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“Worse than that,” Rathbone added. “Who colluded to frame Beshara, and why? Lydiate? Camborne? Even York? Who put pressure on Ossett to direct it as he did, or to get Monk back on it after the case against Beshara collapsed?”
Brancaster did not even attempt to answer.
OVER THE NEXT WEEK, Rathbone learned everything he could about the main players in the trial of Habib Beshara, and those like Lydiate and Lord Ossett who had been instrumental in handling the whole tragedy. He contacted Alan Juniver for much of the background. It was a difficult meeting, as it always was for Rathbone when encountering anyone he had known prior to his fall from grace. Before it he had been one of the most senior lawyers, and later, briefly, a judge. His downfall was spectacular, because it had been from such a height.
Had his long trip to Europe been an escape, a running away that had only made his return harder? Possibly. But whatever the cost now, he would not regret it. The time with his father had been beyond price.
Juniver was embarrassed to see him, but he concealed it moderately well. He had once admired Rathbone immensely, and told him so. Now he was uncertain, and that, too, was in his face.
“You’re looking well,” he said with sincerity. Rathbone’s skin had been burned brown by the Mediterranean sun. He was leaner and he knew it. He had had to ask his tailor to alter some of his suits by a couple of inches to fit his shape, having lost the softness he had gained from too many good lunches and hours sitting at a desk studying depositions and briefs.
“Thank you.” Rathbone accepted the compliment. “Good travel broadens the mind and narrows the waist.”
Juniver smiled. “I hear you were in Egypt. Was it all that the romantics say? Newspapers, travel books, novelists, and poets seem to be full of it.”
“More than all,” Rathbone said sincerely. The memories of it were sharp in his mind: not just the grandeur to the eye but the tastes and smells, the sting and heat of the sun, the murmur of the Nile fingering its way through the reeds. It was not hard to think of the basket with the infant Moses caught up in those reeds, or, centuries later, the gilded barge with the young Cleopatra returning to her capital after lying with Caesar.
“And Italy,” he added. “No visit there is long enough. Must be one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. But there is much to return to here.”
Juniver bit his lip. Now he was wrong-footed. He did not know what Rathbone was going to say next, so he did not know what reply to prepare.
“I need your help,” Rathbone said, concealing his faint amusement. For all his potential, Juniver was not as quick, as intuitive at questioning, as he would need to be.
Juniver saw it in his eyes and caught the lesson.
“Of course,” he said quickly. “You want to know about the Beshara case. I assume there is no doubt this time that Sabri is guilty?”
“None at all,” Rathbone answered. “But that is only part of the issue, as I imagine you must know. I’ve read the transcript of Beshara’s trial. There was never any possibility that you could have got him off, unless you had had the evidence that Monk later discovered. Even then I am not certain. The emotional tide might have prevailed, even so.” He looked steadily at Juniver, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes, and finally the acknowledgment that he himself had believed Beshara guilty. That had inevitably colored his voice, his face, the way he stood. The jury had read that too.
“Tell me all you can,” Rathbone asked, and knew Juniver would.
RATHBONE WOKE IN THE morning a trifle later than usual. It was funny how in just a few months, years of mental discipline had loosened their hold.
Dover was standing beside the bed with a steaming cup of tea, and the newspaper in his other hand. Rathbone relaxed again, feeling the smooth surface of the sheets with his feet, smelling the cotton. It would be a long time, maybe
years, before the luxury of that wore off, after his time in prison during trial, when he could see no end to his incarceration.
“Good morning, sir,” Dover said punctiliously. His expression gave no indication that he was aware of anything unusual having occurred. It was extraordinarily comforting. “I’m afraid the news is not very pleasant this morning.” He put the cup of tea on the bedside table beside Rathbone, and then the newspaper, still folded, on the top of the bedcover.
Rathbone sat up. “What is it?” he asked, suddenly cold in spite of the fact that the room was warm.
“Mr. Beshara, the Egyptian who was accused of—”
“I know who Beshara is,” Rathbone interrupted. “What about him?”
“I’m sorry to say, sir, he has been murdered, in the prison where he was being held … and treated for his illness.”
Rathbone was stunned. “Are you sure?” It was a stupid question, and yet he could hardly grasp the facts. It was like some parody of the past, hideous, ironic, not even remotely funny. “Murdered?” he repeated the word. “By whom?”
“No one knows, sir.”
“No, of course they don’t! Damn it! Damn it! How could they let that happen?”
“Dead men don’t speak, sir,” Dover replied.
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, RATHBONE had dinner at the house on Primrose Hill where his father still lived. It was a late August evening and the shortening of the days was noticeable. Sunset came earlier, and there was a golden haze in the air as Oliver and Henry walked down the lawn toward the hedge and the orchard beyond. The boughs were heavy with fruit, and here and there birds were already pecking at the riper ones.
“Don’t worry about them,” Henry said casually. “There’ll be plenty for us. I grew them mostly for the birds anyway. Although I hope they don’t take all the plums.”
