on, and a hat. He could have been anyone.”

He could think of nothing to say, nothing that eased the increasing pain inside him.

“Thank you … I …”

Hester shook her head. “I know. Winchester won’t call me, and you shouldn’t. I can’t testify to anything firsthand. Do whatever you feel is the right thing.”

“The right thing!” The words escaped with a wild bitterness. “For God’s sake, what is that?”

“Do you believe Ballinger is guilty?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I suppose I fear it. It will be a kind of hell if he is.” He meant it: he was not exaggerating the horror he saw in his own imagination.

She looked at him steadily. “Would you have Rupert Cardew hanged to save him, because he is your family and Rupert isn’t? If you would, Oliver, then what is the law worth? What if Lord Cardew felt the same way, and would have anyone else hanged, guilty or innocent, as long as his own son didn’t have to face himself and his deeds? Would you accept that? Is that really what you believe-one law for your family, another for anyone else?”

“What about loyalty, what about love?” he asked.

“What have you left to give, if you have already given away yourself?”

“Hester …”

“I’m sorry. I don’t always like it, but I can’t believe anything different. It doesn’t mean you stop loving. If you could care only for those who are good all the time, we would none of us be loved. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. Then he touched her hand briefly and turned to go.

He reached home at lunchtime; Margaret was waiting for him.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice sharp-edged. “You didn’t say you were going out.”

“I left before you were up.” He found himself defensive. “I went to see your father. He wants to take the stand. I think he shouldn’t, but I couldn’t persuade him.”

“Why shouldn’t he take the stand?” she demanded. She was wearing pale blue, her hair pulled back a little severely, and she looked angry. “He must defend himself. The jury has to hear him deny all the charges and explain that he is a solicitor. He acts on behalf of all sorts of people. Even men like Parfitt are entitled to legal advice, and to a defense, if they are wrongly accused.”

“They are entitled to it even if they are rightly accused,” he pointed out.

“Don’t quibble!” she snapped. “Why don’t you wish him to testify? You haven’t explained that to the jury-I don’t know why not.”

“Because I don’t want to say it more than once,” he replied tartly. “It sounds like an excuse if I push it too hard, like protesting too much. I am keeping it for my final address to them.”

“Well, Papa should still testify. He’ll look guilty if he doesn’t. You’ve said that often to me. It seems to them like running away. If they hear him, see him, they’ll know what kind of a man he is, and that the whole charge is ridiculous. It’s Monk trying to make a name for himself. He probably knows he’s wrong by now, but he daren’t back out of it or he’ll look a fool.”

Rathbone felt as if a nightmare were tightening its coils around him. “Margaret, did you go to Hattie Benson in the clinic, take her to the street door, and persuade her to leave?”

There were two spots of color in Margaret’s face. She lifted her chin a little higher. “She was going to lie about Rupert Cardew, and Hester would have seen that she went through with it. If you think I could allow my father to be hanged for something he didn’t do, then you have no idea of either love or loyalty.”

“Love doesn’t mean betraying what you believe in, Margaret, and no one who truly loved you would ask it,” he replied, his voice trembling.

She closed her eyes. “You pompous fool!” she said between her teeth. “Love means caring, passionately. It means sacrificing yourself for another person because they are more important to you than your career or your ambition, or the way other people admire you, or your money, or even your own life!” Her voice was shaking. “But you wouldn’t understand that. You like, you want, perhaps at times you can need, but you don’t love! You’re a cold, pious, self-righteous man. You don’t want a wife; you want someone to hold on your arm at parties, and organize your household for you.”

Rathbone felt as if she had struck him. He tried to think clearly, find the reason, the balance, but all that filled his mind was crippling emotion. Hester’s words rang in his ears, but he knew even trying to repeat them to Margaret would be useless. And they would sound like Hester, which would make matters even worse.

He should leave, now before he said something that he could never take back.

But as he stood on the outside step again, he was at a loss to know of anything that could have made it worse.

He took a Hansom and rode in it all the way to Primrose Hill, not even considering the possibility that his father might be out. Only as the cab set him down on the pavement and he fished in his pocket for the money to pay the driver did he think of it. It was a mild Saturday afternoon. Why should Henry Rathbone be at home when there were a hundred other things to do, friends to visit?

“Wait a moment,” he told the cabby. “He may be out. I’ll be right back to tell you.” He turned and strode up the path, now in a hurry as if every second counted. He banged on the door, and thirty seconds later banged again.

