Blind Justice

CHAPTER 2

Oliver Rathbone sat in the judge’s seat, slightly above the body of the room at London’s central criminal court known as the Old Bailey. This was possibly the crowning point in his career, to be presiding in such a place. He had been arguably the most brilliant barrister in England, and recently, after a string of notable cases, he had been offered this elevation to the bench. He had been surprised by how much it meant to him. It was recognition not only of his intellect but also of his ethical standards and his personal, human judgment.

This promotion had come at a time when other parts of his life were far less happy. His wife of only a few years had accused him of arrogance, selfishness, and of placing his own professional ambition above loyalty or honor, specifically loyalty to his family. He had tried and failed to explain to her that with Arthur Ballinger’s case he had had no choice but to adhere to the law. She could not afford to believe him. The grief of that was still burning slowly inside him, unreachable by reason or by any of the success that had followed since.

Now he watched as the jurors filed back into their seats ready to deliver their verdict. They had been out only two hours, a far shorter time than he had expected. The charge of fraud and the evidence had been extensive and complicated, as it usually was in fraud cases. Robbery was simple: one act. Even violence was usually limited in time and place. The hidden duplicity of fraud required numerous papers to be read, figures to be added and traced to one source or another, and inaccuracies found that could not in any way be ascribed to honest human error.

His conduct of the trial had been a balancing act of some dexterity.

Rathbone looked over at Bertrand Allan, the prosecutor. He looked nervous. He was a tall man, a little stooped, with a shock of brown hair beginning to go gray. He appeared at a glance to be quite relaxed, but his hands were hidden from sight, and his shoulders were so rigid the cloth of his jacket was pulled a little crooked. His junior beside him was drumming his fingers silently against the top of the table.

The lawyer for the defense was anxious. His eyes went one way then the other, but never to Rathbone.

Up in the dock the accused man was white-faced, at last in the grip of real fear. All the way through until this final day he had seemed confident. He swayed a little, as if the tension were too much for him. Rathbone had seen it too many times for it to stir more than an instant’s pity.

The foreman of the jury stood to deliver the verdict when asked.

“Guilty,” he said clearly, looking at no one.

There was a sigh of relief around the room. Rathbone felt his muscles relax. He believed very strongly that this was the correct conclusion. Any other would have evidenced a failure to grasp the weight and importance of the evidence. It would not be appropriate to smile. Whatever he felt, he must appear impartial.

He thanked the jury and pronounced on the convicted man a sentence of imprisonment close to the maximum the law allowed. The crime had been far-reaching and callous. He could see from the expressions in the gallery, and from the nods and murmurs of approval, that the public was also satisfied.

An hour later, still only midafternoon, Rathbone was sitting in his chambers reading papers on a case coming up in a day or two. There was a sharp rap on the door, and as soon as he answered it opened and a stocky man with thick, prematurely gray hair came in.

Rathbone knew him immediately; his reputation was impressive. It was Mr. Justice Ingram York, a man far senior to Rathbone though he was only ten or twelve years older. He had been elevated to the bench early in his career and had presided over some of the most famous cases in the last two decades.

He nodded slightly, standing just in front of the door, having closed it as he came in. He was expensively dressed. His cravat alone probably cost more than many people’s entire wardrobes. His features were good, as he must have been aware, except that his mouth was a little ungenerous; but now he was smiling with a degree of satisfaction.

Rathbone rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy, and out of respect for York’s seniority.

“Well done, Rathbone,” York said quietly. “Very complicated case. I was concerned that the weight of evidence would confuse the jury, but you sorted it out for them with great lucidity. You put that duplicitous devil away for a good many years and possibly set an example for a few others to follow.”

“Thank you,” Rathbone said with both pleasure and surprise. He had not expected a man of York’s eminence to call by to express his satisfaction.

York smiled. “Wondered if you’d care to come to dinner tomorrow evening? Asked Allan and his wife as well. He made a very good showing, I thought. He’s a sound man.”

“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” Rathbone said. It was only after York had given him the time and address, then excused himself and left, that Rathbone sat back and wondered if York was aware that Rathbone’s wife, Margaret, was no longer with him. The invitation was a signal honor, and Rathbone admitted to himself how pleased he was to receive it. It was a kind of acceptance he had not expected so soon. Now he was uncertain if he was going to be embarrassed to arrive alone.

It took only a moment’s reflection to settle the question as to whether there was an alternative. It was months since he had spoken to Margaret personally. Such communication as they had had was entirely through third parties, usually her mother.

Looking back now, he could see that possibly there had been something lacking in their relationship, an understanding deeper than the exchanges of pleasant conversation, even the physical tenderness they had shared in the beginning. Had they ever really understood each other? He had thought so. He had seen a gentleness in her, a rare and very lovely dignity. He still remembered how her mother had unintentionally humiliated her when she was still single, trying to persuade Rathbone, as an eligible bachelor, of Margaret’s virtues. It had made her desperately ashamed, and yet she had tried to put him at ease and allow him to escape without seeming rude.

Instead he had found himself actually wanting to dance with her, even to get to know her better. Her intelligence and honor set her above and apart from the other young women at that particular function. He could not recall now what the event had been; all he remembered was Margaret.

