Acceptable Loss: A William Monk Novel Page 5

  He walked to the windows and stared out at the darkening garden. The September sun was warm on the last of the flowers in the herbaceous border: purples and golds, autumn colors. It was the richest season; soon even the leaves would flame. Berries would ripen. Blue wood smoke and early morning frosts were not far away. For him the glory of autumn always held an echo of sadness, a knowledge that beauty is a living thing, delicate, capable of injury, even of death.

  This would be the first time he would dine with Arthur Ballinger since the drownings at Execution Dock. Rathbone was dreading it, yet of course it was inevitable. Ballinger was his father-in-law, and Margaret was unusually close to her family.

  Sullivan had made it hideously clear that he blamed the man behind the child-abuse racket for his downfall, from beginning to end, but he had offered no proof that it was Ballinger, so legally and morally there was nothing Rathbone could do about it. Sullivan’s words had been no more than those of a desperate man, disgraced beyond recall.

  Outside, a flock of starlings swirled up into the evening sky, and clouds drifted in from the south.

  For Margaret’s sake, Rathbone knew he must pretend. It would be difficult. He did not find family gatherings easy anyway. He was very close to his own father, but their dinners together had the quiet comfort of old friends, conversation about art and philosophy, law and literature, gentle amusement at the oddities of life and human nature. There were companionable silences while they ate bread and cheese, good pâté, drank a little red wine. Sometimes they had apple pie and cream by the fireside in the evening, and shared a joke or two.

  The door opened and Margaret came in. She saw Rathbone standing and immediately apologized, assuming she had kept him waiting. She looked lovely in a gown of rich, soft green, the huge crinoline skirt bordered with a pattern of Greek keys in gold.

  “I was early,” he replied, finding it easier to smile than he had expected. “But I would have been happy to wait. You look wonderful. Is the gown new? Surely I couldn’t have forgotten it?”

  The stiffness disappeared from her back and became the grace he had first seen in her when he had been drawn to her sense of humor, and the innate dignity that was her loveliest gift.

  Now he found his anxiety slipping away. They would negotiate the evening, whatever challenges it offered. It was a family occasion; the past and its unproved accusations should be left behind. To entertain them was unjust.

  “Come.” He offered her his arm. “The carriage will be at the door any moment.” He smiled at her and saw the answering pleasure in her eyes.

  THEY ARRIVED JUST AFTER Margaret’s elder sister, Gwen, and her husband, Wilbert, and followed them into the long oak-paneled withdrawing room. Wilbert was thin, fair-haired, and rather earnest. Rathbone had never discovered exactly what occupation he followed, but apparently he had inherited money and was interested in politics. Gwen was only a year or two older than Margaret, and not unlike her to look at. She had the same high, smooth brow and soft hair; her features were prettier, but lacked a little of Margaret’s individuality. Because of that, to him she was less attractive.

  The eldest sister, Celia, was already present, sitting on the couch opposite her husband, George. She was the handsomest of the three. She had beautiful dark hair and eyes, but Rathbone noticed that she was beginning to thicken a little in the waist and was already more buxom than he cared for. The diamonds at her ears must have cost as much as a good pair of carriage horses, if not more.

  Mrs. Ballinger let go the embrace of her middle daughter and came forward to welcome Margaret, the last of her daughters to achieve matrimony, but also the one who had done the best. Rathbone had not only money, but now a title, and he was very personable into the bargain.

  “How lovely to see you again, Oliver,” she said warmly. “I am so happy your commitments allowed you time for a little pleasure. Margaret, my dear, you look wonderful!” She kissed Margaret on both cheeks and offered her hand to Rathbone.

  A moment later Ballinger himself was shaking Rathbone’s hand with a firm grip. However, his eyes were guarded, offering no clues as to his inner thoughts. Had it always been like that, or was Rathbone noticing it now, because of Phillips’s death and Sullivan’s accusation?