There was no answer. His heart sank with a ridiculous, overwhelming disappointment. He was angry with himself for behaving like a child. He stepped back, and the door opened. Henry Rathbone looked grubby and disheveled, a gardening fork in his hand. He was taller than Oliver, lean and just a trifle stooped. His gray hair was sparse and windblown, his blue eyes mild.

“You look terrible,” he observed, looking Oliver up and down. “You’d better come in. But pay the cabby first.”

Oliver had already forgotten the cab. He strode back, paid the man, and thanked him, then went back to the door and into the house.

“Where’s whatshisname?” he asked. He could never remember his father’s manservant’s name.

“Saturday afternoon,” Henry Rathbone replied. “Poor man has to have some time to himself. He’s got a grandson somewhere. Go and put the kettle on the cooktop while I wash my hands and put my tools away. Then you can tell me what’s happened. I presume it is something to do with your father-in-law’s case? Quarter of London is talking about it.” He rarely exaggerated.

Oliver obeyed. Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the large, old armchairs on either side of the fire in the familiar sitting room with its watercolors on the wall and its shelves upon shelves of books. The tea was poured, but still too hot to drink, although its steamy fragrance filled the air. There were also several slices of fruitcake on a plate. It was rich and inviting, even if Oliver had thought he might never feel hungry again.

“What is your dilemma?” Henry asked.

“I don’t know that I have one,” Oliver replied. “I can see only one acceptable choice, but I hate it. I suppose …” He stopped, uncertain what it was he wanted to say.

Henry took one of the slices of cake and began to eat it, waiting.

Oliver started to sip his tea, trying not to scald himself.

Several minutes passed in silence, comfortable but still needing to be filled with words to frame the burden.

“You are required to do something repugnant to you,” Henry said at last. “If you are certain Ballinger is innocent, then probably you need to show some evidence that someone else is guilty. Rupert Cardew? Is it Lord Cardew you are so loath to see suffer?”

“I can’t do that,” Oliver replied. “The evidence is flawed, very badly flawed. Winchester would demolish it, and leave Ballinger looking even worse.”

“And you are afraid that Ballinger is guilty? If not of killing Parfitt, then at least of something, presumably of financing this boat-or worse, of using Parfitt for the blackmail?”

There it was: simple and astonishingly painful, the truth, in his father’s mild, exact voice. Oliver had no need to answer-it must have been clear in his face. Nevertheless he did so. They had always been frank with each other. His father had never asked for trust, or said how much he cared-at least not that Oliver could remember-but it would have been totally unnecessary, even absurd, a stating of something as obvious as breathing.

“Yes. Worse than that. I’m afraid that Hester is right and he killed the girl who would have testified that she stole Rupert Cardew’s cravat and gave it to one of the men who worked for Parfitt, or even to Ballinger himself.”

Henry straightened up a little in his chair, his face even graver.

“You haven’t told me about this. I think perhaps you had better do so now.”

Quietly, with simple words, Oliver told him all he knew, including his conversation with Hester that morning. His quarrel with Margaret was still too painful, and he brushed over it, more by implication than detail.

“I see,” Henry said at last. “I’m afraid you are in for a great deal of distress. I wish I could remove it for you, but I can’t. There is no honorable way except forward, and eventually anything else would hurt even more. I’m sorry.” The pain in his face, the sharp note of helplessness in his voice, made further expression redundant.

It was growing late, and outside the light was failing. At this time of the year, sunset came early, and the long twilight slowly drained the color from the land. The wind was gusty and warm, sending the yellow leaves flying.

Henry stood up. “Let’s walk a little,” he suggested. “There are still some good apples left on the trees. I really should have picked them by now.”

Oliver followed him, and they went out of the French doors onto the grass and down the garden. The hedge was full of bright berries, scarlet hips from the dog roses, darker bloodred haws from the may blossom. There was a rich, sweet smell of rotting leaves and damp earth, and the sharper tingling aroma of wood smoke. A few purple asters were in bloom, shaggy and vivid, and the tawny bronze and gold chrysanthemums.

Beyond the poplars in the distance, a cloud of starlings swirled up into the darkening sky, making for home.

The scene was all so familiar, so deep in his heart and mind, that it was woven through every memory and dream he could imagine. It would be absurd-embarrassing, even-to say so, but his love for his father was so intense he could not bear to think of life without his friendship. Would he place his father’s safety, his happiness before Margaret’s? He did not really have to ask himself; he knew the answer before the question formed. Yes, he would. To betray him would be unbearable.

But at the same moment he also knew that Henry Rathbone would never do the things that Arthur Ballinger had. He made mistakes, had flaws in his character; of course he did, everyone did. Oliver did not wish to think of them, but he knew they were there. He could have named them, if forced to.

