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Not yet. There was too much else to think of. For right this moment he could come and go as he pleased. He could wash, have a decent cup of tea, eat what he wanted, and tonight sleep in his own bed, in the softness, enjoying the clean smell and the silence. He could get up when he wanted.
That was reality now: he could stay in bed if he wanted because there was no work to do, no one to talk to, to care for, no challenge except to find something to occupy his mind, to keep himself from sinking into anger and despair.
Early in the afternoon Henry Rathbone came to visit him.
“Thank you,” Rathbone said immediately, choking a little on the words, his voice thick with emotion. He had not meant to lose his grip this way, but his father’s familiar face and the sound of his voice overwhelmed him.
Henry turned away and looked for a place to sit while the butler, who had let him in, went away to fetch a fresh pot of tea and some hot, crumbly, buttery scones.
“I paid it as soon as they let me. Would you like to come and stay a few days at Primrose Hill?” Henry asked, regarding Rathbone with extraordinary gentleness. He would say nothing of love, or of anxiety, or fear, certainly not of disappointment, but it was all there in his eyes. He found it embarrassing to speak of such emotions, and unnecessary. A lifetime of companionship, guidance, encouragement, and shared dreams and jokes had made such declarations of feeling redundant.
An immediate refusal rose to Rathbone’s lips, then he bit it back. It would seem so callous, like a rejection. What he really felt was that it would add to his own guilt, already weighing him down, if his father were harassed by journalists or prodded with unintentionally cruel questions by his friends. People might hold him in some way responsible, by association. Henry would then be placed in the situation of having to defend Rathbone, to explain.
Friends calling by might find Rathbone’s presence awkward. Perhaps they would remain away for that reason. It might place Henry in a position where he would have to refuse invitations, or ask that Rathbone be included. That would be excruciating for his father.
It would be wonderful to be there in the familiar house, to walk down the long lawn in the evening, watch the light fade on the glittering leaves of the elms, smell the honeysuckle, see the flights of starlings swirl against the last of the sunlight. The thought of it suffocated him with emotion, even sitting here in this very formal, very elegant sitting room of Margaret’s.
He needed a clear mind if he was to find any way at all out of this mess, which was largely of his own making.
“Not yet,” he said gently. “I need to learn a great deal more about this …” He saw Henry’s face darken. “I’m not going to try to solve it myself,” he assured him quickly. “I’m impressed with Brancaster.”
A very faint smile crossed Henry’s face.
“I know,” Rathbone said. “I had the very stupid idea that he was going to be some rather stuffy academic who hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom in years. I apologize for that. But even as good as Brancaster is, he can’t work without ammunition, and I haven’t given him much.”
“Monk will help you,” Henry assured him.
“I know,” Rathbone agreed. “There has to be a lot more that I haven’t considered, especially about Taft. Why in God’s name did he kill his wife and daughters? What sort of a man could even think of such a thing? There has to be some major secret that we don’t know yet, to make sense of that.”
“Why have they not prosecuted Warne?” Henry asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve made a few enemies who will be only too delighted to ruin me, but who don’t necessarily have anything against Warne. Anyway, his error was slight. He should have told Gavinton about the picture straightaway, before the court sitting began. I should have shown the evidence to both of them and recused myself. Those are offences of a very different magnitude.”
Henry frowned, a heavy crease forming between his brows. “Oliver, do you know who laid the complaint yet? Was it Drew?”
Rathbone had thought about this again and again. He had decided it could not have been Drew, as much as the man disliked him, unless he was so bent on revenge that self-destruction was a price he was willing to pay.
“I don’t know who it was,” he said, a little vaguely. He felt as if he were entering a dark room that contained a trap that would hurt him, perhaps very badly, a trap he could not see.
“Oliver, we cannot avoid this,” Henry said, his voice quiet but controlled.
Rathbone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know. And I have thought about it. It doesn’t make much sense for it to have been any of the men involved in this case, unless one of them has a profound secret. And of course that is a possibility. Perhaps at my age it’s ridiculous to have delusions about people, especially considering my profession. But life would be unbearable without hope, and at least a degree of blindness regarding those you love.”
Henry started to protest, and then changed his mind and remained silent.
“The only other people who knew, apart from you, are Hester and Monk,” Rathbone went on. “And about them there isn’t even a question.”
Henry was thinking. “What about Ballinger’s lawyer who brought the photographs to you in the first place? Did he know what they were?”
Rathbone was startled. That idea had not occurred to him. “Possibly. If he were Ballinger’s lawyer in any respect apart from in the execution of his will, then I suppose he might well have. He would know they were photographs by the size and weight of the case, even if he didn’t know of what nature. But it would be a gross breach of his trust if he were to tell anyone else …” He realized even as he said it that the remark was idealistic and, in this present situation, naïve. It was a whole line of inquiry he had not even thought of. The morass of fear and degradation, and the many-tentacled creatures that lived and fed in it, was far more monstrous than he had yet grasped. He longed to be clear from it. And yet he could blame no one but himself. He had tasted its power and been unable to put it down. Now it was too late. Perhaps he was more like Ballinger than he would ever have been willing to acknowledge.
Henry was looking at him, his eyes sad and anxious.
Rathbone forced himself to smother his own fear. He, of all people, had the least justification for self-pity. He had to act with courage.
“I’ll speak to Monk,” he said, his voice perfectly level. “I know
he’s not a private agent of inquiry anymore, but he’ll know what to do. And I think Brancaster’s a good man. Thank you for finding him.”
