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“Come in?” he called, surprised to be glad of the interruption he had specifically asked should not occur.
Ardmore came in with a tray of sandwiches, brown bread with roast beef and some of Mrs. Wilton’s best, sharp sweet pickles in a little dish. There was a wedge of fruit cake and a glass of brandy.
“In case you feel like it, sir,” he said, putting it on the table at Rathbone’s side. “Would you like a cup of tea as well, perhaps? Or coffee?”
“No, thank you, that’s excellent. Please tell Mrs. Wilton I appreciate her care, as well as yours. You may retire now. I shan’t need you again.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Ardmore withdrew and closed the door gently behind him. Rathbone heard his footsteps, a mere whisper of sound, tap across the hall floor toward the kitchen.
He picked up the first sandwich. He could use a few minutes’ respite from thought, and he realized he was hungry. The sandwich was fresh, the pickles very pleasant. He ate one, then another, then a third.
Had Arthur Ballinger begun this way, feeling and thinking exactly what he was-a dirty tool to save an innocent person? What use was an advocate who was more concerned with his own moral comfort than his client’s life? If Rathbone used the photograph of Hadley Pendock, if it was indeed he, then he would feel soiled afterward. Judge Pendock would hate him. He would not tell others what had been the instrument Rathbone had used, but he might tell them it was unusual, not a thing a gentleman would ever stoop even to touch, let alone injure another by wielding. He would not tell them Rathbone was able to do so only because Pendock’s son had seduced and violated vulnerable, homeless children.
And if he did not use it and Dinah Lambourn was hanged, how then would he feel? What would Monk and Hester think of him? More important than that, what would he think of himself?
What would he ever fight for again? He would have abdicated his responsibility to act. Could anything excuse that?
Either way, whether he used the photographs or not, what was Rathbone making of himself? A safe, morally clean coward who acquiesced while an innocent woman walked to the gallows? A safe man who would have nightmares for the rest of his life as he lay alone in his magnificent bed, in a silent house?
Or a man whose hands were soiled by the use of what amounted to blackmail, to force a weak judge to be honest?
He finished the last sandwich and ate the cake, then drank the last drop of the brandy. Tomorrow he was going to carry out a decision that would change his life-and maybe Dinah’s, and that of whoever had murdered Lambourn, and Zenia Gadney.
He stood up and went to the safe where he kept Arthur Ballinger’s photographs. One day he must find a better place for them, not in this house. But for now, he was glad they were still here.
He opened the safe and took out the case. He opened that, calm now that the decision had been made. He went through the images slowly, one by one. He was disgusted, sickened by the coarseness of them, by the cruelty, the indifference to the humiliation and pain of children.
He found it. It was the same face as that in Pendock’s silver-framed photograph. And on the bottom of this one, in Ballinger’s hand, was written “Hadley Pendock,” and the date and place in which it was taken.
Rathbone put it back again, made a note in his diary, checked that it was correct, then locked the case and put it back in the safe.
He knew what he must do tomorrow morning before the trial resumed, however hard, however painful and repellent. Shame was bitter, but it was a small thing compared with the hangman’s noose.
CHAPTER 23
In the morning, long before the court sat, Rathbone unlocked the safe again and took one of the prints that Ballinger had made of the photograph of Hadley Pendock. It was quite small, only three inches by four, a sample to show anyone what the original contained. Even so, the faces were clearly identifiable.
Rathbone put it in his pocket between two clean sheets of white notepaper, then left the house, taking a hansom to the Old Bailey. Today he needed to be early. As he rode through the gray icy morning streets he refused to let his mind even touch on what he must do, how he would say it, or how Pendock might respond. He had made up his mind, not that this was good, only that the alternative was unbearable.
He arrived at the court even before the usher, and had to wait until the man came in, startled to see Rathbone there before him.
“Are you all right, Sir Oliver?” he asked anxiously. He must know how the case was going. There was pity in his face.
“Yes, thank you, Rogers,” Rathbone said bleakly. “I need to speak to his lordship before we begin today. It is of the greatest possible importance, and it may take half an hour or so. I apologize for the inconveniences I am causing you.”
“No inconvenience at all, Sir Oliver,” Rogers said quickly. “It’s a miserable case. Maybe I shouldn’t be sorry for Mrs. Lambourn, but I am.”
“It speaks well for you, Rogers,” Rathbone replied with the ghost of a smile. “May I wait here?”
“Yes, of course, sir. As soon as I see his lordship I’ll tell him you’re here, and it’s urgent.”
“Thank you.”
It was another twenty-five minutes before Pendock came up the wide hallway and saw Rathbone. He looked grim, and clearly not at all pleased with what he feared was going to be an unpleasant interview.
“What is it?” he asked as soon as they were both inside his chambers and the door closed. “I cannot allow you any further latitude, Rathbone. You have exhausted all the leniency the court can allow. I’m sorry. You are on a loser this time. Accept it, man. Don’t string this out, for all our sakes, even hers.”
Rathbone sat down deliberately, as a signal that he would not be dismissed with a word. He saw the flicker of irritation on Pendock’s face.
