Blood on the Water

by Anne Perry

  “We are all vulnerable,” Juniver replied, lowering his eyes. “We want justice as we see it. We want to be heroes. We want to be on the side of right. And a good few of us want to climb on up the ladder as well …” He stopped. Then he added as if it were an afterthought, “And some of us want to earn favors of certain people.”

  That was what he had been meaning to say. Rathbone knew it as surely as if he had spoken of nothing else. He did not need to ask if he were referring to York. What did York want? To rise to the Supreme Court or the House of Lords? Not lord chief justice, surely? He had neither the brilliance nor the reputation among his peers for that.

  Rathbone looked at Juniver again. Had the Beshara case really been big enough to build a reputation from which to reach for that? Or was York deluding himself? Perhaps Rathbone should have read more of the newspapers from the time of the sinking; then he would have understood the mood better.

  “Is York in line for the next high office vacant?” he asked Juniver. Answers winged through his mind: York as lord chief justice, smiling under his white wig, nodding as he spoke with the prime minister, bowing before the queen. He saw Beata behind him, watching. Even if she just affected to be proud to be his wife, his heart ached for her. If she really was proud, because she had no idea the price York had paid for the honor, Rathbone was hurt as if with a raw wound. And if she knew the price, and did not care, then the pain within him was intolerable.

  Had his tragedy with Margaret so warped his belief in people, and in his own judgment, that he trusted nothing anymore? He should not allow her to do that to him! No, that was not strictly fair: He was doing it to himself. Blaming others was what had driven them apart, the refusal to accept the truth because it hurt.

  He forced himself back to the issue.

  “It began as minor error,” he said to Juniver. “But it looks to me as if he compounded it until it moved into the realm of something that would be cause for reversal in an ordinary trial for theft or assault. No one is going to reverse Beshara’s conviction, because of the horror of the crime. York will have known that, as will Camborne. But is there anything here, looking at it now with the knowledge that Beshara was innocent, that could be viewed as corruption?”

  Juniver’s eyes widened. “You’d accuse York of corruption?”

  “If there are grounds,” Rathbone replied. “Wouldn’t you?” Then instantly he changed his mind. He had been willfully insensitive. “If it is necessary, I will. I have nothing to lose anyway, and more chance of presenting it successfully. If it came to that.”

  “Bring down York?” Juniver said in little more than a whisper. “Because of the Beshara trial?” There was more than doubt in his voice; there was the weight of all he must know about Rathbone’s own trial over which York had presided, and he might even guess what else lay between them.

  “Do you think I should ignore it?” Rathbone asked quietly. He did not mean it, or like the sound of it on his lips. “Or give the information to someone else to use? Would you like it?”

  “I should have done it at the time of Beshara’s trial,” Juniver replied unhappily. “I should have gone over it all, and I should have appealed then. Not that I imagine it would have done much good.” He bit his lip. “But it wasn’t fear for myself that stopped me, I swear. I thought the man was guilty, and the sooner they hanged him the better.”

  “And now?”

  “I’ll help you prepare an exact statement of the facts, all York’s rulings on the Beshara case. If they amount to corruption, I’ll do whatever I can to help you bring it to the right attention. A corrupt judge damages every person in England.”

  RATHBONE THOUGHT ABOUT IT all the rest of the day after he got home, and for far too much of the night. When he and Juniver had assembled all their notes and references, there was no doubt left. York’s bias had come through in his rulings, and then his summing up. It had probably not been noticed by anyone else because the heat of emotion had been so high, and a conclusion was greeted with a wave of relief.

  Rathbone turned it over and over in his mind, rereading the conclusions that he and Juniver had reached. The answer was inescapable. Either he must have Brancaster raise the issue in court, with reference to Beshara’s conviction, which so closely reflected on the trial of Sabri, or he must face York with it himself.

