Anne Perry - Blood on the Water

“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.