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Now he watched as the jurors filed back into their seats ready to deliver their verdict. They had been out only two hours, a far shorter time than he had expected. The charge of fraud and the evidence had been extensive and complicated, as it usually was in fraud cases. Robbery was simple: one act. Even violence was usually limited in time and place. The hidden duplicity of fraud required numerous papers to be read, figures to be added and traced to one source or another, and inaccuracies found that could not in any way be ascribed to honest human error.
His conduct of the trial had been a balancing act of some dexterity.
Rathbone looked over at Bertrand Allan, the prosecutor. He looked nervous. He was a tall man, a little stooped, with a shock of brown hair beginning to go gray. He appeared at a glance to be quite relaxed, but his hands were hidden from sight, and his shoulders were so rigid the cloth of his jacket was pulled a little crooked. His junior beside him was drumming his fingers silently against the top of the table.
The lawyer for the defense was anxious. His eyes went one way then the other, but never to Rathbone.
Up in the dock the accused man was white-faced, at last in the grip of real fear. All the way through until this final day he had seemed confident. He swayed a little, as if the tension were too much for him. Rathbone had seen it too many times for it to stir more than an instant’s pity.
The foreman of the jury stood to deliver the verdict when asked.
“Guilty,” he said clearly, looking at no one.
There was a sigh of relief around the room. Rathbone felt his muscles relax. He believed very strongly that this was the correct conclusion. Any other would have evidenced a failure to grasp the weight and importance of the evidence. It would not be appropriate to smile. Whatever he felt, he must appear impartial.
He thanked the jury and pronounced on the convicted man a sentence of imprisonment close to the maximum the law allowed. The crime had been far-reaching and callous. He could see from the expressions in the gallery, and from the nods and murmurs of approval, that the public was also satisfied.
An hour later, still only midafternoon, Rathbone was sitting in his chambers reading papers on a case coming up in a day or two. There was a sharp rap on the door, and as soon as he answered it opened and a stocky man with thick, prematurely gray hair came in.
Rathbone knew him immediately; his reputation was impressive. It was Mr. Justice Ingram York, a man far senior to Rathbone though he was only ten or twelve years older. He had been elevated to the bench early in his career and had presided over some of the most famous cases in the last two decades.
He nodded slightly, standing just in front of the door, having closed it as he came in. He was expensively dressed. His cravat alone probably cost more than many people’s entire wardrobes. His features were good, as he must have been aware, except that his mouth was a little ungenerous; but now he was smiling with a degree of satisfaction.
Rathbone rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy, and out of respect for York’s seniority.
“Well done, Rathbone,” York said quietly. “Very complicated case. I was concerned that the weight of evidence would confuse the jury, but you sorted it out for them with great lucidity. You put that duplicitous devil away for a good many years and possibly set an example for a few others to follow.”
“Thank you,” Rathbone said with both pleasure and surprise. He had not expected a man of York’s eminence to call by to express his satisfaction.
York smiled. “Wondered if you’d care to come to dinner tomorrow evening? Asked Allan and his wife as well. He made a very good showing, I thought. He’s a sound man.”
“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” Rathbone said. It was only after York had given him the time and address, then excused himself and left, that Rathbone sat back and wondered if York was aware that Rathbone’s wife, Margaret, was no longer with him. The invitation was a signal honor, and Rathbone admitted to himself how pleased he was to receive it. It was a kind of acceptance he had not expected so soon. Now he was uncertain if he was going to be embarrassed to arrive alone.
It took only a moment’s reflection to settle the question as to whether there was an alternative. It was months since he had spoken to Margaret personally. Such communication as they had had was entirely through third parties, usually her mother.
Looking back now, he could see that possibly there had been something lacking in their relationship, an understanding deeper than the exchanges of pleasant conversation, even the physical tenderness they had shared in the beginning. Had they ever really understood each other? He had thought so. He had seen a gentleness in her, a rare and very lovely dignity. He still remembered how her mother had unintentionally humiliated her when she was still single, trying to persuade Rathbone, as an eligible bachelor, of Margaret’s virtues. It had made her desperately ashamed, and yet she had tried to put him at ease and allow him to escape without seeming rude.
Instead he had found himself actually wanting to dance with her, even to get to know her better. Her intelligence and honor set her above and apart from the other young women at that particular function. He could not recall now what the event had been; all he remembered was Margaret.
But that was over. Surely the gossip among the legal community would have reached York’s ears? He would be perfectly aware that Margaret had not accompanied Rathbone anywhere in more than a year. It was hardly unnoticeable.
What about Lady York? Would she find her dinner table less than balanced because of it? Perhaps she would have invited some other woman? How embarrassing.
Of course he had expected all this. It was part of the sense of loss. With Margaret he had believed himself happy and at the beginning of a whole new time of peace in his life. He felt a completeness he had never possessed before. Now alone, his feelings of failure were acute. Being alone now was nothing like the occasionally rather pleasant solitude he had known well before his marriage. Back then he had been in love with Hester, and he had hesitated to make any decisive move, uncertain if he really wished his comfort disrupted.
How absurd that seemed, looking back, even cowardly. Hester had never used that word to h
im, but he could not help wondering if she had thought it.
Should he have said anything to York about his single status? Hardly. It would have been inappropriate, even faintly ridiculous.
He would go, and perhaps enjoy himself. He had done well with this very difficult trial. It was a celebration, and he had earned his place in it.
Rathbone dressed immaculately, as always. Elegance came to him quite naturally. He arrived at the Yorks’ magnificent house exactly at the time the invitation had mentioned. He was used to precision and he imagined York might be also. The door opened before he had time to pull the bell rope, as if the footman had been watching for him, as indeed he might.
Rathbone thanked him, gave him his hat, and was escorted across the tessellated marble floor to the double doors of the withdrawing room. The footman opened them and announced him quietly.
“Sir Oliver Rathbone, sir, ma’am.” He waited as Rathbone went in then closed the doors behind him without sound.
