Anne Perry - Blind Justice

He was suddenly aware Margaret had accused him of seeking exactly that: professional fame and success before love and loyalty to family.

Was he like that? Was that the reason he was sitting here in this beautiful house with Ingram York? Was he like Bertrand Allan, who was clearly an ambitious lawyer looking for the next opportunity to climb another step?

Allan was talking eagerly to York again. Rathbone watched him, watched the flicker of his eyes and the moments of hesitation and tried to remember himself ten years ago. Had he been as easy to read? Or was it only that, having been through it himself, he could now understand Allan? Maybe then York, by token, could read both of them with ease.

He turned to Mary Allan, discreetly searching her face. She was watching her husband with admiration in her eyes. Was that emotional or intellectual? Did she understand the nuances as Allan commented on other cases and his views of certain judgments and York agreed with him? Was any of it completely honest? Possibly Allan was expressing what he believed, but he definitely selected to please.

What would happen if Allan’s loyalties were ever torn, as Rathbone’s had been? Would Mary Allan be so certain of her husband then? Perhaps they had been married longer. No one had mentioned children, but then one did not at a professional dinner party. What would Margaret have done had she and Rathbone had children? He would never know.

They were still talking about fraud. Recent large cases were being mentioned, and how the defenses and prosecutions had been handled. Allan was saying, with the wisdom of hindsight, what he would have done.

Rathbone looked at Beata. She had been looking at him. She lowered her eyes quickly, hiding the gleam of interest. For an instant he was certain that had it been appropriate she would have asked him what he thought and if he read Allan as easily as she did. It was almost as if they had spoken, though no words had been uttered.

“There’ll be more, of course,” York said grimly. “And God knows how many we don’t find; that is the worst thought.”

“Maybe this verdict will put off a few,” Allan said hopefully.

“And the severity of the sentence also,” Mary Allan agreed with a sideways glance at Rathbone.

“I’m afraid it isn’t the severity of punishment that is most effective,” Rathbone replied. “It’s the certainty.”

She looked surprised. “Surely no one would be willing to face ten or fifteen years in prison, no matter how much money was involved?” she said with open disbelief. “In some of the prisons we have they might not even survive it! What use is money then?”

“It doesn’t matter what the sentence is, if they are not caught,” he explained. “And they all think they will be the one to get away with it. But if you know you will be caught, then even one year is too much.”

“We need a rather better police force for that,” York pointed out with a bleak smile.

Rathbone’s instinct was to defend the police, but he bit the words back. Instead it was Beata who spoke.

“There is no point in catching people who commit fraud if they can’t be successfully prosecuted,” she observed. “As Sir Oliver says, it is the certainty that stops people, not the weight of the punishment. Surely no one commits a crime if they know they will have to pay for it.”

Mary Allan turned to her. “I don’t see your meaning,” she said, her brow furrowed. “If the police find sufficient proof then is that not all we need?”

Beata looked at her husband with a slight warning in her expression, then at Mary Allan. “With the right prosecution and the right judge, yes of course it is.” She lifted her wineglass so the others noticed it. “Let us drink to success.”

“To success,” they echoed obediently.

The subject changed to other matters. Beata asked if anyone else had been to the theater lately.

Bertrand Allan surprised Rathbone by saying that he had been to the music hall a short while ago, in order to see Mr. John “Jolly” Nash perform. Catching sight of York’s raised eyebrows he hastened to explain that he had done so because he had heard that Nash was a favorite of the Prince of Wales, who particularly, it was said, enjoyed his rendition of “Rackety Jack.”

“Really?” Beata responded with interest. “I hadn’t heard.” Mary Allan looked blank.

Rathbone glanced at Beata, who instantly concealed a smile. He looked away.

“I believe Mr. Nash is somewhat …” Beata hesitated, looking for the right word.

“It was for gentlemen only,” Allan assured her.

“Then uncensored it would be, I imagine, to the prince’s taste,” Beata observed. “How entertaining.”

Rathbone was happy to watch and listen. He went to the theater very seldom these days. He realized with a sudden dismay that he and Margaret had gone on only a few occasions and had rarely cared for the same work. How often had he pretended to agree with her when he had not? Her opinions had seemed predictable to him; they provoked no new questions in his mind, stirred no questions he had not considered before, stirring no new depth of emotion.

It had not occurred to him until now to wonder how often she had feigned an interest in something he had chosen, probably hiding her boredom more skillfully, and perhaps more kindly, than he had done.

The subject had moved to another play now, something a little more decorous. Beata was guiding the conversation into more comfortable areas.

“Did you like it?” Rathbone asked her a trifle abruptly, and then felt ashamed of his clumsiness. He wanted to add something to make it seem less demanding but did not know what.

She seemed amused, far more so than Allan, who had been about to speak and was now at a loss.

York looked from one to the other of them, his expression unreadable.

Beata gave an elegant little shrug. “You have caught me out, Sir Oliver. I’m not certain that I did. People are talking about it, but I fear it is more for the performance than any content of the drama itself. I would have found it more interesting if it had concluded less satisfactorily. An awkward ending would have given one something to think about.”

“People don’t like confused endings,” Mary Allan pointed out.

“A thing should be either a comedy, in which case the ending is happy, or else a tragedy, when it is not,” Allan agreed, supporting his wife.

York was amused. He watched them with undisguised satisfaction.

Beata turned her wineglass gently, watching the light glow through it. Rathbone noticed that she had beautiful hands.

“Surely life is both, even farce at times?” she asked. “A little ambiguity, even confusion, allows you to come to some of your own conclusions. I rather enjoy having to complete the thoughts myself. If the answer is easy, the question hardly seems worth asking.”

“It’s a play-entertainment,” Mary Allan frowned. “We want to enjoy ourselves, perhaps laugh a little. There are times when I find tragedies moving, but I admit it is not very often. And I prefer the ones I know, such as Hamlet . At least I am prepared to see everyone dead at the end.” She said it with a slight, rueful gesture, robbing the remark of any offense.

Beata accepted it without demur. “There is so much in Hamlet one may see it dozens of times and never grow tired of it. Of course, that needs to be over several years!”

Rathbone laughed in spite of himself, and reluctantly Allan joined in.

“Did it make you think?” York asked, looking pointedly at Rathbone.

“It certainly made me wonder how on earth an actor can remember all those lines and have energy and attention left to pour emotion into them as well, while still managing not to fall over the furniture,” he answered.