But that was over. Surely the gossip among the legal community would have reached York’s ears? He would be perfectly aware that Margaret had not accompanied Rathbone anywhere in more than a year. It was hardly unnoticeable.

What about Lady York? Would she find her dinner table less than balanced because of it? Perhaps she would have invited some other woman? How embarrassing.

Of course he had expected all this. It was part of the sense of loss. With Margaret he had believed himself happy and at the beginning of a whole new time of peace in his life. He felt a completeness he had never possessed before. Now alone, his feelings of failure were acute. Being alone now was nothing like the occasionally rather pleasant solitude he had known well before his marriage. Back then he had been in love with Hester, and he had hesitated to make any decisive move, uncertain if he really wished his comfort disrupted.

How absurd that seemed, looking back, even cowardly. Hester had never used that word to him, but he could not help wondering if she had thought it.

Should he have said anything to York about his single status? Hardly. It would have been inappropriate, even faintly ridiculous.

He would go, and perhaps enjoy himself. He had done well with this very difficult trial. It was a celebration, and he had earned his place in it.

Rathbone dressed immaculately, as always. Elegance came to him quite naturally. He arrived at the Yorks’ magnificent house exactly at the time the invitation had mentioned. He was used to precision and he imagined York might be also. The door opened before he had time to pull the bell rope, as if the footman had been watching for him, as indeed he might.

Rathbone thanked him, gave him his hat, and was escorted across the tessellated marble floor to the double doors of the withdrawing room. The footman opened them and announced him quietly.

“Sir Oliver Rathbone, sir, ma’am.” He waited as Rathbone went in then closed the doors behind him without sound.

The withdrawing room was very large, more than twenty feet long and at least as wide. The floor was luxuriously carpeted; the curtains on the four high windows were of a rich wine color, dark as burgundy, and in spite of the summer evening they were drawn closed. That part of the room faced the street, Rathbone realized; it was a quiet street but perhaps too open to passersby for comfort.

The furniture echoed the same warm colors, and the chandeliers were reflected in polished wooden surfaces and the glass-fronted cabinets against the farthest wall. The mantelpiece was a superb piece of carving, simple in architecture but elaborate in decoration. It was the centerpiece around which all else was ordered.

York himself was standing beside it. He was clearly comfortable, his suit expertly cut to hide his expanding waistline, a cigar in his hand. He was very much master of the situation. But it was York’s wife Rathbone looked at, with interest, then with surprise. The latter feeling sent a jolt running through him, almost of warning, a reminder to himself that he was no judge of character where women were concerned.

He had expected someone rather ordinary, assuming York had married for financial, social, and dynastic reasons, probably with affection but certainly not out of the kind of passion that overrode reason. Everything he knew about the man, and his very considerable reputation, spoke of a person who never acted rashly. As a lawyer he had taken wise cases, never crusading ones. His political views were discreet. His two sons appeared to be cut from the same cloth: solid, intelligent, but without fire.

Beata York did not in any way fit with that conception. She was older than Margaret-at least in her late forties-but she had a far more turbulent face. Her gray eyes were wide and burning with intelligence. Her hair was surprisingly fair, gold so pale as to be almost silver. At first Rathbone thought that she was truly beautiful, then thought the impression must be due to her gown; she was exquisitely dressed in some soft color that was neither gray nor cream. Then she smiled at him and moved forward to greet him, and he knew he had been right to begin with: she was beautiful.

“Good evening, Sir Oliver.” Her voice was low, even a little husky. “I was so glad you were able to come. It would seem incomplete to celebrate without you.” If she had expected his wife, there was no hint of it in her expression.

“Thank you for having me,” he answered, meeting her gaze. “It would be a poor celebration alone. And I believe the verdict was absolutely right; he was a man much in need of being removed from society and prevented from doing further damage.”

“I’m told it was a very complicated case,” she went on. “How on earth do you remember all the details? Do you take a great many notes? When I write in a hurry I can never read it afterward.” She gave a little grimace of self-mockery, and then laughed lightly.

“Neither can I,” he agreed. “I write only a word or two, and hope to remember the rest. I don’t have to make the decisions, thank goodness, only see that the game is fair.”

“Is fair always the same as right, do you think?” she asked with sudden grave interest.

He was caught off guard. It was far more profound a question than he had expected. It demanded an honest answer, not a trivial one. “Perhaps it is my duty to make it so,” he said quietly.

She smiled at him, meeting his eyes, and turned to greet Bertrand Allan and his wife. They had just arrived and were talking to York closer to the door into the hall.

Introductions were made and Rathbone found himself with Mrs. Allan. She was a woman of very ordinary features, a little too thin, but agreeable enough.

“Congratulations, Sir Oliver,” she said courteously. “My husband says that it was an unusually difficult case that he did not expect to win so convincingly. It must take great skill to disentangle all the threads of evidence and summarize them so the jury understands their meaning and weight.”

“Thank you,” he accepted. “Your husband presented his arguments very clearly, which made it a great deal easier for all of us.”

She smiled her acknowledgment. “I dare say you will be pleased to have a change to something a little less complicated for your next case. Or do you enjoy the challenge?” She did not look truly curious, just mildly interested.

He had no idea how to answer. He wished he could go back and speak to Beata York instead, but the moment with her was one that could not be caught again.

