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“Yes, please. I will pay anything I have-everything-if he will defend me. Will you please tell him so?”
“Yes, of course I will.” He had no idea whether Rathbone would take the case or not. It seemed hopeless. One thing he was certain of, money would not be the issue. “I will ask him this evening, if he is at home.”
She sighed very softly. “Thank you.” She seemed at last to relax a little against the back of the seat, exhausted of all strength, physical and emotional.
CHAPTER 9
Oliver Rathbone arrived home after an ambivalent conclusion to the trial he had been fighting. It was a partial victory. His client had been convicted of a lesser charge, thus carrying a considerably lighter sentence. It was what he believed was warranted. The man was guilty of more, even though there were mitigating circumstances. Rathbone might have achieved a better result for him, but it would not have been just.
He ate dinner alone, and without enjoyment. He had at last faced the fact that he did not want Margaret back, and that was a bitter knowledge. There was no ease between them, and now, not even any kindness. What he wished was that it could all have been different.
Had he been lacking in tenderness or understanding? He had not seen it that way. He had sincerely defended Arthur Ballinger to the utmost of his ability. The man had been found guilty because he was guilty. At the end Ballinger himself had admitted it.
That memory took his mind back to the photographs again. His stomach knotted and he felt as if a shadow had passed over him. Perhaps the evening was colder than he had thought. The fire burned in the grate but its warmth did not reach him.
He was sitting wondering if there was any purpose in asking one of the servants to fill the coal box so he could stoke the fire high, when a much larger thought occurred to him. Should he remain in this house at all? It was a home for two people at least. And he felt another strangely sharp stab inside him. Had he wanted children? Had he assumed that naturally, eventually, there would be?
Thank God there had not been any. That loss would have been far more difficult to bear. Or perhaps Margaret would have stayed, for the child, and they would have lived in icy civility with each other. What death of all happiness!
Or would Margaret have been different with a child? Would it at last have separated her from the previous generation and turned her fierce protectiveness toward her family of the present and future?
Rathbone was still contemplating this when Ardmore came in and told him that Monk was in the hall.
Rathbone was surprisingly pleased to hear that, in spite of the fact that it was after ten o’clock.
“Send him in, Ardmore. And fetch the port, will you? I don’t think he’ll want brandy. Maybe a little cheese?”
“Yes, Sir Oliver.” Ardmore went out with a half-concealed smile.
Monk came in a moment later and closed the door. He looked tired and unusually grim. His hair was wet from the rain outside and, from the way he looked at the fire, he was cold.
Rathbone felt his momentary happiness evaporate. He indicated the chair on the other side of the fireplace and sat down himself.
“Something is wrong?” he asked.
Monk eased himself into a comfortable position. “I arrested a woman today. She asked me to help her get a good lawyer to represent her. Specifically, she asked me to get you.”
Rathbone’s interest was piqued. “If you arrested her then I assume you believe her guilty? Of what, exactly?”
Monk’s face tightened. “Killing then eviscerating the woman whose corpse we found on Limehouse Pier a couple of weeks ago.”
Rathbone froze. He stared at Monk to see if he could possibly be serious. Nothing in his face suggested levity of any sort. Rathbone sat up a little straighter, his hands laced in front of him. “I think you’d better tell me in rather more detail, and from the beginning, please.”
Monk related the discovery of the body near the pier, describing it only briefly. Even though he had seen the headlines, Rathbone still found his stomach churning. He was glad when Ardmore brought in the port, and Monk too was happy to take a glass. The rich warmth of it was comforting, even if nothing could wipe the images of that morning out of his mind, the winter sunrise over the river and the hideous discovery of Zenia’s body.
“You identified her?” he asked, watc
hing Monk’s face.
“A small-time prostitute in her forties, with one client,” Monk replied. “It seems he kept her with sufficient generosity that she could survive on that money alone. She lived very quietly, very modestly, in Copenhagen Place, which is in Limehouse just beyond the Britannia Bridge.”
“Sounds more like a mistress than a prostitute,” Rathbone commented. “Is it the wife you’ve arrested?” It seemed like the obvious conclusion.
“Widow,” Monk corrected him.
Rathbone was startled. “Did the dead woman kill the husband?”
“Why on earth would she do that? His death left her destitute,” Monk pointed out.