But he also knew that Henry would never have asked someone else to pay the price, or take the blame for him.

Perhaps Margaret believed the same of Ballinger? Were her memories just as deep, as woven into her own life, her beliefs? Was he being unfair to her?

But his withdrawal from her had nothing to do with ambition, or even with love. It had to do with Rathbone’s own identity. She was asking him to destroy himself, but if he did that, there would be nothing left for either of them. What she was asking of him was not a case of personal sacrifice; that might have been a more difficult decision. It was an issue of doing something he believed-no, something he knew-to be wrong.

He looked up at the sky as the starlings wheeled back again into the wind, still flying as if to some understood pattern, all going home to roost for the night.

Henry seemed to know he had reached a conclusion. He did not raise the subject again. They turned and walked together back through the apple trees toward the house.

At home Rathbone and Margaret passed the weekend in bitter silence. The politeness between them was like walking on broken glass.

At dawn on Monday morning, Rathbone went again to see Arthur Ballinger to try to persuade him not to testify. As it was, he had a good chance of acquittal. He could prove his actual innocence later, if someone else were charged.

But Ballinger was obdurate. He would not leave the courtroom with this accusation still hanging over his existence, crippling his life, shadowing and tainting the lives of his family. Even the possibility of a guilty verdict did not deter him. He simply did not believe it could happen.

Was that supreme hubris, or was he actually innocent and Rathbone had badly misjudged him? He entered the courtroom still uncertain.

As soon as he called Ballinger to the stand, there was a rustle of excitement, a movement, a stiffening of attention.

Ballinger mounted the witness stand. He looked pale but composed, as grave as an accused man should, and with appropriate humility. He was clearly taking all the advice that Rathbone had given him. He looked the model of a good man unjustly afflicted by circumstance.

Nevertheless, Rathbone was as nervous as if he were on trial himself. His mouth was dry and his muscles ached with the built-up tension of going over and over every possibility in his mind. He was afraid his voice was going to betray him by cracking. He did not even glance at Margaret, who was sitting with her mother and sisters in the gallery. He could not bear to see the coldness in her face, nor to wonder where their lives were going after this, whatever the outcome.

He dared not fail.

Ballinger was sworn in and faced Rathbone expectantly.

“Mr. Ballinger,” Rathbone began. He cleared his throat. He was unaccustomed to being so nervous. “Did you know Mickey Parfitt?”

“I met him once, several years ago, very briefly,” Ballinger replied. “I don’t remember him. I know only because of the transaction concerned.”

“Indeed. And what was that, Mr. Ballinger?” Rathbone knew that he had to draw this out now, because it was a matter of record, and if he did not, then Winchester would make more of it.

“It was the sale to Mr. Parfitt of a boat, by a client I represented,” Ballinger replied levelly.

“Was this boat the same one we have heard about, used for pornographic performances and the imprisonment of children?” Rathbone kept all expression from his face.

“I don’t know. I only advised my client in the sale of the boat.”

“And was this client whom you represented Mr. Jericho Phillips, the same Jericho Phillips you later represented when he was tried for murder earlier this year?”

There was a rustle of movement, a sigh of indrawn breath around the gallery.

The jury sat motionless, faces pale.

“It was,” Ballinger answered quietly. “I believe that every man is entitled to the protection of the law, and a fair and just trial.”

“So do we all, Mr. Ballinger.” Rathbone nodded gravely. “That is why we are here.”

Neither of them even glanced at the jury. They could have been alone in Rathbone’s office.

“Have you ever visited this boat, Mr. Ballinger?” he continued.

“Once, at the time of its sale. It looked a very ordinary sort of craft. I was merely assuring myself that it was described correctly in the papers concerning it, which it was.”

“Did you ask Mr. Parfitt how he intended to use it?”

“No. It was none of my business.” A slight flicker crossed Ballinger’s face. “But if indeed he used it as has been described, it is hardly likely that he would have told me.”

“Quite.” Rathbone allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Were you, to your knowledge, acquainted with any of the men who frequented either boat, after they were turned to the use of pornography?”

“Certainly not. But of course men who practice this kind of behavior do not tell people, other than those who share their vices. From what I have heard during this trial, it seems they indulge in them together. Therefore, they would know each other.”

“Quite.” Rathbone found that the fullness of Ballinger’s answer made him uneasy. He had advised Ballinger to be extremely careful, to say only yes and no, but Ballinger was either too nervous to obey or too sure of himself to heed advice. Rathbone should leave that subject.

“Mr. Ballinger, where were you on the evening that Mickey Parfitt was killed?”