“I accept the challenge, as I have to. I have no control over the cases I am given, though,” he replied. “Perhaps that is just as well.”

Dinner was announced and they went into the dining room. This too was exquisite. A long table was set with silver and crystal, which sparkled in the lights. Swaths of pale flowers twined down the center of the table: pear blossom, late narcissus, white hyacinth, every petal perfect. They sent up the faintest of delicate perfumes, a few dark green leaves stark against the white linen.

The carpet was dark blue, the curtains ivory and blue. The walls were ivory with a delicate gold beading at the edges of the panels. Over the mantel was a huge painting of a seascape after the Dutch School, its cool colors complemented by the classic pallor of the walls. On either end of the mantel shelf crystal candlesticks held perfect white candles, unlit, waiting. The house said much about York. It was expensive, of high quality without open ostentation, and made up in the best possible taste. Was that York himself, or Beata? There was an intellectual quality to the décor rather than true warmth, and Rathbone could not equate that with the glimpse of humor he thought he had seen in Beata. But perhaps he had imagined it.

Each of them was shown to his or her place, York at the head of the table, Beata at the foot. Mrs. Allan sat next to Rathbone and Allan himself opposite Rathbone. The table had been set with as much balance as possible, so as not to make Rathbone’s lack of a companion any more obvious than it was already.

The first course was a light vegetable consommé, followed by grilled white fish, and then roast duck with a rich red-wine sauce. The servants came and went with only the occasional murmur, everyone trained to perfection.

York was a gracious host. He spoke to both Rathbone and Allan about the case, complimenting them obliquely by saying how important it was.

“I think fraud is a crime often dealt with far too lightly,” he said, looking from one to the other of them. “Because there is no open violence people think of it as less serious. And I quite see how that can be.” He took a delicate mouthful of the baked fish on his plate, and continued when he had swallowed it. No one interrupted him. “When there is no blood, no bruised or bleeding victim, we feel safer. They can walk away. How serious can it be?”

Rathbone drew in breath to reply, and then let it out again without speaking. He knew York wished to answer the question himself. He glanced across at Beata and saw the amusement in her eyes. The next moment it had vanished, and he was not sure if he had imagined it because it was a reflection of his own feeling.

Allan was nodding, and his wife smiled with satisfaction at the praise he was receiving. It was appropriate that she, too, say nothing.

But York didn’t speak; he was looking at Rathbone. Having watched his face during his remarks, Rathbone was certain he expected more than mere acknowledgment. He wanted a commitment to the same view. He was searching for allies, or perhaps supporters would be more accurate.

“That is the perception of those who are not the victims,” Rathbone said in the silence. “Fraud is just as much a crime of robbery as that done in the street with a knife to the ribs. The physical fear is not the same, but people perhaps forget or discount the sense of shock and betrayal that still occurs in the victims. Those are wounds as well, and I am not sure if the pain of them is so quickly healed. There may be very large amounts of money involved in fraud cases, as much as one’s home is worth. And more than that, there can be a sense of shame in the victims, as if somehow they were foolish not to have seen it earlier, gullible because they did not suspect. They have been made a fool of by the perpetrator. That feeling isn’t present in a street robbery, when someone threatens you with physical harm and you have little choice but to comply.”

York nodded, his face smooth with satisfaction. “Exactly. It is quiet, but it is a deadly sin. Just because the wounds are not easily visible does not mean you cannot bleed to death from them. You have put it very well. With your permission, I would like to use your words when I next address the Law Society.”

It was a question, in a roundabout way, but not one to which no was a possible answer. It would be professional self-injury of a remarkably clumsy kind to refuse, as York was perfectly aware.

Rathbone forced himself to smile. “Of course,” he agreed. “I think you had exactly the same thought yourself, sir.” He lowered his eyes to his plate, but not before he’d stolen a glance at Beata.

Her brows were slightly puckered, her generous mouth pulled a little tight. She knew exactly what her husband had just done, and she did not approve of it. Or was that merely what Rathbone wanted to believe? He must stop thinking about her! He needed to clear his mind and pay total attention to the conversation, or he would make more stupid errors and lose the game. And it was a contested game, a match of wits; he should make no mistake about that. Success was the prize, visible success as seen and understood by others.

He was suddenly aware Margaret had accused him of seeking exactly that: professional fame and success before love and loyalty to family.

Was he like that? Was that the reason he was sitting here in this beautiful house with Ingram York? Was he like Bertrand Allan, who was clearly an ambitious lawyer looking for the next opportunity to climb another step?

Allan was talking eagerly to York again. Rathbone watched him, watched the flicker of his eyes and the moments of hesitation and tried to remember himself ten years ago. Had he been as easy to read? Or was it only that, having been through it himself, he could now understand Allan? Maybe then York, by token, could read both of them with ease.

He turned to Mary Allan, discreetly searching her face. She was watching her husband with admiration in her eyes. Was that emotional or intellectual? Did she understand the nuances as Allan commented on other cases and his views of certain judgments and York agreed with him? Was any of it completely honest? Possibly Allan was expressing what he believed, but he definitely selected to please.

What would happen if Allan’s loyalties were ever torn, as Rathbone’s had been? Would Mary Allan be so certain of her husband then? Perhaps they had been married longer. No one had mentioned children, but then one did not at a professional dinner party. What would Margaret have done had she and Rathbone had children? He would never know.

