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Oliver waited.
“I presume you have weighed the arguments on either side, and reached no conclusion,” he said finally.
“I’m not sure that it’s quite that simple,” Oliver answered frankly. “To destroy them would be irrevocable. I suppose I’m reluctant to do that. What if a situation arises where, with them, I could right a great wrong, but I had thrown that opportunity away because I was too cowardly to deal with the responsibility of keeping them? I would have to face the fact that I destroyed a precious means of helping make a difference. Ballinger himself first used them to save countless lives after all.”
There was no joy in Henry’s face, no light of agreement.
“To begin with, yes,” he said. “But I think it’s more important to remember where he ended up.”
“Are you saying I should destroy them?” Oliver asked.
Henry regarded him slightly critically. “No, I’m not. It is too big a decision for you to allow anyone else to make for you. You are dealing with an immense power. Be very careful.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Whatever you do there is a terrible risk. That is no doubt what Ballinger intended.” He smiled bleakly; then his face lifted with gentleness. “I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER 3
The summer weather was beautiful. Rathbone stood by the window in his chambers and watched the traffic pass below him. The sun glinted on harnesses and the shining coats of the horses as a brougham went by, coachman sitting upright. In the carriage two ladies held colored parasols, the frilled edges fluttering in the breeze.
There was a brief knock on the door. As he turned to respond, the door opened and his clerk came in, his face somber.
“Yes, Patmore?” Rathbone said, curious. Usually Patmore would begin to speak as soon as he had closed the door. Obviously this was a matter of some gravity.
“There is a new case added to your docket, Sir Oliver,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “I think you might like some warning before it actually comes to court.”
Rathbone was intrigued already. “Scandal?” he asked. “Something we need to handle delicately?” He was used to such things.
“Yes, sir, but not in the usual way,” Patmore replied. “It’s … it’s really very nasty.”
“Things usually are if they find their way to the Old Bailey,” Rathbone observed a little drily. “Murder?”
“No, sir. As far as I know, nobody was physically harmed. It’s all quite literally about money.”
Rathbone almost lost interest immediately. Greed was one of the most boring motives for breaking the law. “Then why do you think I ought to be warned before I consider it more seriously?” he asked.
“You might wish to find a way to pass it on to someone else, sir,” Patmore replied, explaining it as if to someone slow of understanding. “I think it will get very ugly, and whatever the verdict, it will offend people we would prefer not to.”
Rathbone’s attention was fully engaged now. He recalled the conversation at Ingram York’s dinner table. “What on earth is so sensational in a case of greed?” He said carefully, not wanting to assume the case was anything too extraordinary. “We see them every day.”
“Not when the accused is a churchman and the victim is apparently his flock, sir.”
Patmore had a sense of irony that had not escaped Rathbone, but he was still far from used to it.
“I see.” Rathbone exhaled slowly.
“It will be unpleasant and require a great deal of tact,” Patmore continued. “I rather fancy you have been handed it because everyone else would prefer to watch from the sidelines, preferably far enough away for flying mud not to attach itself to them.”
“If anyone can counsel you to curb your opinions, Patmore, you might consider it seriously, for your own survival-but please never do it for mine. I should miss your frankness. Now tell me more specifically what the accusation is against this churchman.”
Patmore inclined his head, by way of accepting what he took to be a compliment, as indeed it was. “Mr. Abel Taft has been accused of defrauding his congregation out of several thousands of pounds, sir,” he answered. “In fact, the amount named would be sufficient to buy a row of quite respectable houses. Half a street of them.”
“Several thousands?” Rathbone said in disbelief. “How on earth could he swindle his congregation out of so much without their knowledge? And where on earth is his church that his parishioners had tha
t much to give?” He was quite certain now that this was the case that York had mentioned.
“That is rather the issue, sir,” Patmore remarked. “It has been given, allegedly, by ordinary men and women, out of their savings, in the belief that it was going to the starving and the homeless.”
“And it was not?” Rathbone felt his anger rising.
“Allegedly not, sir. Rather more than stated was going to a very nice savings account, not to mention a high standard of living for Mr. Taft himself, and of course his young and very appealing family.”