Ballinger carefully repeated the exact story he had told before, and which had been borne out by the witnesses.

Rathbone smiled. “Inspector Monk has testified that he followed your route, to the minute, and discovered that he could find a small craft and row down to Parfitt’s boat at its moorings, spend the time on board that it would take to kill Parfitt, and then row back to Mortlake again. He took a cab back to the crossing opposite Chiswick Eyot, and still was there at the time you said you were. Did you do that?”

Ballinger smiled back. “Mr. Monk is the best part of a generation younger than I am, and leads a very physical life. He is a river policeman. He probably rows a boat every day. I wish I were as young and as fit as he is, but, unquestionably, I am afraid I am not. I did not do it, nor had any desire to. But even had I wished, it would have been beyond my ability.”

“You did not?”

“I did not. It is my misfortune that I happened to spend that particular evening visiting an old friend in Mortlake, instead of at home with my wife, or out to dine in a public place. It is my additional misfortune that Inspector Monk has never forgiven me for acting for Jericho Phillips, insofar as I obtained your services to defend him when he faced trial. Monk appears not to believe that a man accused of evil acts is not guilty until he is proved so in law, and he is entitled to a lawyer to defend him of as high a quality as the one who accuses him. It is the very foundation of justice.”

There was a murmur of approval from the gallery. Ballinger eased a little where he stood in the witness box, and met Rathbone’s eyes across the distance between them.

Rathbone felt a sense of warmth himself, as if he had achieved what duty required of him.

“Thank you, Mr. Ballinger. Please wait there in case Mr. Winchester has any questions to ask you.” He returned to his seat.

Winchester stood up and walked forward. “Oh, I have. I most certainly have.” He looked up at Ballinger.

Rathbone had been very careful. Hattie Benson’s name had not even been mentioned. Winchester was bluffing, putting off the acknowledgment of defeat, lengthening out the tension.

“A most moving testimony, Mr. Ballinger,” Winchester observed. “And interesting. I notice that Sir Oliver very wisely did not ask you if you were acquainted with the prostitute Hattie Benson, who was so sadly murdered in the exact manner that Mickey Parfitt was. Even to the use of the knotted rag to strangle her, leaving bruises at intervals around her throat.”

“Because he knows that I have no knowledge of it,” Ballinger replied levelly. “I may speculate, of course, as we all may, because we know with whom she was involved, by his own admission.”

“Ah, yes.” Winchester nodded. “Mr. Rupert Cardew. But of course since she is dead, her testimony remains unspoken.”

“It might have remained unspoken even if she were alive,” Ballinger pointed out. “It is possible she repented of it, and told him that she could not go through with it.”

Rathbone’s sense of ease was slipping away from him. He rose to his feet. “My lord, this is a piece of speculation that has no place here. We cannot know what Miss Benson would have said, nor can we question her to prove its truth, or otherwise. If my learned friend has something to ask Mr. Ballinger, please instruct him to do so. Otherwise, he is wasting the court’s time.”

The judge leaned forward, but before he could speak, Winchester apologized.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I shall proceed. Mr. Ballinger, you said that you had no direct knowledge of the trade that was carried on by Mr. Parfitt in the boat you helped him purchase?”

“That’s right. None at all,” Ballinger replied coolly.

“And to the best of your knowledge, you were not acquainted with any of the men who patronized it and indulged in these acts, and, as a result, were blackmailed?”

Rathbone stood up again. “My lord, Mr. Winchester is merely repeating evidence we have already been through.”

The judge sighed. “Mr. Winchester, is there some point to all of this?”

“Yes, my lord. I intend to call Mr. Ballinger’s honesty into very grave doubt-in particular, with regard to this last issue.”

“To what purpose?” Rathbone demanded. “He has said that he does not know any of these men, as far as he is aware. None of us knows what weaknesses or vices people may have, and thank God, for the most part, it is none of our business. They may be men you know! Or any of us knows.” He spread his arms in a wide gesture, to include the whole room, the jurors, the gallery, even the judge. “And since the court does not know who they are, this is futile.”

“Sir Oliver is right,” the judge agreed. “Move on, Mr. Winchester, if you have anything else upon which to cross-examine Mr. Ballinger. Otherwise, let us put the matter to the jury.”

“But we do know who these men are, my lord,” Winchester said clearly. “At least I do.”

Suddenly there was total silence in the room. No one stirred. No one even coughed.

“I beg your pardon?” the judge said at last.

“I know who they are,” Winchester repeated.

Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his skin and a prickle of fear sharp inside him, although he did not even know why. He stared at Winchester.

“Were you aware of this, Sir Oliver?” the judge asked.