  Both possibilities were extremely unpleasant, but also unavoidable. What was the right thing to do? His first instinct was to ask Henry’s advice, then he realized how feeble that was, how selfish. Of course Henry would give his counsel. He would do it gently. But would he not also wonder when Oliver was going to become adult enough to trust his own judgment and carry his own responsibility? He had always done so professionally, on occasions with too much self-assurance. But on the moral questions, and those of deep emotion and the possibility of hurt, he had sought strength from Henry.

  During their tour of Europe and the Near East they had been as equals. Oliver had tried very hard to carry extra luggage, and take care of details to relieve his father of the necessity, but he had done it so carefully it had not shown. At least he thought it had not!

  Now he should make the decision about facing York without expecting anyone else to examine the details with him, or bear the brunt afterward for whatever pain it caused.

  Facing York would be excruciating. But it was a lot less dishonorable than reporting him behind his back. He must do it, prepare exactly what facts he would cite, with the proof, and do it this evening. The trial of Gamal Sabri continued tomorrow morning.

  He had not even weighed up what might be York’s reasons for his bias. It could be as simple as revulsion at the crime. Anyone would understand that.

  But there was also the far darker possibility that someone had brought pressure to bear on him, threats or promises, to protect their own interests. Or worse even than that, to hide their guilt.

  He took a hansom to York’s house. There was no way to determine in advance whether he would be at home or not. Traveling at a fast clip through the darkening streets, the summer evenings already significantly drawing in, he half wished he would find York out and not expected back within hours.

  And yet it was like going to have a tooth pulled. If it was infected it would have to be taken. Better to get it done without delay.

  He alighted at the end of the block where York’s house was, and paid the driver. He would look for another cab in which to return. He had no idea how long it would be. He might even be refused at the door!

  Would it really be so ugly a meeting?

  Yes. Yes, of course it would.

  He turned and walked up the short path to York’s front step, and before he could let thought weaken him, he grasped the bellpull.

  The door was answered within a few moments.

  “Good evening, sir,” the footman said courteously, his blank face inviting some explanation.

  Rathbone put his card on the silver tray that the man held out.

  “Oliver Rathbone.” He did not give his title. “I apologize for calling without previous arrangement, and at such an hour, but it concerns business taking place tomorrow, and therefore it cannot wait.”

  The footman blinked. “If you will come inside, Sir Oliver, I will see if Sir Ingram can see you. May I tell him what manner of business it is?”

  “It concerns a trial that is of national importance,” Rathbone replied, following the man into the vestibule and then the hall. The evening was too warm for him to have worn a coat, but the footman took his hat.

  “Would you care to wait in the morning room, sir?” the footman asked.

  Rathbone smiled. “I would prefer to wait here, thank you.”

  The footman did not argue but disappeared toward the withdrawing room, closing the door behind him. He returned a few moments later and showed Rathbone in.

  York was sitting in the large armchair nearest the fireplace. He was possibly a little heavier than when Rathbone had last seen him, but his white hair was as gleaming and
as thick. His complexion was flushed as if even the expectation of seeing Rathbone irritated him.

  Rathbone glanced at Beata, who was on the sofa to his right. Not to have acknowledged her would have been appallingly rude. When he did, he felt a jolt of electricity. She was more than beautiful. There was a passion for life in her face, laughter, and tenderness. He looked away quickly, even before he spoke, afraid his own eyes would give him away.

  “Good evening, Mrs. York. I am sorry to intrude—”

  “What is it you want, Rathbone?” York interrupted. “If you’ve come to plead with me for some leniency on your bar from practice of the law, don’t embarrass yourself. I have neither the power nor the will to do anything of the sort. Your punishment was deserved. For God’s sake stop whining and take it like a man!”

  “Ingram!” Beata said sharply, horrified at his bluntness. She turned to Rathbone, but before she could speak, York cut across her.

