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They went through the gate and into the longer grass. Oliver drew in his breath deeply, smelling the richness of it: the ripe seed heads of the longer wild grass, the damp earth where the ditches ran. It would not be long before the hips and the haws turned scarlet. There were a few trumpets of late honeysuckle in bloom. It was far enough into the evening for their scent to be heavy and sweet in the air.
Above them the breeze was stirring the elm leaves in a soft whisper, and the starlings were beginning to gather. In an hour or so, there would be small bats flittering in their odd, jerky way between the branches and the eaves of the house.
Traveling had been wonderful, full of adventure, walking in the ancient places where men had built monuments to their lives and beliefs for thousands of years. But nothing exceeded the deep and abiding pleasure of a late-summer evening at home.
Returning to London also meant facing emotions that Oliver had been able to bury while filling his mind daily with new and absorbing experiences, then sharing them afterward with Henry and discussing all manner of ideas and philosophies long into the night. But one cannot escape forever; even such freedom has its caverns that cry out to be filled.
Now the awareness that intruded on him, no matter how he tried to escape it, was of how much Beata York was in his mind. Even as he stood here in the familiar orchard, steeping himself in its scents and letting the silence wash over him, he thought what joy it would bring him to share it with her. Everything, sweet or painful, would be better shared, and he could think of no one else with whom that would be so.
He had finally accepted in his mind that Henry would not be here forever. Whether it was years from now, or sooner, the day would come. He could not yet grasp the loneliness it would bring, but he had gained the courage to face it.
With Beata it could be accepted as one of the great milestones of life, not an irreparable loss. He did not even know what he believed of death, or of eternity. Perhaps very few people really knew, until the test of bereavement came.
He had thought of it when visiting the tombs of Egypt, the burial mounds of people who died a thousand years before Christ was born, or even longer. They had unquestionably believed in immortality. But life had held more mystery then. It was easier to believe in the unknowable.
He had thought of it also standing in the streets of Rome, the same city to which St. Peter had come after the death of Christ, and from which pope after pope had ruled the Catholic Church, which at that time was synonymous with the Christian world.
Perhaps he should have gone to Jerusalem?
Except that it should not make a ha’p’orth of difference where a man stood. What closer place was there to heaven than an English garden at sunset as the wind shimmered the leaves of the elms above them and flocks of starlings were crowded black pin dots against the gold of the sky?
Henry’s gentle voice broke into his thoughts. “This trial you’re advising Rufus Brancaster about, have you thought of the consequences?”
Oliver returned his mind to the immediate present with a jolt. “Beshara will be vindicated, although it’s too late to be of much use to him,” he answered. “Sabri will be sentenced to death.”
“That will be the beginning,” Henry agreed. “And in some senses, the least of it. This appalling miscarriage did not happen by accident, or because of one or two chance pieces of evidence. There was error, misjudgment, and corruption all the way through. If you succeed—and I know that you must if it is humanly possible, and whatever the cost—then you will also expose that. Once you have begun, you will not be able to stop it. Have you considered the full impact?”
That was precisely what Oliver had been avoiding, keeping his mind too occupied to tread there.
“We don’t know who is behind it,” he said reasonably as they began to walk back toward the house.
Henry sighed. “Yes you do. You’ve read the transcripts by now. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You are not incompetent.”
Oliver did not answer.
“Part of your argument regarding the first trial, and a flaw you will certainly expose, is that no one proved a motive for Beshara to risk his own life to kill so many British that he did not even know.”
“The only answer is the general one, that he hated us and was paid to do it,” Oliver replied.
“Precisely,” Henry agreed. “And have you considered who may have paid Sabri? I hope you don’t imagine that Pryor will not ask?”
“No … of course he will,” Oliver agreed.
Henry shook his head. “And do you know?”
“Not yet. There are several possibilities. Ossett has nothing to gain by it. I looked into his background, his financial investments, even his social connections. There is nothing to suggest he’s anything but the decent, slightly stuffy, ex-military man he appears to be. The same is true of everyone else connected with changing the case from Monk to Lydiate. And Lydiate himself is a victim of it. He was put in over his head, granted. He felt coerced because of his brother-in-law’s vulnerability, but it didn’t affect how he behaved. And there’s Camborne, but I can’t find any reason for him to prosecute so passionately, except his ambition.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Henry asked as they reached the French windows and went inside. The air was cooling as the light faded, and he was happy to close and lock them for the night.
Oliver waited.
“Ingram York presided over the first trial,” Henry went on, sitting down in his favorite chair and waving Oliver to take the opposite one, where he habitually sat. “You will be forced to expose his conduct of it, with every ruling he made. Are you prepared for what you may find? Do you want to prove him at best incompetent, losing his mental grasp, or at worst, actually corrupt?”
Oliver faced it at last. Henry had left him no escape. Such an exposure would inevitably hurt Beata, even if at the same time it began to free her from York. He did not know if that was a price he was willing to pay.
Would it even free her? Was it not more in her character that loyalty would bind her to her husband even more tightly?
Henry was watching him, not saying the obvious, but the knowledge of it was in