  They had barely time to exchange greetings and make a few polite inquiries as to health and recent social engagements, when dinner was announced and they went into the enormous and lavish dining room with its hot Indian-red walls and glittering chandeliers, its over-spilling bowls of fruit on the sideboard. The table, which could have comfortably seated sixteen, was superbly set with the best crystal and silver, cut-glass bowls of bonbons, and snow-white linen napkins folded like swans. In the center, there was one of the loveliest arrangements of flowers that Rathbone could remember seeing—late roses in crimson and apricot, and tawny bronze chrysanthemum heads. It was given additional character by two spires of something deep, rich purple.

  “Mama-in-law,” he said spontaneously, “this is quite amazing. I have never seen a more exquisite table anywhere.”

  She blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Oliver. I believe even the best food is complemented by beauty to the eye.” She glanced at her husband to see if he had heard the compliment, and when she saw that he had, her satisfaction doubled.

  They took their places, and the first course was served—a delicate soup, quickly finished. It was followed by baked fish.

  Celia made some trivial remark about a display of drawings she had seen, and her mother replied. Ballinger looked around them all, smiling. Gradually the conversation embraced each one of them in turn. There was laughter and compliments. Rathbone began to feel included.

  Ballinger asked his opinion a number of times on various subjects. The fish was removed, and saddle of mutton was served with roasted and boiled vegetables, rich sauce, and garnishes. The men ate heartily, the women accepting less and eating a mouthful or two, and then resting before eating a little more. Conversation moved to more serious subjects: social issues and matters of reform.

  Ballinger made a joke with quick, dry wit, and they all laughed. Rathbone told an anecdote. They applauded it, Ballinger leading, looking at them all to join in, which they did, as if given permission to be enthusiastic.

  There was more wine, and then pudding was served, an excellent apple flan with thick cream, or treacle tart for those who preferred. Most of the men took both.

  Rathbone looked across at Margaret and saw the flush in her cheeks, her eyes bright and soft. He realized with surprise and considerable pleasure not only that she was happy but that she was actually proud of him, not for his skills in argument or his professional reputation, but for his charm, which was so much more personal a thing. The warmth inside him had nothing to do with the dinner or the wine.

  “They tried to get some curb on it through the House of Lords several years ago,” he said in answer to a question of Wilbert’s about industrial pollution in rivers, in particular the Thames.

  “I remember that.” George looked at Ballinger, then at Rathbone. “Narrowly defeated, if I’m right?”

  Ballinger nodded, suddenly very sober. “Lord Cardew was one of the main backers of that, poor man.”

  “Hopeless cause,” George said with a shake of his head. “Far too much power behind it. Richer than the Bank of England. Put all the filth there is into the rivers, and we’re helpless to stop them.”

  “We did stop them,” Ballinger said sharply, a ring of pride to his voice.

  “But it failed,” George pointed out.

  “In Parliament, yes,” Ballinger argued. “But there was a civil suit a few months after that, which they won on appeal a year later.”

  Rathbone was interested. Pollution was a subject he cared about increasingly as he realized the human misery it caused. But he knew the industrial might behind it and was surprised that an appeal could succeed.

  “Really? How on earth did anyone manage that? It would come before the Court of Appeal, and with that sort o
f money at stake, most likely Lord Garslake himself would hear it.” Garslake was Master of the Rolls, the head of all civil justice appeals. His leanings were well known, his financial interests less so.

  Ballinger smiled. “He was persuaded to change his views,” he said quietly.

  “I’d like to know how.” George was openly skeptical.

  Ballinger looked at him with amusement. “I dare say you would, but it is not a public matter.”

  “Did Lord Cardew have something to do with it?” Mrs. Ballinger asked. “I know he felt deeply on the subject.”

  Ballinger patted her arm lightly. “My dear, you know better than to ask, as I know better than to tell you.”

  “You said ‘poor man.’ ” Wilbert raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Why?”

  Ballinger shook his head. “Oh, because his elder son died. Boating accident somewhere in the Mediterranean. Dreadful business.” His face was dark, as if the sorrow of it were still with him, in spite of the legal success.