They were still talking about fraud. Recent large cases were being mentioned, and how the defenses and prosecutions had been handled. Allan was saying, with the wisdom of hindsight, what he would have done.

Rathbone looked at Beata. She had been looking at him. She lowered her eyes quickly, hiding the gleam of interest. For an instant he was certain that had it been appropriate she would have asked him what he thought and if he read Allan as easily as she did. It was almost as if they had spoken, though no words had been uttered.

“There’ll be more, of course,” York said grimly. “And God knows how many we don’t find; that is the worst thought.”

“Maybe this verdict will put off a few,” Allan said hopefully.

“And the severity of the sentence also,” Mary Allan agreed with a sideways glance at Rathbone.

“I’m afraid it isn’t the severity of punishment that is most effective,” Rathbone replied. “It’s the certainty.”

She looked surprised. “Surely no one would be willing to face ten or fifteen years in prison, no matter how much money was involved?” she said with open disbelief. “In some of the prisons we have they might not even survive it! What use is money then?”

“It doesn’t matter what the sentence is, if they are not caught,” he explained. “And they all think they will be the one to get away with it. But if you know you will be caught, then even one year is too much.”

“We need a rather better police force for that,” York pointed out with a bleak smile.

Rathbone’s instinct was to defend the police, but he bit the words back. Instead it was Beata who spoke.

“There is no point in catching people who commit fraud if they can’t be successfully prosecuted,” she observed. “As Sir Oliver says, it is the certainty that stops people, not the weight of the punishment. Surely no one commits a crime if they know they will have to pay for it.”

Mary Allan turned to her. “I don’t see your meaning,” she said, her brow furrowed. “If the police find sufficient proof then is that not all we need?”

Beata looked at her husband with a slight warning in her expression, then at Mary Allan. “With the right prosecution and the right judge, yes of course it is.” She lifted her wineglass so the others noticed it. “Let us drink to success.”

“To success,” they echoed obediently.

The subject changed to other matters. Beata asked if anyone else had been to the theater lately.

Bertrand Allan surprised Rathbone by saying that he had been to the music hall a short while ago, in order to see Mr. John “Jolly” Nash perform. Catching sight of York’s raised eyebrows he hastened to explain that he had done so because he had heard that Nash was a favorite of the Prince of Wales, who particularly, it was said, enjoyed his rendition of “Rackety Jack.”

“Really?” Beata responded with interest. “I hadn’t heard.” Mary Allan looked blank.

Rathbone glanced at Beata, who instantly concealed a smile. He looked away.

“I believe Mr. Nash is somewhat …” Beata hesitated, looking for the right word.

“It was for gentlemen only,” Allan assured her.

“Then uncensored it would be, I imagine, to the prince’s taste,” Beata observed. “How entertaining.”

Rathbone was happy to watch and listen. He went to the theater very seldom these days. He realized with a sudden dismay that he and Margaret had gone on only a few occasions and had rarely cared for the same work. How often had he pretended to agree with her when he had not? Her opinions had seemed predictable to him; they provoked no new questions in his mind, stirred no questions he had not considered before, stirring no new depth of emotion.

It had not occurred to him until now to wonder how often she had feigned an interest in something he had chosen, probably hiding her boredom more skillfully, and perhaps more kindly, than he had done.

The subject had moved to another play now, something a little more decorous. Beata was guiding the conversation into more comfortable areas.

“Did you like it?” Rathbone asked her a trifle abruptly, and then felt ashamed of his clumsiness. He wanted to add something to make it seem less demanding but did not know what.

She seemed amused, far more so than Allan, who had been about to speak and was now at a loss.

York looked from one to the other of them, his expression unreadable.

Beata gave an elegant little shrug. “You have caught me out, Sir Oliver. I’m not certain that I did. People are talking about it, but I fear it is more for the performance than any content of the drama itself. I would have found it more interesting if it had concluded less satisfactorily. An awkward ending would have given one something to think about.”

“People don’t like confused endings,” Mary Allan pointed out.

“A thing should be either a comedy, in which case the ending is happy, or else a tragedy, when it is not,” Allan agreed, supporting his wife.

York was amused. He watched them with undisguised satisfaction.

Beata turned her wineglass gently, watching the light glow through it. Rathbone noticed that she had beautiful hands.

“Surely life is both, even farce at times?” she asked. “A little ambiguity, even confusion, allows you to come to some of your own conclusions. I rather enjoy having to complete the thoughts myself. If the answer is easy, the question hardly seems worth asking.”

“It’s a play-entertainment,” Mary Allan frowned. “We want to enjoy ourselves, perhaps laugh a little. There are times when I find tragedies moving, but I admit it is not very often. And I prefer the ones I know, such as Hamlet. At least I am prepared to see everyone dead at the end.” She said it with a slight, rueful gesture, robbing the remark of any offense.

Beata accepted it without demur. “There is so much in Hamlet one may see it dozens of times and never grow tired of it. Of course, that needs to be over several years!”

Rathbone laughed in spite of himself, and reluctantly Allan joined in.

“Did it make you think?” York asked, looking pointedly at Rathbone.

