Anne Perry: Acceptable Loss

“That’s right. None at all,” Ballinger replied coolly.

“And to the best of your knowledge, you were not acquainted with any of the men who patronized it and indulged in these acts, and, as a result, were blackmailed?”

Rathbone stood up again. “My lord, Mr. Winchester is merely repeating evidence we have already been through.”

The judge sighed. “Mr. Winchester, is there some point to all of this?”

“Yes, my lord. I intend to call Mr. Ballinger’s honesty into very grave doubt-in particular, with regard to this last issue.”

“To what purpose?” Rathbone demanded. “He has said that he does not know any of these men, as far as he is aware. None of us knows what weaknesses or vices people may have, and thank God, for the most part, it is none of our business. They may be men you know! Or any of us knows.” He spread his arms in a wide gesture, to include the whole room, the jurors, the gallery, even the judge. “And since the court does not know who they are, this is futile.”

“Sir Oliver is right,” the judge agreed. “Move on, Mr. Winchester, if you have anything else upon which to cross-examine Mr. Ballinger. Otherwise, let us put the matter to the jury.”

“But we do know who these men are, my lord,” Winchester said clearly. “At least I do.”

Suddenly there was total silence in the room. No one stirred. No one even coughed.

“I beg your pardon?” the judge said at last.

“I know who they are,” Winchester repeated.

Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his skin and a prickle of fear sharp inside him, although he did not even know why. He stared at Winchester.

“Were you aware of this, Sir Oliver?” the judge asked.

“No, my lord. I would question its veracity, and why Mr. Winchester has not referred to it before.”

“I came by it only this weekend, my lord,” Winchester replied to the judge.

“From whom?” the judge demanded.

Rathbone knew the answer the moment before it was spoken.

“From Mr. Rupert Cardew, my lord,” Winchester said. “In the interests of justice, he provided it-”

Rathbone lurched to his feet. “How can that possibly be in the interests of justice?” he demanded. “It has nothing to do with the case, except possibly to prove that there were a large number of men who may well have had motive to wish Parfitt dead. And who is to say that this list is accurate? It could be the complete fabrication of a man who has an intense interest in seeing Mr. Ballinger convicted, in order to remove all suspicion from himself!”

“He will testify to the names, if necessary,” Winchester replied. “And with diligence, it should be possible to prove that all of them have visited the boat, at some time or other, most of them fairly regularly.”

“A long and tedious job,” Rathbone rejoined. “And irrelevant to this case, my lord!”

“Not irrelevant, my lord,” Winchester said. “I mention it to throw extreme doubt on Mr. Ballinger’s innocence in this matter. Sir Oliver paved the way for me in his own examination by asking the witness about his knowledge of the boat, and Mr. Ballinger replied that he did not know its business, nor was he aware of knowing any of the men who patronized it. I have the list of names, my lord. I regret to say that I myself am acquainted with two of them-”

The judge was rapidly losing patience. “Mr. Winchester, you appear to be behaving in the worst possible taste, titillating the most vulgar aspect of public curiosity, in a matter that is repellent and does not further your case in the least.”

“My lord, every one of the men on this list is personally acquainted with Mr. Ballinger! Every one of them, without exception. Why would he lie about it to this court, under oath, if it were not something he wished to-indeed, needed to-conceal?”

There was a gasp, a rustle of movement right around the room, then a terrible stillness.

Rathbone felt his muscles clench like a vise. He would like to have believed that it was Rupert Cardew making a desperate move to save himself from the suspicion that would inevitably follow Ballinger’s acquittal. He turned and looked at the gallery, and saw Rupert immediately, ashen-faced and perfectly steady. This would ruin him. Society would never forgive him for betraying the names of those who had soiled the honor most of them aspired to but had not the courage to defend.

Winchester broke the silence. “I will call Mr. Cardew to the stand to name them. Should anyone doubt him, Sir Oliver can, naturally, question him on the issue, and require him to prove what he says. But I shall not do it unless your lordship insists. This knowledge would ruin many families, and call into question legal decisions, possibly even Acts of Parliament. The possibilities for blackmail are so momentous that the damage would affect …” He stopped, leaving their imaginations to fill in the rest.

“Sir Oliver?” the judge said a little huskily.

It was defeat, and Rathbone knew it. He would not bring down the whole order of society to save Ballinger, even would such a thing have done so. And it would not. He could see in the jury’s faces that the balance had tipped irrevocably against him. They knew Ballinger had lied, possibly about everything. And strangely enough, even if Rupert had turned on his own social class, for which he would never be forgiven, the jury believed him, possibly even admired him. He had chosen the honorable thing to do, at a terrible price to himself.

“I … I have nothing to add, my lord,” Rathbone answered. Only as he sat down again did he even consider that perhaps he should have demanded that the names be made public. Then in the instant afterward, he knew he should not. Winchester had them. If there was anything to be done, he would do it. He would investigate, examine, and if necessary prosecute any corruption. It did not occur to Rathbone, even as a fleeting thought, that Winchester was bluffing. Cardew’s face and Ballinger’s denied that.

He made a desperate final summation, but he knew he could not succeed. The tide was against him, and he had no more strength to turn it.

The jury was out for an hour, which seemed like eternity. When they came back, their faces told the verdict even before they were asked.

“Guilty.” Simple. Final.

Rathbone was in a daze as the black cap was brought to the judge. He put it on his head and pronounced sentence of death.

Mrs. Ballinger cried out in horror.

Margaret slipped to the ground in a faint.

Without thinking, Rathbone scrambled from his seat and went to her just as she was stirring. Gwen was with her, holding her. Celia and George were trying to support Mrs. Ballinger.

“Margaret! Margaret,” Rathbone said urgently. “Margaret?” He wanted to say something, anything to comfort her, but there were only empty promises, things that were meaningless.

She stirred and opened her eyes, looking at him with utter loathing. Then she turned her face away toward Gwen.

He had never felt so completely alone. He rose to his feet, trembling, and walked back to his table. The court was in an uproar, but he neither saw nor heard it.

When a person was sentenced to hang, it was the law that three Sundays should pass before the execution was carried out. It was both the longest and the shortest period of time in the sentenced person’s experience. Unquestionably it was the most painful.

Toward the end of the first week, Rathbone was alone in his room in chambers when his clerk entered and told him that Hester wished to speak with him.

At first Rathbone was not sure if he wanted to see her. Pity would only add to his hurt, especially from her, and there was nothing she could say that would help. There was no help. And yet he had never had a better friend, except for his father.