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his eyes, and the pain he would share if Oliver were hurt.
Either way, it should make no difference to the decision as to what was the right thing to do. He could not recuse himself! What would he say? I am in love with Sir Ingram York’s wife?
Of course not. He would embarrass her beyond bearing, not to mention what he would do to himself—and to the case. It was not a time for personal considerations. And he was not officially representing anyone. He had no standing. All he could do was advise Rufus Brancaster—and serve the law.
Inevitably it raised memories of Margaret, and the failure of their marriage. Her loyalty to her father had risen above her loyalty to the law, or truth, or even moral justice. When it was only in theory, she had said that whatever the cost, one’s first loyalty had to be to what was right.
Such easy words—before something cuts to the heart and the bone. Before it is your father, your husband or wife who is to be imprisoned, or executed! Arthur Ballinger had been sentenced to be hanged for a crime Oliver knew he had committed. In their last, terrible meeting he had not even denied it. But only Oliver had heard that.
Margaret still believed that her father had been innocent, and that Oliver had put his own career before loyalty to family in allowing Arthur to be convicted and not mounting an appeal. When Oliver’s career had crashed in ruins, because of his decision as to what was right in the Taft case, she had rejoiced, and seized the opportunity to ask him for a divorce.
He had faced a prison sentence and could not morally deny her her freedom. Not, honestly, that he had wanted to. Freedom was lonely, but sweet for all that.
Could he stand by his loyalty to the truth, no matter the price, if it were asked of him? Did he really believe that without honor, nothing else survives?
If it were Henry charged … but Henry wouldn’t be guilty!
Then again, Margaret had been unable to believe that her father was guilty, whatever the evidence.
What would Beata believe of her husband?
Henry was waiting, a sad, gentle smile on his face.
“I’ve paid that price once,” Oliver replied. “I think, if I have to, I’ll pay it again. I’m not sure.”
Henry nodded. “I thought so. But you cannot know what you will find. Someone is guilty.”
“I know …”
CHAPTER
16
MONK WAS IMPATIENT WITH how long his wounds took to heal, but it was actually as fast as anyone could expect. Broken bones mend at their own rate, and neither Hester’s care nor his own annoyance could hasten it. Once or twice she reminded him that his constant irritation was actually more likely to make him feel worse.
Hooper was less volatile or, as Hester observed, to Monk’s surprise, he was more stoic. Her remark had the desired effect of making Monk bite back his anger. He gave Orme authority to act in his place, to choose which cases were given priority, and direct his men accordingly.
Monk accepted his physical inactivity and turned his mind wholly toward investigating what other dark and complicated motives might emerge when the trial of Gamal Sabri proved that Beshara was innocent, and his trial had been flawed by serious error, and almost certainly a degree of corruption.
Monk liked Lydiate and understood why he had yielded to the pressure applied to him regarding the case, even if he was forced to agree also that it jeopardized his impartiality. But once you yield to pressure, even with the smallest, most harmless-seeming deviation from the path, have you then made the next step inevitable? When do you refuse: the third step, the fourth? Or is there no longer a way left to escape?
He began with the most unpleasant of the tasks, which was to check all the facts Lydiate had told him of his sister’s marriage, and consequent vulnerability to pressure. The initial inquiries were simple enough; being discreet was another matter. Once he was beyond what was common knowledge, he went to see Runcorn. He chose to meet him in Greenwich Park, rather than at the police station. They walked side by side along the wide gravel paths between the lawns and flowerbeds, under the great magnolia trees, which had long finished their blooming. To the casual eye they were simply two men who had time to spare in the middle of the summer day.
Runcorn looked unhappy. “You think Lydiate’s corrupt?” he said very quietly, although there was no one else within earshot. “Or you’re trying to prove he’s not … just a bit slipshod in this?”
“Both,” Monk said with an attempt at lightness that failed.
Runcorn moved on several paces before he spoke again. “What does a good man do if he’s blackmailed, not for himself but for someone he loves, and who has a right to expect his protection? Do you sacrifice your family to what you see as justice, even if they don’t?” He shook his head. “I know it’s his sister’s stepdaughter, but that is irrelevant to the question. What if it were his wife?” This time he looked at Monk. “What if it were your wife? Or mine? I couldn’t tell Melisande, ‘No, I won’t protect you. My job comes first.’ ” He stopped on the path, challenging, waiting for Monk’s reply.
Monk stopped also. “And she would tell you to pass the case to someone else,” he said. “And accept the consequences. She’s wise enough and brave enough to know that the other choice leads to an even worse ending.”
“That is only half the answer.” Runcorn refused to move. “Would I ask that of her, knowing what she would do? Maybe the only honest thing is simply to make the decision yourself. Isn’t that what true protection is? You make the choice?”
Monk pushed his hands into his pockets, fists slowly clenched. “Perhaps you have to make the wrong choice once or twice to know how much darker it is in the end.”
Runcorn kept up with him. “And you want me to find out if Lydiate took the wrong choice?”
Trust Runcorn to be blunt. “I need to know. I need to know for sure how far he bent the facts. I’ve been over and over the reports, but that isn’t enough,” Monk answered.