“It certainly made me wonder how on earth an actor can remember all those lines and have energy and attention left to pour emotion into them as well, while still managing not to fall over the furniture,” he answered.

“Training,” York said drily. “They only recite the words; they don’t have to invent them. And a wise stage manager keeps the furniture to a minimum.”

“Perhaps that explains why judges are allowed to remain seated,” Rathbone suggested, then wished he had not.

Mary Allan looked at him as if he were totally eccentric, York pulled a slight face, and Bertrand Allan was confused. Only Beata half hid a smile.

“I hear that the police are investigating the possibility of fraud in one of the local London churches,” York remarked, changing the subject.

“Really! I wonder if that will come to trial.” Allan looked at York, slightly turning his back toward Rathbone.

“Not certain if they can raise enough evidence to make a charge.” York smiled, taking another piece of Stilton. He ate it with relish before replying. “I am very relieved that I am extremely unlikely to get the case. It is always messy prosecuting a churchman.” He looked across at Rathbone with a gleam of amusement. “After your success with this one, perhaps you’ll get it.”

Rathbone was caught out, uncertain as to whether it was a compliment or a joke at his expense. Had he appeared to be too pleased with himself? A case of fraud against a church would not be easy at all.

Intentionally he deflected the barb. “You are quite right; anything to do with religion, money, and the possibility of fraud will make headlines. People will follow the case for all kinds of reasons, good and bad. It will be the topic of heated debates, and no matter what the verdict, it will infuriate as many people as it pleases.” He smiled very slightly. “For that reason alone, I imagine they will be very careful as to whom they give it. I have been fortunate so far, but my experience is very slight.” He turned to Allan. “If you appear in this one, would you prefer prosecution or defense?”

“I don’t think I would be likely to get a choice,” Allan replied. “But I do agree with you that it will be very high profile-if it actually comes to trial at all, that is.”

“Who could a church defraud?” Mary Allan asked of no one in particular. “They are not doing any business. Do they handle so much money that fraud would even be worth their while? Surely not.”

“We will see, if it comes to trial,” York answered her.

She looked concerned. “Do you think it will?”

York considered for a few moments, aware that they were all watching him and waiting. He gave a small smile. “I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I would say about evens.” He looked at Rathbone, then at Allan.

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “If you were a betting man, what would be your odds on getting a conviction?”

York blinked. “Ten to one against, I should think.”

“What a good thing you are not a betting man,” Beata murmured. “The temptation would be enormous.”

York opened his mouth to retort sharply, and, realizing that she was not even looking at him, closed it again with irritation.

Rathbone saw the smile on Beata’s face, sad, wry, and completely inward, not intended to communicate with anyone else. He wondered what the conversation between her and York would be when the guests were gone and they were alone-or even if there would be any.

Mary Allan gazed around the room. “I think this is so charming,” she remarked, as if everyone had been speaking of décor the moment before. “The colors are so restful, and yet have such dignity.”

“Thank you,” York replied, acknowledging the compliment without even glancing at Beata. Rathbone assumed he must’ve chosen the colors himself.

“I think if I were to do it again, I would choose something warmer,” Beata said deliberately.

York raised his eyebrows. “Warmer? How can blue be warmer, unless you go into purple, which I would dislike intensely. I cannot imagine living with purple curtains.”

She did not retreat. “I was thinking of yellow,” she replied. “I have always thought I would like yellow one day, like sunlight on the walls.”

Rathbone thought how pleasant that would be. He found himself smiling.

“A yellow room?” Mary Allan said, unimpressed.

“What would you do for curtains?” York asked. “I refuse to live in the middle of a glass bowl like a goldfish!”

“Perhaps the color of whisky?” Rathbone suggested.

Beata flashed him a sudden smile then looked down the moment before York turned to stare at her.

“It sounds very …” Mary Allan started, and then gave up.

“Like scrambled eggs on burned toast,” York responded.

Allan laughed nervously.

“Afternoon sunlight, and a good glass of single malt,” Rathbone said with a smile, meeting York’s eyes and challenging him to be rude enough to argue.

Rathbone turned over the conversation again on the ride home. He took a hansom because he no longer kept a carriage of his own. He could easily afford it, but without Margaret to use it, it was an unnecessary luxury.

Was there really going to be a major fraud case brought against a church, or was York simply playing a game with Allan and Rathbone to see whose ambition was greater? He considered that quite a serious possibility. He had sensed a detachment in York, as if other people’s feelings were of amusement to him, but of no concern. He found it disconcerting. The man was clever, but he could not like him.

Beata York was a different matter altogether. There was a grace in her that he found quite beautiful. Even sitting here in the hansom jolting over the cobble in the flickering light of street lamps, if he closed his eyes he could see her face again quite clearly in his mind’s eye. He imagined the curve of her cheek, the quick humor in her eyes, and then the loneliness he had seen in that single smile, when she disagreed with York but could do no more than hint at it because of the restrictions of company. Was it different when they were alone? Was the distance between them less disguised?

The church case he mentioned would be very difficult indeed to handle. People’s religious feelings ran deep and were often completely irrational. It would take considerable skill to disentangle the law of the land from what might be perceived to be God’s law. The trouble was everybody had a different picture of God. Opposing views were not considered interesting, but rather all too often were felt to be blasphemous, and as such to be punished. Some religions even considered it the duty of their followers to undertake the delivering of such punishment themselves.

