by Anne Perry
Monk accepted and thanked him for his thought. As soon as he was seated he wondered if the clerk were also concerned that his master, whom he had served for eight years that Monk knew of, was in some kind of moral morass, and his life had taken a darker turn. Or was that whole idea fanciful?
They were all in a morass; Monk too. He could hardly blame Rathbone if pride, a professional arrogance, had made him take a case, even as ugly as Phillips's, to prove that he could win it. He was testing the law to its boundaries, holding it of value above the decency that was the ultimate safeguard of everyone. On the other hand, if Monk had not also been so arrogantly sure of his skill, he could have let Phillips die on the river, and none of the rest of it would have happened.
Rathbone came in half an hour later, dressed immaculately in pale gray and looking as effortlessly elegant as he always did.
“Good morning, Monk.” Rathbone made it something of a question. He seemed undecided exactly what manner to assume. “A new case?”
Monk stood up and followed Rathbone into his office. It was tidy and casually elegant, like its inhabitant. There was a cut-glass decanter with an ornate silver stopper on the narrow side table. Two very beautiful paintings of oceangoing ships decorated the one wall on which there were no bookshelves. They were small, and heavily framed. Monk knew at a glance that they were very good indeed. There was at once a simplicity and a power to them that marked them as different from the usual.
Rathbone saw his glance and smiled, but he offered no comment. “What can I do for you, Monk?”
Monk had rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say, and how to begin, but now the words seemed contrived, revealing the vulnerability of his position and his recent total defeat. But he could not stand there saying nothing, and there was no point trying to trick Rathbone, of all people. Candor, at least on the surface, was the only possibility.
“I'm not sure,” he replied. “I failed to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Phillips killed Figgis, and the crown didn't charge him with blackmail, pornography, or extortion. Obviously I can't reopen the first, no matter what proof I might find, but the others are still available.”
Rathbone smiled bleakly “I hope you are not looking for me to assist you in that.”
Monk opened his eyes wide. “Would that be against the law?”
“It would be against the spirit of it,” Rathbone replied. “If not illegal, then certainly unethical.”
Monk smiled, aware that it was a bleak, even sarcastic expression.
“Towards whom? Jericho Phillips, or the man who paid you to defend him?”
Rathbone paled very slightly. “Phillips is despicable,” he said. “And if you can prosecute him successfully then you must do so. It would be a service to society. But my part in the due legal process is to prosecute or defend, as I am employed to do, but never to judge— Jericho Phillips or anyone else. We are equal before the law, Monk; that is the essence of any kind of justice.”
He stood near the mantel shelf, leaning his weight rather more on one foot than the other. “If we are not, then justice is destroyed. If we charge a man, usually we are right, but not always. The defense is there to safeguard us all against those times when we are wrong. Sometimes mistakes have been made, lies told where we do not expect them, evidence tampered with or misused. Personal hatred or prejudice can be exercised, fears, favors, or self-interest can govern the testimony. Every case must be tested; if it breaks under the pressure, then it is unsafe to convict, and unforgivable to punish.”
Monk did not interrupt him.
“You loathe Phillips,” Rathbone continued, a little more at ease now. “So do I. I imagine every decent man and woman in the courtroom did. Then there is all the more necessity that we must be fair. If we, of all people, allow our revulsion to control our dealing with justice, what hope is there for anyone else?”
“An excellent speech.” Monk applauded. “And absolutely true in every regard. But incomplete. The trial is over. I have already conceded that we were slipshod. We were so certain Phillips was guilty that we left loopholes for you to use, which you did. We can now never try him again for Fig's murder. Any new case would be separate. Are you warning me that you would defend him again, either by choice, or from some kind of necessity, because you owe him, or someone else who has his interests at heart?” Monk changed his position deliberately.
“Or possibly you, or your principal,” he continued, “are bribed, coerced, or threatened by Phillips, and feel you have no choice but to defend him in any issue whatever?” It was a bold, even brutal question, and the moment he had said it, he doubted himself.
Rathbone was now very pale. There was no trace of friendship in his eyes. “Did you say ‘bribed’?” he asked.
“I included it as a possibility,” Monk replied, keeping his eyes and his voice steady. “I don't know the man, or woman, who paid you to defend Phillips. You do. Are you certain you know why?”
Something in Rathbone's stance changed. It was so slight Monk could not identify it, but he knew that a new idea had suddenly occurred to Rathbone, and it was one that troubled him, possibly only very little, but he was uncomfortable nevertheless.
“You may speculate as you please,” Rathbone answered him, his voice almost as level as before, almost as assured. “But you must be aware that I cannot comment. My advice to other people is as confidential as is my advice to you.”
“Of course,” Monk said drily. “And what is your advice to me? I am commander of the River Police at Wapping. I need to prevent the crimes of violence, abuse, and extortion, of pornography and child murder that happen on my beat. I made a mess of Phillips murdering Figgis. How do I prevent the next one, and the one after?”
Rathbone did not answer, but he made no attempt to hide the fact that he gave the matter consideration.
He walked over to his desk.