  “Beata! This is not your concern. Your compassion speaks well for you, but please do not interfere. You can only make it worse.” He looked at Rathbone again, leaning forward a little in the big chair. “I am quite aware of the current, farcical trial of Gamal Sabri, for a crime of which Habib Beshara is already convicted. I am also aware of your part in it, and I can imagine the desperation you must feel that you can only sit silently and watch it crumble. Were your friend William Monk not such an ambitious fool, you would not be placed in such elegant torture. But there is nothing whatever that I could, or should do about it. Now please leave my house without giving me the necessity of calling extra staff to remove you by force. Good night, sir.”

  This was the moment. Oddly enough, Rathbone did not feel a surge of anger boil up inside him; it was rather more pity, a regret that this could not be avoided, only pointlessly delayed.

  “You are perfectly correct, sir,” he said quietly. “It is a deserved punishment. Those who transgress the law must be removed from the practice of it, in the interests of us all.” He moved his attaché case a little farther into view.

  “Then why the devil are you intruding on my evening, and into my home?” York demanded.

  “Would you not prefer to discuss this in private, sir?” Rathbone asked.

  “No, I would not! If you want to make a fool of yourself in my home, then you will do it in front of my wife!” York retorted.

  There was no escape.

  Rathbone remained standing.

  “I have studied the transcripts of Beshara’s trial very carefully, and with legal colleagues, in case I should misinterpret anything in them,” he began. “I have studied your rulings and your summation.”

  “For what purpose?” York snapped.

  “To see if there are any grounds for reversal …”

  York started to his feet, his left hand grasping for the cane that leaned against his chair.

  “How dare you, sir?”

  Beata rose also, her face creased with anxiety. “Ingram!”

  “Don’t you dare protect him!” he snarled, then swung back to face Rathbone. “I know you want to make a spectacle of yourself, one way or another, but this is beyond disgraceful! You dare to question the rulings of one of Her Majesty’s judges, and a verdict that every sane man in England knows was fair and true?”

  “Yes, I do,” Rathbone answered him. “Some of your rulings were arbitrary and in error. At least two of them seriously so, and—had the case not been so deeply emotional and the verdict desperately desired—they would have been questioned at the time. Your summation was biased to the point of, politely, serious error; less politely, corruption.”

  York lurched fully to his feet. At first he leaned his weight on his cane, and then, ashen-faced, he raised it in the air.

  “How dare you, of all people, question the law?” His voice was raised and shrill. “You took the law into your own hands and smashed it to pieces when you were on the bench. I backed you! I recommended you, and you thanked me by perverting the course of justice, blackmailing a witness with obscene photographs and very justly getting yourself disbarred. And now you come into my home, under false pretenses, and in front of my wife you accuse me of corruption in a case you weren’t even in the country to see.”

  “And I paid for my mistake,” Rathbone kept his voice level. “I am no longer practicing law. I am doing no more than giving Brancaster my advice …”

  York gave a loud, derisive laugh. “The more fool he!”

  “Your rulings were biased in favor of the prosecution against Habib Beshara,” Rathbone continued. “The case is going to be overturned …”

  “The hell it is!” York shouted, his face twisted with rage, spittle on his lips. “The man was as guilty as sin. If Sabri is guilty too, then they were in it together.” His knuckles were white where he clutched the cane. His whole body shook.

  “Ingram …” Beata tried again, moving a step toward him.

  “Be quiet!” he said furiously, brushing her aside so hard he actually knocked her off balance. Only her closeness to the side of the armchair saved her from falling.

  Suddenly the tone in the room changed. Rathbone struggled to regain control of the situation, and then he saw York’s eyes and knew he had already failed.

  “Beshara is dead, as he needed to be,” York went on. “If you can hang Sabri as well, so be it. But you will not question my rulings or my conduct of one of the most important cases in British jurisprudence. It was my last great case, and I will not have a disbarred hack like you smear my legacy with your pathetic whining. Do you hear me?”

