AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Lydiate looked at him levelly. “You might be well advised to allow some people to hide behind excuses. And don’t look at me like that. If you are to succeed, you need to learn a little diplomacy. Or, if you prefer, the art of being devious.”
Monk shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them and smiled. “I appreciate your advice,” he said honestly, and wondered what on earth had happened to him that he was suddenly so tactful. Then he knew that it was not only an acknowledgment of the truth, but that he also liked Lydiate. He knew that in his place he, too, might have bent to pressure, if the price of it were the safety of those he loved. It was possible. He, too, had hostages to fortune.
CHAPTER
15
RATHBONE STOOD IN THE center of the sitting-room floor in his new apartment. It was elegant: exactly his own taste; no one else was catered for. Yet it felt unfamiliar and almost unused. There were all the books and artifacts he had collected in more than a quarter of a century of independent life, and yet it was not home. Would time make it so, eventually? Perhaps after he had entertained guests here, returned after a full day doing something that mattered. Or might he always feel rootless now? Was failure so relentless, so deep?
That was what was missing: purpose. Before going away with his father, he had been looking for something to do rather than trying to make the day long enough for all that mattered most, and still feeling he carried things over and had to hurry the next day.
Purpose. Perhaps it was the next best thing to happiness. Empty time was a dark hole in which monsters lived and too easily came to the surface.
But this apartment was a new start. He had no profession, which was inescapable. It was a fair price to pay for what he had done, but that did not take away the void inside him.
It was also free of any reminder of Margaret, and that was a relief. His marriage was the thing in which he had signally failed, but his freedom was good. Only now did he realize that in acknowledging the end of his marriage, he had also escaped from the need to lie to himself about its possibilities. It had been hard work to deceive himself, and in the end the battle was always lost. Admitting defeat hurt, even when he knew he was wrong.
He should be used to that now. No longer could or should he always win. His endeavors should be in the service of truth, with perhaps a degree of mitigation.
He smiled to himself, walked over to the window, and drew the curtains. He was happy to gaze at the trees in full leaf, and the clipped grass of the square. They were not quite the same as the garden of his previous home, but he had no time to stroll around it anyway, and no inclination whatever to work in it.
Even though he could not speak in court until his punishment was served and he had reapplied to be accepted again, he could attend court, as could anyone else, and he could certainly assist Rufus Brancaster in this vital prosecution.
Assist! Brancaster would once have been honored to be his pupil, to be permitted to occupy the second chair next to him! Oh, “how are the mighty fallen!” Humble pie had a bitter taste, but much necessary medicine did. You could swallow it with a good grace, or a poor one, but taking it was the only way back to where he wished to be.
He sat down at the walnut desk and wrote a brief, gracious letter to Rufus Brancaster asking him when it would be convenient for them to meet and discuss this most interesting case. If Brancaster wished, he was welcome to come to Rathbone’s apartment for dinner, and speak at leisure, neither unobserved nor commented on by others.
He sealed it, placed a stamp on it, and rang the bell for his manservant to take it to the postbox. He realized as he did so that there was a knot of anxiety inside him, almost an excitement. He cared that Brancaster had asked for his help. He was touched with fear that he would not justify the expectations. Did he still have the imagination, the confidence to win the seemingly impossible?
WHEN BRANCASTER ARRIVED FOR dinner, carrying a briefcase full of papers, he looked nervous. This case was one of the most important of the decade, if not of the half century. His own reputation was only a small part of what would be made, or ruined by the result.
Did Rathbone envy him? Yes. Yes, he did. To use the skills nature had given you was necessary, as a horse must run, or a bird must fly.
It was the measure of himself how he helped: to do the very best he could do, and none of it for personal reward, even in admiration. Far more was at stake than any man’s vanity.
“Come in,” he invited, standing back. Dover, his only manservant now, was in the kitchen. Serving a good meal was his pride as well as his duty.
Brancaster followed Rathbone into the sitting room and accepted a fine, very dry sherry, which Rathbone poured from the silver-mouthed decanter on the sideboard.
Brancaster smiled. “Should I ask you about your trip around Europe?” he said, his voice only barely showing the tension he felt. “Or shall we turn to business straightaway?”
“My trip around Europe was marvelous,” Rathbone replied smoothly. He understood what Brancaster was feeling. In fact, since his own trial, and his experience of prison, he was aware of a great many things he had failed to grasp before. It was almost as if a film had been lifted from his eyes. Everything was both uglier and more precious. Life itself was shorter. Every hour should be cherished.
The sun through the window shone on their sherry glasses, and it was as if they had been carved out of topaz.
He smiled. “But having dispensed with that, we can turn to the most pressing areas of business.”
Brancaster relaxed. “I’ve received a lot of background on people from both Lydiate and Monk. There seem to be a score of little inconsistencies, but they are errors anyone might make. Nothing even remotely indicates deliberate complicity in a crime of this magnitude.”
“Are you satisfied beyond any reasonable doubt that Gamal Sabri is the man who detonated the dynamite on the Princess Mary, and then leaped overboard to escape the explosion?” Rathbone asked.
Brancaster did not hesitate. “Absolutely. And I rest on provable facts, not eyewitness accounts. And that boat is unquestionably the one that rammed the ferry. They pulled the ferry up and examined it. Apart from the accounts of both Monk and the ferryman, the structural damage is there for anyone to see. We have experts who can swear to the pattern of damage. For that matter, we could bring the thing itself into court. But that won’t—”
“I know,” Rathbone agreed. “Emotions are too high for sense to override them. Trying to force belief won’t work. You need to lead them gently until they are ready to accept the truth. In fact, until they want to. It will be a long and very careful task, and there’ll be many people who will try to sabotage it. One of the dangers is that you could draw it out so long that the jury loses the thread, and—worse than that—loses the rage and grief. There comes a point of exhaustion beyond which all one wants is to end the matter, and escape.”
He wondered how far he dared tell Brancaster the far deeper issue that troubled him. Was it wiser to address the conviction of Sabri first, and leave the corruption until that was established in law? Or did they necessarily proceed together, locked in step toward one conclusion?
Was it his responsibility to make that decision? Or was he succumbing to arrogance?