  Margaret’s fingers rested gently on her father’s. “Papa, you grieved for him at the time. I know it won’t heal—perhaps such things never do—but you can’t go on hurting for him. At least he still has one son living.”

  Ballinger raised his head a little and turned over his hand to clasp hers and hold it.

  “You are quite right of course, my dear. But not everyone is as fortunate in their children as I am. You could not know, nor should you, but Charles Cardew was a magnificent young man: sober, honest, highly intelligent, with a great future in front of him. Rupert is in most ways his exact opposite. Handsomer, to his downfall.” He stopped abruptly, as if feeling that he had said too much.

  “Is it a downfall to be handsome?” Gwen asked curiously. “Was poor Charles plain, then?”

  Ballinger looked at her with a smile. “You know nothing of such men, my dear. Rupert Cardew is a wastrel, a womanizer, flattering and deceiving even married women, whom one would imagine to have more judgment and more sense.”

  Margaret looked uncomfortable. She met Rathbone’s eyes, and then deliberately avoided them.

  “Perhaps his grief sent him a little mad?” Gwen suggested. “It can do so. Were they close?”

  “I have no idea,” Ballinger replied, regarding her with slight surprise. “I don’t think so. And Rupert was wild and selfish long before Charles’s death. It is generous of you to try to excuse him, but I’m afraid his behavior is far worse than you imagine.”

  Gwen would not let it go. “Really? Lots of young men drink a little too much, Papa. Most of us know that. We only pretend not to.”

  “We have to pretend a lot of things,” Celia added. “It is very foolish to admit to everything you know. You can make life impossible for yourself.”

  “Really, Celia!” George remonstrated, no amusement in his face whatever.

  Rathbone turned to Margaret and saw the humor in her eyes. It was a moment of understanding where words were unnecessary. He found himself looking forward to the journey home, when they would be alone in the carriage, and then even more so to arriving.

  “I’m surprised if you haven’t heard word, one place or another, Oliver.” Ballinger lingered a moment before continuing. “Poor Cardew has had to bail Rupert out of more than one scandal that would have blackened the family name if he hadn’t.”

  “I thought that was what you were referring to,” Gwen said ruefully.

  “I’m afraid Rupert Cardew went a great deal further than that,” Ballinger told her. “He has an ungovernable temper when he is roused. He has beaten people very badly. It is only his father’s intervention that has saved him from prison.” His voice dropped. “And yet he loves the boy, as fathers do love their children, no matter what sins they commit.” He looked at Margaret, then at Gwen, and finally at Celia.

  He sat quite still, a large man, heavy-shouldered, powerful, his thick-featured face benign, until one tried to read the heavy-lidded eyes, as black as coal under their drooping lids.

  No one spoke. There was an intensity of emotion at the table into which speech would have been intrusive, even clumsy.

  Rathbone knew that Hester had been accepting considerable donations of money from Rupert for the financing of the clinic. Would she have taken them were she aware of his darker nature, so different from the sunny charm he presented to her?

  Perhaps Ballinger’s loyalty—one that could not be revealed—had also bound him to Lord Justice Sullivan. Ballinger’s purchase of the obscene photographs that Claudine Burroughs had witnessed when she’d followed Arthur that night had not been for his own personal use but had been part of a last desperate attempt to rescue Sullivan from himself. That the attempt had failed was a grief Ballinger could reveal to no one at all. In that light, Arthur’s sin was of a completely different weight. And Sullivan was dead. It was Sullivan’s surviving family that Ballinger would be protecting. The thought eased the knots inside Rathbone, and suddenly he was smiling.

  It was Mrs. Ballinger who resumed the conversation. Rathbone allowed the words to pass over him. He thought instead of Ballinger’s love for his daughters, all of whom seemed to have brought him happiness.

  Rathbone looked at Margaret now, leaning forward listening to George as if what he was saying interested her, though Rathbone knew that it did not. But she would never hurt George’s feelings, for Celia’s sake. The loyalty was deep, always to be trusted, relied on in hard times and easy. He found himself gazing at her, proud of her gentleness.

