Blood on the Water (30 page)

“Tell me all you can,” Rathbone asked, and knew Juniver would.

R
ATHBONE WOKE IN THE
morning a trifle later than usual. It was funny how in just a few months, years of mental discipline had loosened their hold.

Dover was standing beside the bed with a steaming cup of tea, and the newspaper in his other hand. Rathbone relaxed again, feeling the smooth surface of the sheets with his feet, smelling the cotton. It would be a long time, maybe years, before the luxury of that wore off, after his time in prison during trial, when he could see no end to his incarceration.

“Good morning, sir,” Dover said punctiliously. His expression gave no indication that he was aware of anything unusual having occurred. It was extraordinarily comforting. “I’m afraid the news is not very pleasant this morning.” He put the cup of tea on the bedside table beside Rathbone, and then the newspaper, still folded, on the top of the bedcover.

Rathbone sat up. “What is it?” he asked, suddenly cold in spite of the fact that the room was warm.

“Mr. Beshara, the Egyptian who was accused of—”

“I know who Beshara is,” Rathbone interrupted. “What about him?”

“I’m sorry to say, sir, he has been murdered, in the prison where he was being held … and treated for his illness.”

Rathbone was stunned. “Are you sure?” It was a stupid question, and yet he could hardly grasp the facts. It was like some parody of the past, hideous, ironic, not even remotely funny. “Murdered?” he repeated the word. “By whom?”

“No one knows, sir.”

“No, of course they don’t! Damn it! Damn it! How could they let that happen?”

“Dead men don’t speak, sir,” Dover replied.

S
EVERAL DAYS LATER
, R
ATHBONE
had dinner at the house on Primrose Hill where his father still lived. It was a late August evening and the shortening of the days was noticeable. Sunset came earlier, and there was a golden haze in the air as Oliver and Henry walked down the
lawn toward the hedge and the orchard beyond. The boughs were heavy with fruit, and here and there birds were already pecking at the riper ones.

“Don’t worry about them,” Henry said casually. “There’ll be plenty for us. I grew them mostly for the birds anyway. Although I hope they don’t take all the plums.”

They went through the gate and into the longer grass. Oliver drew in his breath deeply, smelling the richness of it: the ripe seed heads of the longer wild grass, the damp earth where the ditches ran. It would not be long before the hips and the haws turned scarlet. There were a few trumpets of late honeysuckle in bloom. It was far enough into the evening for their scent to be heavy and sweet in the air.

Above them the breeze was stirring the elm leaves in a soft whisper, and the starlings were beginning to gather. In an hour or so, there would be small bats flittering in their odd, jerky way between the branches and the eaves of the house.

Traveling had been wonderful, full of adventure, walking in the ancient places where men had built monuments to their lives and beliefs for thousands of years. But nothing exceeded the deep and abiding pleasure of a late-summer evening at home.

Returning to London also meant facing emotions that Oliver had been able to bury while filling his mind daily with new and absorbing experiences, then sharing them afterward with Henry and discussing all manner of ideas and philosophies long into the night. But one cannot escape forever; even such freedom has its caverns that cry out to be filled.

Now the awareness that intruded on him, no matter how he tried to escape it, was of how much Beata York was in his mind. Even as he stood here in the familiar orchard, steeping himself in its scents and letting the silence wash over him, he thought what joy it would bring him to share it with her. Everything, sweet or painful, would be better shared, and he could think of no one else with whom that would be so.

He had finally accepted in his mind that Henry would not be here
forever. Whether it was years from now, or sooner, the day would come. He could not yet grasp the loneliness it would bring, but he had gained the courage to face it.

With Beata it could be accepted as one of the great milestones of life, not an irreparable loss. He did not even know what he believed of death, or of eternity. Perhaps very few people really knew, until the test of bereavement came.

He had thought of it when visiting the tombs of Egypt, the burial mounds of people who died a thousand years before Christ was born, or even longer. They had unquestionably believed in immortality. But life had held more mystery then. It was easier to believe in the unknowable.

He had thought of it also standing in the streets of Rome, the same city to which St. Peter had come after the death of Christ, and from which pope after pope had ruled the Catholic Church, which at that time was synonymous with the Christian world.

Perhaps he should have gone to Jerusalem?

Except that it should not make a ha’p’orth of difference where a man stood. What closer place was there to heaven than an English garden at sunset as the wind shimmered the leaves of the elms above them and flocks of starlings were crowded black pin dots against the gold of the sky?

Henry’s gentle voice broke into his thoughts. “This trial you’re advising Rufus Brancaster about, have you thought of the consequences?”

Oliver returned his mind to the immediate present with a jolt. “Beshara will be vindicated, although it’s too late to be of much use to him,” he answered. “Sabri will be sentenced to death.”

“That will be the beginning,” Henry agreed. “And in some senses, the least of it. This appalling miscarriage did not happen by accident, or because of one or two chance pieces of evidence. There was error, misjudgment, and corruption all the way through. If you succeed—and I know that you must if it is humanly possible, and whatever the cost—then
you will also expose that. Once you have begun, you will not be able to stop it. Have you considered the full impact?”

That was precisely what Oliver had been avoiding, keeping his mind too occupied to tread there.

“We don’t know who is behind it,” he said reasonably as they began to walk back toward the house.

Henry sighed. “Yes you do. You’ve read the transcripts by now. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You are not incompetent.”

Oliver did not answer.

“Part of your argument regarding the first trial, and a flaw you will certainly expose, is that no one proved a motive for Beshara to risk his own life to kill so many British that he did not even know.”

“The only answer is the general one, that he hated us and was paid to do it,” Oliver replied.

“Precisely,” Henry agreed. “And have you considered who may have paid Sabri? I hope you don’t imagine that Pryor will not ask?”