“Our loyalties are different, Monk,” he said at last. “Mine is to the law, and therefore is larger than yours. And I do not mean by that that it is better, simply that the law moves slowly, and its changes can stand for generations. Your loyalty is to your job, to the people on the river today, to their immediate danger or suffering. The simple answer is that I cannot advise you.”
“Your loyalty is not larger,” Monk replied. “You care for the interests of one man. I care for everyone in that community. Are you certain you want to tie your name and your commitment to that man, and therefore to whomever he in turn is bound, for whatever reason? We all have fears, debts, hostages to fortune. Do you know his well enough to pay the price?” He bit his lip. “Or are they really your own?”
“Ask me that again, Monk, and I shall take offense. I dance to nobody else's tune except the law's.” Rathbone's eyes were steady, his face utterly without humor or gentleness. He drew in his breath. “And I might equally ask you if you are as certain of Durban's loyalties as you would like to be. You have tied your reputation and your honor to his. Is that wise? Perhaps if I had any advice to give you, it would be to think far harder before you continue to pursue that. He may have had flaws of which you are unaware.”
The blow cut deep, but Monk tried not to show it. He knew he must leave before the interview became a battle in which too much was said for either of them to retreat afterwards. It was on the brink of that point now.
“I didn't expect you to tell me his name, or what you know of him,” he said aloud. “I came to advise you that in looking more closely into Phillips's business, I am also learning more of everyone he associated with, what he owed them and what they owed him. I cannot prosecute him for murdering Figgis, but I may be able to for pornography and extortion. That will obviously lead me much closer to those who patronize his business. There is much to suggest that they come from all walks of life.”
“Even police,” Rathbone said tartly.
“Of course,” Monk agreed. “No one is excluded. Even women can have much to lose, or to fear, in those they love.” And he turned and walked out
the door, wondering if he had said far more than he wanted to.
Rathbone looked at the closed door with far greater disquiet than he had allowed Monk to see. Monk's questions had struck a nerve, and far from fading away, the unease they had caused was increasing. Arthur Ballinger was Margaret's father, a highly respected attorney with whom it was natural—indeed expected—that he would do business. Those facts had dulled his natural edge of inquiry as to why Ballinger had handled the subject of Phillips's defense for whoever it was who was financing it. Was it possibly even Phillips himself? Ballinger had said that it was not, but as Monk had pointed out, did Ballinger really know?
Rathbone admitted to himself that some of the evidence had shaken him more than he had expected. He could no longer dismiss it from his mind or pretend that it was an issue that could be forgotten.
He knew at least the first step he would take, and once that was made, he was able to address the rest of the day's business.
Seven o'clock in the evening found him in a cab on the way up Primrose Hill on the outskirts of London. The evening was bright and warm, and the sun was still high enough that there was no gold in the air yet, no lengthening haze to the light. There was a faint wind in the trees so that the shadows flickered. A man was walking his dog, and the animal raced around, busy with scents and movements, in a whole exciting world of its own.
The cab stopped; Rathbone alighted, paid the driver, and walked up the path to his father's door. He always came here when he had issues that troubled him and he needed to explain them, clarify the questions so that the answers emerged unclouded. He realized now, standing on the step, aware of the heavy perfume of honeysuckle, that since his marriage he had been here a lot less often than before. Was that because Henry Rathbone had been so fond of Hester, and Oliver had not wanted him to make the comparison with Margaret? The fact that he had raised the question was at least in part an answer.
The door opened and the manservant welcomed him in, his face expressionless except for the civility a good butler should always show. If anything were needed to confirm that he had been here too seldom lately, that was it.
In the sitting room French doors were open on to a lawn sloping down towards an orchard in full leaf, the blossom long finished. Henry Rathbone himself was walking up the grass towards the house. He was a tall, lean man, very slightly stooped. He had a mild, pointy face and blue eyes that combined both a burning intelligence and a kind of innocence, as if he would never really understand the pettier, grubbier things of life.
“Oliver!” he said with evident pleasure, increasing his pace. “How very nice to see you! What interesting problem brings you here?”
Oliver felt a sharp jolt of guilt. It was not always comfortable to be known so very well. He drew breath to deny that it was a problem that brought him, and then realized just in time how foolish that would be.
Henry smiled and came in through the doors. “Have you had supper?”
“No, not yet.”
“Good. Then let us dine together. Toast, Brussels sprouts, pâté, and I have a rather good Medoc. Then apple pie and clotted cream,” Henry suggested. “And perhaps a spot of decent cheese, if you feel like it?”
“It sounds perfect.” Oliver felt some of the tension slip away. This was probably the best companionship he had ever known: gentle, without manipulation, and also totally honest. There were no lies, either intellectual or emotional. Over the meal he would be able to explain, primarily to himself, the exact nature of his unease.
Henry spoke with his manservant, then he and Oliver walked the length of the garden to the orchard at the end, and watched the light deepen in color as the sky began to burn and fade in the west. The perfume of the honeysuckle became stronger. There was no sound but the humming of insects and in the distance a child calling out to a dog.
They ate in the sitting room with the food on a small table between them, the French doors still open to the evening air.