  The last course was served, and then the ladies withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to pass the port and take a little cheese if they cared to.

  IN THE WITHDRAWING ROOM the conversation was trivial again: small matters of gossip and amusement. Rathbone found it hard to join in, because he was not acquainted with most of the people they referred to, and it was even harder to laugh at the humor. The wit lacked the dryness that pleased him.

  “You are quiet, Oliver,” Mrs. Ballinger observed, turning from Celia to face him, her brow furrowed. “Does something trouble you? I hope it was nothing in the dinner.”

  “Of course it wasn’t, my dear,” Ballinger said quickly. “He is out of sorts because over the port and cheese I criticized his friend Monk, who is, I think, a far more dangerous man than Oliver wishes to accept. His loyalty does him credit, but I believe it is misplaced. It is not an uncommon trait to think well of our friends, in spite of evidence to the contrary.” He smiled, a brief flash of teeth. “And it is in a way admirable, I suppose.” He shrugged again, very slightly, merely a creasing of the fine fabric of his jacket. “But as he himself has just observed, in the law we cannot afford such emotional luxuries. We are the last refuge of those who desperately need no more and no less than justice.”

  “Bravo, Papa,” Margaret said with a faint flush of pink across her cheeks. “How perfectly you balance the head and the heart. You are right, of course. We cannot favor loyalty over justice, or we betray not only those who trust in us, but ourselves as well.” She looked at Rathbone, waiting for him to concede her father’s point.

  In that instant he realized how deep her loyalty was to her father, so deep that she did not even perceive that it was instinctive rather than a matter of reason. It made her side against Monk without hesitation. Was that what it came to—the loyalty of blood? Or was her devotion to her father stronger than any other love?

  Did he feel any less for his own father?

  She was waiting now, the question in her eyes. It was not really about the law. It was about Monk, and the long past they shared, the battles Margaret had not been part of, and it was perhaps also about Hester.

  “My loyalty has always been to the truth,” Rathbone replied, choosing his words with intense care. “But I believe that Monk’s has also. On occasion he has been mistaken. So have I. He was slipshod in his prosecution of Jericho Phillips, and the man got off because I was more skilled, and more diligent. However, if you recall, Phillips was undoubtedly guilty, which m
eans that Monk’s judgment of the man’s character was not at fault.”

  Ballinger rested his large square-ended fingers very gently on the leather arm of his chair. “That may be true, Oliver, but you have missed the point. Monk has no right to be judging Jericho Phillips, or anyone else. He is a collector of evidence to present before the court—no more than that.”

  “A sort of collector of moral refuse,” George added smugly, glancing at Ballinger, and away again.

  Celia smiled.

  “Then, what are we?” Oliver said, hearing the cutting edge of his own voice. “Sorters of that same refuse? Personally I am quite happy if the police at least begin the process, and give me some sort of pattern, either to confirm or deny.”

  “Oh, really!” Wilbert protested.

  Margaret looked unhappy, a mounting shadow in her eyes. Rathbone realized with surprise that she had not expected him to argue. In her opinion he should not have defended either Monk or himself. This quiet room was like thousands of other withdrawing rooms in London, but in subtle ways he felt alien in it. The painted walls were very similar to all the others—the heavily swagged curtains, the long windows onto the great garden, certainly the busy red and green carpet, even the brass fire irons in the hearth. It was the beliefs that were foreign to him, things as invisible and as necessary as the air.

  “Perhaps we should speak of something else,” Ballinger said, leaning a little farther back in his armchair and crossing his legs. “I had a most amusing evening last Thursday …”

  For the best part of the next hour he regaled them with a detailed and amusing account of his journey across the river, with lurid descriptions of the ferryman and his interests. Apparently he had gone to visit an old friend named Harkness who lived in Mortlake.

  When at last he finished, Celia began to laugh. “Really, Papa! You had me hanging on every word you said! I could see the wretched ferryman, bowlegs and all.”