by Anne Perry
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.
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 obtain
ed 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.”