And who were the victims of such a theft? That was a whole other complicated area.

If it came to trial, did Rathbone want that case? It would be an honor to be given it, wouldn’t it? Or would he get it simply because he was too new on the bench to have the power and the connections to pass it off to someone else?

But it would be interesting, a challenge to his skill, and if he succeeded he might build up a reputation for dealing with complicated and sensitive issues. Dangerous, perhaps. The risk of failure always carried a price, but the rewards were correspondingly high. He had no one to consider but himself. Why not? Perhaps something with high stakes to play for, whether he won or lost, was what he needed.

He sat back in the hansom and watched the dark houses slip by him. Occasionally he saw chinks of light and imagined families sitting together, perhaps talking over the day. Where there were no lights they might already be in bed. He passed little other traffic and what there was moved briskly. Everyone had somewhere to go.

Yes, he would like the case, if he were given it. He would not look for excuses to pass it on.

A few weeks later, into the real warmth of the summer, Rathbone stood in the doorway of his drawing room and gazed at the immaculate beauty of the garden. Beyond the shade of the poplars the sun was hot. The first roses were in full bloom. The house next door had a rambler that had spread up into the lower branches of the trees, and its clusters of white blossoms gleamed in the sun.

His eyes took in the beauty of it, but it was curiously meaningless to him. His instinct to turn and say “Isn’t that lovely?” was so strong he had to remind himself there was nobody in the house to say it to. It was far too personal a thing to say to a servant. A maid would think it inappropriate and perhaps even be alarmed at the familiarity of it. A butler or footman would be embarrassed. To any of them it would betray his loneliness, and one did not do that. Servants knew perfectly well that masters or mistresses were flawed, made mistakes. No one was more aware of that than a lady’s maid or a valet. They knew of physical weaknesses and many emotional ones as well. But it was all unspoken.

He had lived alone quite happily before his marriage. In fact, long ago, when he had been in love with Hester and considering asking her to marry him, it has been the loss of his privacy, the thought of always having someone else in the house that had stopped him.

Could he have made her happy? Probably not the same way Monk did. He had not Monk’s fierce, brave, erratic passion. That was what Hester needed, to match her own.

But would Rathbone have tried, if he had had the courage to risk the hurt as well as the happiness? Now he would never know.

Should he have behaved differently with Margaret? He had been so certain of her, of them, in the beginning; it seemed incredible now how that had changed. Was he deluding himself? He remembered it all so clearly with a sharpness that was like the edge of a knife on the skin. She was not beautiful, but she had had a grace that was worth far more to him. That was an inner quality. Too often beauty masked the lack of anything deeper. How long could one remain fascinated by the glow of lovely skin or the perfect curve of a cheek or a neck if there were no courage or passion beneath it, no laughter or imagination, above all, no tenderness?

He had seen those things in Margaret, or he thought he had. Was it his fault that they had not survived her father’s disgrace and Rathbone’s failure to save him? It was unclear to him what else he could or should have done to try and fix them.

It was, after all, Margaret who had insisted Rathbone defend Arthur Ballinger. He had seemed the obvious choice then. He had been the most brilliant lawyer in London. That was not an affectation, simply the truth. And both of them had been certain that Ballinger was innocent.

The unraveling evidence had shown Rathbone his error, but Margaret had never accepted it. Even now, after Ballinger’s death, she refused. She still blamed Rathbone. He could see her face in his mind’s eye, ash pale, twisted with fury and a pain she could not bear. She had accused him of putting ambition before loyalty, love of himself before love of his family. She believed he had sacrificed her father on the altar of his own pride.

Nothing he said could persuade her that he had had no choice. Ballinger had been guilty, and whatever Rathbone had wanted, he could not prove anything else. God knew he had tried! To begin with, the evidence had been slight and could have been used to argue several different conclusions. Then, one by one, other events had driven the case to the final tragedy. Rathbone would never forget the horror of that, but nothing he could say or do mitigated his guilt in Margaret’s eyes. She knew Ballinger only as her father, the man who had loved her and protected her all her life. She could not see him as a blackmailer, a criminal.

Rathbone was only the man she had married and loved briefly. She had begged for his help, assumed his loyalty, and could not forgive his failure. In her eyes, there were but two possibilities: either her father was not as she had believed or her husband was not. It was all her life, all the memories, the fabric of who she was compared with a short marriage to a man she had cared for but perhaps never been passionately in love with. Looking back, Rathbone thought there had never been a real conflict in her mind. Of course she had chosen her father.

After his terrible death she had no longer wanted to be under the same roof as Rathbone. Her grief, her rage had been overwhelming. She had taken the few belongings that were hers and gone back to comfort her mother in her new widowhood and social disgrace.

At first Rathbone had believed that she would return within a few weeks, but time had gone on, and it was now more than a year since she had left. Several times he had attempted to bridge the gulf between them. He had thought she would realize that she was being unfair, blaming him for Ballinger’s death. She would accept that there was never anything he could have done to save him.

But every attempt at reconciliation had only driven the wedge deeper between them. Now he began to question whether they had ever loved each other at all, or if it had been more a matter of wanting to love, wanting not to be alone, and therefore seeing the good, building on it, slowly sharing more of the small pleasures of their daily lives.