“So what is it that disturbs you—the case?” Henry prompted, reaching for a second slice of crisp, brown toast.
Oliver had avoided mentioning it. In fact, he could even have let it slide altogether and simply absorbed the peace of the evening. But that was cowardly, and a solution that would evaporate in a few hours. Eventually he would have to go home again, and, in the morning, back to the law.
It was difficult to explain, and as always, it must be done as if it were all merely hypothetical. As he tried to frame it in his mind, he became aware that much of the pain he felt was due to the fact that Monk and Hester were involved, and it was their opinion of him, their friendship and the damage to it, that hurt.
“It concerns a case,” he began. “An attorney, to whom I owe certain duties and obligations, told me that a client of his wished to pay for the defense of a man accused of a particularly appalling crime. He said that he feared that the nature of the offense, and the man's occupation and reputed character, might make it impossible for him to receive a fair trial. He would need the best possible representation if justice were to be served. He asked me, as a favor to him, to defend this man.”
Henry looked at him steadily. Oliver found the innocence of his gaze unnerving, but he was too experienced an interrogator himself to be maneuvered into speaking before he was ready to.
Henry smiled. “If you would prefer not to discuss it, please don't feel pressured to do so.”
Oliver started to protest, then changed his mind. He had been wrong-footed so easily, and it was because he did feel somehow guilty, although he did not know of what.
“I accepted,” he said aloud. “Obviously, or I would have no problem.”
“Wouldn't you?” Henry asked. “Surely you would then have denied a friend, to whom you owed something. Or at least you felt as if you did. What had this accused man been charged with doing?”
“Killing a child.”
“Deliberately?”
“Very. He tortured him first.”
“Allegedly?”
“I am almost certain that he did. In my own mind I have no doubt.”
“At the time you took the case?” There was no judgment in Henry's voice.
Oliver stopped for a moment, trying to remember how he had felt when Ballinger had first asked him and he had reviewed the facts.
Henry waited in silence.
“My reasoning was sophistry,” Oliver admitted unhappily. “I thought he was very probably guilty, but that the law, to be perfect, must convict him only if it was proven. And I sensed an emotional vendetta against him as the driving force behind the case. I took the opposing side in order to give it some … balance.”
“And perhaps out of a little hubris, because you have the skill to do it?” Henry asked gently. “And to show off a little, to the man who had asked you? You wished to impress him, or someone else who will come to know of it?”
“You know the case?” Oliver felt foolish, as if he had been playacting and been caught at it half-clothed.
Henry smiled. “Not at all, but I know you. I know your strengths and your weaknesses. If you did not feel guilty about it you would not be troubled. I assume you won? You would always try your best; you are incapable of anything else. Losing justly would not disturb you, if the man were guilty. Winning unjustly is another matter.”
“It wasn't unjust,” Oliver said immediately, and just as immediately knew that he had spoken too quickly “It was not by dishonest means,” he corrected. “The prosecution was sloppy, too governed by emotion to make certain of all its facts.”
“Which weakness you knew, and used,” Henry extrapolated. “Why does that trouble you?”
Oliver looked down at the long-familiar carpet, its reds and blues like stained-glass windows in the last of the sunlight slanting low in through the open doors. The evening scent of the honeysuckle was now stronger than the wine.
Again Henry waited.
The silence grew deeper. Homing birds fluttered up across the darkening color of the sky.
“I knew some of the chief witnesses well enough to use my understanding of them to their disadvantage,” Oliver admitted at last.
“And lost their friendship?” Henry asked very gently. “Did they not understand the necessity that you defend the man to the best of your ability? You are his advocate, not his judge.”
Oliver looked up, surprised. The question cut closer to the truth than he wished, because now he must answer honestly, or deliberately choose to lie. Lying to his father had never been an option. It would unalterably destroy the foundation of his own identity, his belief in the goodness of what mattered. “Yes, they both understood that. What they didn't and still don't understand is why I chose to take that case when I didn't have to, knowing that the man now cannot be tried again, although he will certainly go back to the river, and continue with his filthy trade. If I am honest, I know he will almost certainly kill again. I could have left his defense to someone else who would not have had the privileged knowledge I had, and would have given him a defense adequate before the law, and gained a verdict of guilty, which I believe would have been the right one. I think that is what an equal contest would have produced.”
Henry smiled. “You credit the man's escape to your superior ability?”
“Superior knowledge of the emotional involvement of the chief witnesses for the prosecution,” Oliver corrected him.
“Are they not, by definition, always involved?”
Oliver hesitated.
“Police?” Henry asked. “Monk?”
“And Hester,” Oliver said quietly, staring down at the carpet. “They cared about the boy's murder too much to be thorough. It was Durban's one unfinished case, before he died. Too many debts of love and honor involved.” He looked up and met his father's eyes.
“And you used them,” Henry concluded.
“Yes.”
“And your own debt of honor that caused you to take the case? Does Monk know of that? I imagine he will find out. Perhaps you had better find out first yourself? Have you perhaps caused Monk to pay your debt to someone?”