  His voice was so loud they must have heard him in the kitchens.

  “Only one man laid the dynamite on the Princess Mary, then lit the fuse and jumped overboard,” Rathbone said as levelly as he could, but his voice was shaking. “Your ruling said it was Beshara, and he is dead. It was not Beshara, it was Gamal Sabri, and he is very much alive. We cannot convict two men of the same, single act. And apart from that, Beshara may be guilty of many things, but he was not guilty of this.”

  York lifted his cane and raised it to the side of him.

  Beata jerked backward.

  “Don’t you dare tell me how to judge the law, you prancing jackass!” York shouted. “You are disbarred!” He swung the cane through the air with a sharp hiss of sound. “You are a suborner of perjury!” He swung the cane again. “A dealer in filthy pictures, a blackmailer … a lecher!”

  “Ingram!” Beata shouted at him. “Stop it! That is untrue!”

  York ignored her. He was moving toward Rathbone now, his cane lifted in the air. His face was scarlet. “I’ve seen you looking at my wife! Sniffing around her like a dog …” He lashed out with the cane, swinging it sideways until it struck Rathbone across the shoulder and sent him crashing to the floor with the force of the blow.

  York took another step forward, his cane raised to strike again.

  Beata picked up the coffeepot off the side table and smashed it over the back of his head. He stood swaying for a moment as coffee and blood trickled down his face and over his shoulders. Then he crumpled up and pitched forward to collapse on the floor in front of the couch.

  Rathbone climbed to his feet, bruised, feeling shocked and ridiculous, but above all concerned for Beata.

  She was shuddering, her face ashen, her eyes wide.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said huskily. “I—I think he has lost his mind. I must call his valet … and the doctor. Are you … hurt?” She looked stricken.

  He took a deep breath. His well-being, and York’s mistakes in the Beshara case, seemed insignificant now. This was the end of Beata’s life in the way she knew it. It had to be a disastrous end to her husband’s career.

  The thoughts raced in Rathbone’s mind.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “You must call the doctor immediately. There has been a most unfortunate accident and I fear Mr. York may have had some kind of seizure.”

  “He attacked you …” There were tears in her eyes; he thought they were of shame.
>
  “Not as I remember it,” he replied. “He stumbled and fell backward, grasping the cane to save himself, and regrettably caught me with the end of it as I lunged forward to help him. May I stay with you until you have assistance? Perhaps you should sit down and I will fetch the butler …”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I will fetch him, thank you, Oliver. As … as you say, my husband is ill. I think perhaps he has been so for some time, and I did not realize how serious it was.”

  “Exactly,” he agreed.

  The butler was at the door. He must have heard the crash of York’s fall. He regarded his master, who was still senseless on the floor, with some pity, but his concern was for Beata.

  “I shall send Duggan for Dr. Melrose, ma’am,” he told her. “Immediately. Perhaps, Sir Oliver, you would be good enough to remain here until we can get the appropriate assistance, and give Mrs. York what comfort you can? I don’t believe we shall be able to resume … things as they were.”

  York was still lying insensible on the floor, coffee and blood on his head and face, spittle on his lips.

  Rathbone said nothing, but bent to straighten out the fallen man’s legs, before guiding Beata to one of the other chairs. Then he sat in silence opposite her until the servants returned.

  CHAPTER

  21

  RATHBONE WAS AT BRANCASTER’S chambers by eight o’clock the next morning, carrying the papers he had regarding York’s conduct of the Beshara trial. He was too tired and too confused in his emotions to feel any sense of triumph in the fact that he almost certainly had enough material to gain Beshara a new trial, were he alive, or—since he was not—to overthrow a highly questionable verdict. But the victory over Ingram York gave him no sense of triumph. The man had abused his position. Perhaps Rathbone would never know all the small reasons that had brought it about, but he would not have had Beata suffer the distress of seeing him collapse in such a way, stripped of dignity and reason.