When tragedy had come the fabric had proved too weak.

Should he have loved her more? Or should he have waited for a searing passion, a love that governed his whole life, before he married?

That was ridiculous. How many people even felt such a thing? Perhaps it was no more than a fever that passed anyway. Infatuation is not love. Love needs trust and balance. It needs both sharing and also the ability to be at peace in silence. Perhaps it needs a common faith in certain values, in honor and compassion, and the courage to go forward in the face of pain. It has to contain mercy, and gratitude for the joys of life, on both sides.

It must not demand perfection. What would perfection know or understand of the frailties of a vulnerable person, the failures of someone brave enough to try what is difficult?

Margaret had been immature.

Rathbone had been immature also. He should have been gentler with her. Certainly he should have been wise enough not to undertake Ballinger’s defense alone. But if he had taken assistance she would have blamed him for not having thrown his whole weight behind it. She would have said his backing away from the case in any regard would make the court assume he thought Ballinger guilty from the start.

He had still not told her the whole story about the dreadful legacy her father had deliberately left to him, his final vengeance. She would still blame Rathbone, and hate him the more for it. It would mend nothing.

Was it a gentleness in him that stilled his tongue? Disillusion is one of the bitterest pains anyone can face. Some people cannot bear it; they break under the weight. Margaret was one of those. Maybe he still had some lingering tenderness toward her, a need to protect her from the truth if she did not have to know it.

Or was he simply too bruised and too weary inside to face another series of quarrels and rejections? Not that it mattered. There was no need to tell her.

He had never had to face the worst of disillusion himself, not one that came anywhere near hers. His own father was the best man he had ever known. Even standing here on the edge of the empty summer garden, watching the birds and the few butterflies sitting on the silent, brilliant flowers, he smiled thinking of Henry Rathbone. Of course, his father was fallible, and he himself would be the first to admit it. He was a mathematician and inventor, a man whose mind was brilliant, yet when others spoke of him it was his kindness they spoke of first.

He could remember his mother only as a slim figure from his childhood, someone warm and safe who made him laugh, comforted his early pains and fears, and who told him he could accomplish anything, if he tried hard enough. She believed in him totally.

She had died when he was twelve and away at boarding school. She had said he could do anything; he had thought then if he had been at home surely he could have saved her. He remembered the sharp, twisting pain of loss and the disbelief in his boyish mind, and then the guilt. He should have been there. Why had she not told him, not trusted him? What was wrong with him not to have seen it himself? She must have been ill for a long time before. It wasn’t sudden.

All that had gone through his thoughts. Only later, several years after, did he realize she was protecting him. He was twelve, thinking himself almost a man, but she knew what a child he was. Had he been there, he would’ve wanted to save her, and he would’ve failed-and that would’ve hurt him deeply. She had known that.

There was only the echo of those memories left now, a gentleness in the mind when he thought of her and the things she had cared for, when he imagined her presence. She had never lived to see him pass the bar examinations, see his mounting success, his triumph in battles for justice that had seemed impossible. Had she ever imagined he would be knighted by the Queen, would be Sir Oliver? And now he was a judge. She would have been so proud!

Margaret likely had none of those emotions when she thought of her father. To lose someone you love because he dies from illness is a sweet ache. To lose everything good you believed of him is a pain that stains all he left behind. It poisons the very air of memory.

Ballinger had had his revenge on Rathbone, from beyond the grave. He had bequeathed him the obscene photographs at the heart of the case. They were hidden away now, locked in a safe so well concealed he doubted anyone else would ever find it. He had used one of the photos once. He loathed doing it, and he had sworn he never would again.

Maybe he should have destroyed them when they were first delivered to him after Ballinger’s death. He knew how they had come about, why Ballinger had created them, and how he had first used them and why. It was what had happened later that was the terrible wrong.

Was all power like that? You use it for good, then for less good, then finally simply because you can. Surely he was strong enough to resist that kind of temptation? He was not like Arthur Ballinger. He would not even look at them again, and perhaps one day soon he would smash the glass photographic plates to pieces. The paper prints he could burn.

He heard a noise of wings and looked up at a flight of birds across the soft blue of the sky. It must be after six o’clock. The breeze was stirring the poplars, shimmering the top leaves. It would be a long, delicate evening, too good to waste in pointless remembering.

He made the decision easily. He would go out to Primrose Hill and have supper with his father. He had a really good Belgian pâté, one of Henry’s favorites. He would take it, and the plum pie that his cook had made with rich, flaky pastry. Maybe he should take half a pint of cream as well, in case Henry didn’t happen to have any.

Henry Rathbone had been sitting in the garden reading one of the German philosophers he was so fond of. He had finally fallen asleep with the book upside down on his lap.

Oliver walked silently over the grass and stopped just short of where his shadow would fall across his father and, in all likelihood, wake him up. He stood still for a few moments then turned and went back to fetch another chair. He sat down a few yards away and allowed the peace to settle over him. He was comfortable enough to go to sleep, but instead he chose to bask in the pleasure of it.

There was no sound but the birds and the faintest wind occasionally stirring the leaves of the elms. The quiet settled into his bones as heat does, easing out the hurts.