“No … of course he will,” Oliver agreed.

Henry shook his head. “And do you know?”

“Not yet. There are several possibilities. Ossett has nothing to gain by it. I looked into his background, his financial investments, even his social connections. There is nothing to suggest he’s anything but the decent, slightly stuffy, ex-military man he appears to be. The same is true of everyone else connected with changing the case from Monk to Lydiate. And Lydiate himself is a victim of it. He was put in over his head, granted. He felt coerced because of his brother-in-law’s vulnerability, but it didn’t affect how he behaved. And there’s Camborne, but I can’t find any reason for him to prosecute so passionately, except his ambition.”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Henry asked as they reached the French windows and went inside. The air was cooling as the light faded, and he was happy to close and lock them for the night.

Oliver waited.

“Ingram York presided over the first trial,” Henry went on, sitting
down in his favorite chair and waving Oliver to take the opposite one, where he habitually sat. “You will be forced to expose his conduct of it, with every ruling he made. Are you prepared for what you may find? Do you want to prove him at best incompetent, losing his mental grasp, or at worst, actually corrupt?”

Oliver faced it at last. Henry had left him no escape. Such an exposure would inevitably hurt Beata, even if at the same time it began to free her from York. He did not know if that was a price he was willing to pay.

Would it even free her? Was it not more in her character that loyalty would bind her to her husband even more tightly?

Henry was watching him, not saying the obvious, but the knowledge of it was in his eyes, and the pain he would share if Oliver were hurt.

Either way, it should make no difference to the decision as to what was the right thing to do. He could not recuse himself! What would he say? I am in love with Sir Ingram York’s wife?

Of course not. He would embarrass her beyond bearing, not to mention what he would do to himself—and to the case. It was not a time for personal considerations. And he was not officially representing anyone. He had no standing. All he could do was advise Rufus Brancaster—and serve the law.

Inevitably it raised memories of Margaret, and the failure of their marriage. Her loyalty to her father had risen above her loyalty to the law, or truth, or even moral justice. When it was only in theory, she had said that whatever the cost, one’s first loyalty had to be to what was right.

Such easy words—before something cuts to the heart and the bone. Before it is your father, your husband or wife who is to be imprisoned, or executed! Arthur Ballinger had been sentenced to be hanged for a crime Oliver knew he had committed. In their last, terrible meeting he had not even denied it. But only Oliver had heard that.

Margaret still believed that her father had been innocent, and that Oliver had put his own career before loyalty to family in allowing Arthur
to be convicted and not mounting an appeal. When Oliver’s career had crashed in ruins, because of his decision as to what was right in the Taft case, she had rejoiced, and seized the opportunity to ask him for a divorce.

He had faced a prison sentence and could not morally deny her her freedom. Not, honestly, that he had wanted to. Freedom was lonely, but sweet for all that.

Could he stand by his loyalty to the truth, no matter the price, if it were asked of him? Did he really believe that without honor, nothing else survives?

If it were Henry charged … but Henry wouldn’t be guilty!

Then again, Margaret had been unable to believe that her father was guilty, whatever the evidence.

What would Beata believe of her husband?

Henry was waiting, a sad, gentle smile on his face.

“I’ve paid that price once,” Oliver replied. “I think, if I have to, I’ll pay it again. I’m not sure.”

Henry nodded. “I thought so. But you cannot know what you will find. Someone is guilty.”

“I know …”

CHAPTER
 

M
ONK WAS IMPATIENT WITH
how long his wounds took to heal, but it was actually as fast as anyone could expect. Broken bones mend at their own rate, and neither Hester’s care nor his own annoyance could hasten it. Once or twice she reminded him that his constant irritation was actually more likely to make him feel worse.

Hooper was less volatile or, as Hester observed, to Monk’s surprise, he was more stoic. Her remark had the desired effect of making Monk bite back his anger. He gave Orme authority to act in his place, to choose which cases were given priority, and direct his men accordingly.

Monk accepted his physical inactivity and turned his mind wholly toward investigating what other dark and complicated motives might emerge when the trial of Gamal Sabri proved that Beshara was innocent, and his trial had been flawed by serious error, and almost certainly a degree of corruption.

Monk liked Lydiate and understood why he had yielded to the pressure applied to him regarding the case, even if he was forced to agree also that it jeopardized his impartiality. But once you yield to pressure, even with the smallest, most harmless-seeming deviation from the path, have you then made the next step inevitable? When do you refuse: the third step, the fourth? Or is there no longer a way left to escape?

He began with the most unpleasant of the tasks, which was to check all the facts Lydiate had told him of his sister’s marriage, and consequent vulnerability to pressure. The initial inquiries were simple enough; being discreet was another matter. Once he was beyond what was common knowledge, he went to see Runcorn. He chose to meet him in Greenwich Park, rather than at the police station. They walked side by side along the wide gravel paths between the lawns and flowerbeds, under the great magnolia trees, which had long finished their blooming. To the casual eye they were simply two men who had time to spare in the middle of the summer day.

Runcorn looked unhappy. “You think Lydiate’s corrupt?” he said very quietly, although there was no one else within earshot. “Or you’re trying to prove he’s not … just a bit slipshod in this?”

“Both,” Monk said with an attempt at lightness that failed.

Runcorn moved on several paces before he spoke again. “What does a good man do if he’s blackmailed, not for himself but for someone he loves, and who has a right to expect his protection? Do you sacrifice your family to what you see as justice, even if they don’t?” He shook his head. “I know it’s his sister’s stepdaughter, but that is irrelevant to the question. What if it were his wife?” This time he looked at Monk. “What if it were your wife? Or mine? I couldn’t tell Melisande, ‘No, I won’t protect you. My job comes first.’ ” He stopped on the path, challenging, waiting for Monk’s reply.