“No, my lord. I would question its veracity, and why Mr. Winchester has not referred to it before.”

“I came by it only this weekend, my lord,” Winchester replied to the judge.

“From whom?” the judge demanded.

Rathbone knew the answer the moment before it was spoken.

“From Mr. Rupert Cardew, my lord,” Winchester said. “In the interests of justice, he provided it-”

Rathbone lurched to his feet. “How can that possibly be in the interests of justice?” he demanded. “It has nothing to do with the case, except possibly to prove that there were a large number of men who may well have had motive to wish Parfitt dead. And who is to say that this list is accurate? It could be the complete fabrication of a man who has an intense interest in seeing Mr. Ballinger convicted, in order to remove all suspicion from himself!”

“He will testify to the names, if necessary,” Winchester replied. “And with diligence, it should be possible to prove that all of them have visited the boat, at some time or other, most of them fairly regularly.”

“A long and tedious job,” Rathbone rejoined. “And irrelevant to this case, my lord!”

“Not irrelevant, my lord,” Winchester said. “I mention it to throw extreme doubt on Mr. Ballinger’s innocence in this matter. Sir Oliver paved the way for me in his own examination by asking the witness about his knowledge of the boat, and Mr. Ballinger replied that he did not know its business, nor was he aware of knowing any of the men who patronized it. I have the list of names, my lord. I regret to say that I myself am acquainted with two of them-”

The judge was rapidly losing patience. “Mr. Winchester, you appear to be behaving in the worst possible taste, titillating the most vulgar aspect of public curiosity, in a matter that is repellent and does not further your case in the least.”

“My lord, every one of the men on this list is personally acquainted with Mr. Ballinger! Every one of them, without exception. Why would he lie about it to this court, under oath, if it were not something he wished to-indeed, needed to-conceal?”

There was a gasp, a rustle of movement right around the room, then a terrible stillness.

Rathbone felt his muscles clench like a vise. He would like to have believed that it was Rupert Cardew making a desperate move to save himself from the suspicion that would inevitably follow Ballinger’s acquittal. He turned and looked at the gallery, and saw Rupert immediately, ashen-faced and perfectly steady. This would ruin him. Society would never forgive him for betraying the names of those who had soiled the honor most of them aspired to but had not the courage to defend.

Winchester broke the silence. “I will call Mr. Cardew to the stand to name them. Should anyone doubt him, Sir Oliver can, naturally, question him on the issue, and require him to prove what he says. But I shall not do it unless your lordship insists. This knowledge would ruin many families, and call into question legal decisions, possibly even Acts of Parliament. The possibilities for blackmail are so momentous that the damage would affect …” He stopped, leaving their imaginations to fill in the rest.

“Sir Oliver?” the judge said a little huskily.

It was defeat, and Rathbone knew it. He would not bring down the whole order of society to save Ballinger, even would such a thing have done so. And it would not. He could see in the jury’s faces that the balance had tipped irrevocably against him. They knew Ballinger had lied, possibly about everything. And strangely enough, even if Rupert had turned on his own social class, for which he would never be forgiven, the jury believed him, possibly even admired him. He had chosen the honorable thing to do, at a terrible price to himself.

“I … I have nothing to add, my lord,” Rathbone answered. Only as he sat down again did he even consider that perhaps he should have demanded that the names be made public. Then in the instant afterward, he knew he should not. Winchester had them. If there was anything to be done, he would do it. He would investigate, examine, and if necessary prosecute any corruption. It did not occur to Rathbone, even as a fleeting thought, that Winchester was bluffing. Cardew’s face and Ballinger’s denied that.

He made a desperate final summation, but he knew he could not succeed. The tide was against him, and he had no more strength to turn it.

The jury was out for an hour, which seemed like eternity. When they came back, their faces told the verdict even before they were asked.

“Guilty.” Simple. Final.

Rathbone was in a daze as the black cap was brought to the judge. He put it on his head and pronounced sentence of death.

Mrs. Ballinger cried out in horror.

Margaret slipped to the ground in a faint.

Without thinking, Rathbone scrambled from his seat and went to her just as she was stirring. Gwen was with her, holding her. Celia and George were trying to support Mrs. Ballinger.

“Margaret! Margaret,” Rathbone said urgently. “Margaret?” He wanted to say something, anything to comfort her, but there were only empty promises, things that were meaningless.

She stirred and opened her eyes, looking at him with utter loathing. Then she turned her face away toward Gwen.

He had never felt so completely alone. He rose to his feet, trembling, and walked back to his table. The court was in an uproar, but he neither saw nor heard it.