When Henry woke up he would be delighted to find Oliver here. They would talk of all manner of things, funny and sad, interesting, new, or odd. They always did. Perhaps Henry would have some new jokes. Oliver had a limerick he knew would amuse him. Henry liked dry humor, the more absurd the better. Oliver wanted to talk about what disturbed him most at the moment: the complex moral issues surrounding the idea of loyalty. Henry would advise him without making it personal or emotional, without laying blame. Oliver would speak without having to worry about every word being judged, or misunderstood.

He looked across at Henry now, still sound asleep. He was well into his seventies. His hair was very gray, his face was getting a little gaunt, but his mind was as strong as ever, except that he repeated himself now and then.

Oliver never told him so. He received every remark with interest, as if he had not heard it before. Usually he hadn’t.

But even as he saw the shadows lengthening in the garden and the color deepening in the light to the west, he knew that he would not always be able to come here and find Henry. One day it would be the last.

This was the most important relationship in his life. Maybe it always would be. If Margaret had loved her father like this, how could he blame her for her inability to cope with the loss? The destruction of everything she had believed she had-the smearing of it, the shattering of the beauty and the safety of that relationship, the pieces laid bare for strangers to tread on-was terrible, perhaps more than anyone could bear. In a way it was worse than if she herself had been the one sitting in the prosecution box.

How was he going to deal with Henry dying, when it happened? It would be a new loneliness, such as he had never experienced in his life.

How childish of a man his age to think of such a thing. The great gift of a marvelous father had been given him, and here he was wondering how he would deal with losing it at some time in the future.

But what faith did he have to nourish him with hope? What did he really believe in? The law. The morality of the Church, more or less, but what about the passion and the faith of it? He did not know the answer to that. Perhaps he should! With the disillusion in her father, and all that she had believed of him, Margaret was alone as Oliver never would be, robbed of the past as well as the present. How had he not seen that before?

Monk was not alone. As long as Hester was alive he never would be. And if there were a time after that, then the memory of her would sustain him and drive him to be all that he could, all that she had believed of him, even as he would hurt from missing her.

Henry moved a little and the book slipped out of his grasp. Its fall to the ground woke him up. He reached for it and saw Oliver sitting a few feet away. For an instant he was startled; then his face broke into a smile of pleasure.

“Didn’t hear you,” he apologized. “Have you been here long? How about a cup of tea? Can you stay for that?” He climbed slowly to his feet, took a moment to adjust his balance, and waited.

Oliver rose also. “I had intended to stay all evening,” he replied. “I’ve brought some pâté and a plum pie, hoping you’d provide the rest.”

“Excellent.” Henry started to walk back to the house, going in at the garden door. “Plenty of crusty bread and butter and a little French cheese. I’m not sure about any cream for the pie …”

“I brought some.” Oliver followed him in through the door and closed it behind him, turning the key, just in case they forgot later.

“Tea and fruitcake now?” Henry offered. “Or some Madeira cake, if you prefer? I’ve got a nice new little seascape I must show you.” He picked up an art folder of heavy cardboard and unfastened the ties. He laid it flat on the table and lifted the cover. “It’s only amateur, but it’s really very pleasing. Found it in an antique shop the other day.”

The painting was small, as he had said, but the colors were beautiful. The artist had used the paper in true watercolor style, allowing it to show through and give the whole picture light. The wind-whipped sea seemed almost luminous.

Oliver wanted to ask Henry his opinion about Ballinger’s photographs, and if he should destroy them. Or if perhaps the information they held was too valuable to be allowed to disappear. Once obliterated, their power could never be used for evil or for good. There was also the question of whether one should destroy evidence of a crime, which the photographs most certainly were. It was hard to find the words to sort through the tangled situation.

“It’s quite lovely,” he said instead, looking at the little painting. “I think he could well become professional, don’t you?”

Henry smiled. “Actually it’s a ‘she,’ so I doubt it. But I’m delighted you like it. I’ll have it framed, I think. Now, what kind of cake would you like with tea?”

“Fruitcake, thank you,” Oliver replied, knowing it was also Henry’s favorite.

Henry looked up and caught Oliver’s troubled face. “What is it?”

“Ballinger’s photographs,” Oliver replied. “I … I’m still undecided whether I should destroy them or not.”

Henry thought for a few minutes before speaking.

Oliver waited.

“I presume you have weighed the arguments on either side, and reached no conclusion,” he said finally.

“I’m not sure that it’s quite that simple,” Oliver answered frankly. “To destroy them would be irrevocable. I suppose I’m reluctant to do that. What if a situation arises where, with them, I could right a great wrong, but I had thrown that opportunity away because I was too cowardly to deal with the responsibility of keeping them? I would have to face the fact that I destroyed a precious means of helping make a difference. Ballinger himself first used them to save countless lives after all.”

There was no joy in Henry’s face, no light of agreement.

“To begin with, yes,” he said. “But I think it’s more important to remember where he ended up.”

“Are you saying I should destroy them?” Oliver asked.

Henry regarded him slightly critically. “No, I’m not. It is too big a decision for you to allow anyone else to make for you. You are dealing with an immense power. Be very careful.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Whatever you do there is a terrible risk. That is no doubt what Ballinger intended.” He smiled bleakly; then his face lifted with gentleness. “I’m sorry.”