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Juniver breathed in and out slowly. “Are you speaking of York?” he asked.
“Do you know if I’m right?” Rathbone countered. “Or suspect it?”
“Suspect,” Juniver said immediately. Then, quite clearly, he regretted having not been more evasive. “At least … I wondered. It may have been no more than an emotional revulsion to the crime. It would be natural to be outraged. In fact, how could you not be?”
“We are all offended by crime,” Rathbone answered. “Some more than others, of course. Violence is frightening; extreme violence is extremely frightening. We appoint judges because we believe they have the strength and the wisdom to separate their personal fears or weaknesses from the facts of the case. Lawyers who prosecute or defend are allowed to be as passionate as they wish. Judges are not … as I know, to my cost.” He saw Juniver’s face and immediately wondered if he had been wise to make the remark. Perhaps he had temporarily forgotten Rathbone’s fall from grace. It could have been profoundly inopportune to remind him.
“We are all vulnerable,” Juniver replied, lowering his eyes. “We want justice as we see it. We want to be heroes. We want to be on the side of right. And a good few of us want to climb on up the ladder as well …” He stopped. Then he added as if it were an afterthought, “And some of us want to earn favors of certain people.”
That was what he had been meaning to say. Rathbone knew it as surely as if he had spoken of nothing else. He did not need to ask if he were referring to York. What did York want? To rise to the Supreme Court or the House of Lords? Not lord chief justice, surely? He had neither the brilliance nor the reputation among his peers for that.
Rathbone looked at Juniver again. Had the Beshara case really been big enough to build a reputation from which to reach for that? Or was York deluding himself? Perhaps Rathbone should have read more of the newspapers from the time of the sinking; then he would have understood the mood better.
“Is York in line for the next high office vacant?” he asked Juniver. Answers winged through his mind: York as lord chief justice, smiling under his white wig, nodding as he spoke with the prime minister, bowing before the queen. He saw Beata behind him, watching. Even if she just affected to be proud to be his wife, his heart ached for her. If she really was proud, because she had no idea the price York had paid for the honor, Rathbone was hurt as if with a raw wound. And if she knew the price, and did not care, then the pain within him was intolerable.
Had his tragedy with Margaret so warped his belief in people, and in his own judgment, that he trusted nothing anymore? He should not allow her to do that to him! No, that was not strictly fair: He was doing it to himself. Blaming others was what had driven them apart, the refusal to accept the truth because it hurt.
He forced himself back to the issue.
“It began as minor error,” he said to Juniver. “But it looks to me as if he compounded it until it moved into the realm of something that would be cause for reversal in an ordinary trial for theft or assault. No one is going to reverse Beshara’s conviction, because of the horror of the crime. York will have known that, as will Camborne. But is there anything here, looking at it now with the knowledge that Beshara was innocent, that could be viewed as corruption?”
Juniver’s eyes widened. “You’d accuse York of corruption?”
“If there are grounds,” Rathbone replied. “Wouldn’t you?” Then instantly he changed his mind. He had been willfully insensitive. “If it is necessary, I will. I have nothing to lose anyway, and more chance of presenting it successfully. If it came to that.”
“Bring down York?” Juniver said in little more than a whisper. “Because of the Beshara trial?” There was more than doubt in his voice; there was the weight of all he must know about Rathbone’s own trial over which York had presided, and he might even guess what else lay between them.
“Do you think I should ignore it?” Rathbone asked quietly. He did not mean it, or like the sound of it on his lips. “Or give the information to someone else to use? Would you like it?”
“I should have done it at the time of Beshara’s trial,” Juniver replied unhappily. “I should have gone over it all, and I should have appealed then. Not that I imagine it would have done much good.” He bit his lip. “But it wasn’t fear for myself that stopped me, I swear. I thought the man was guilty, and the sooner they hanged him the better.”
“And now?”
“I’ll help you prepare an exact statement of the facts, all York’s rulings on the Beshara case. If they amount to corruption, I’ll do whatever I can to help you bring it to the right attention. A corrupt judge damages every person in England.”
RATHBONE THOUGHT ABOUT IT all the rest of the day after he got home, and for far too much of the night. When he and Juniver had assembled all their notes and references, there was no doubt left. York’s bias had come through in his rulings, and then his summing up. It had probably not been noticed by anyone else because the heat of emotion had been so high, and a conclusion was greeted with a wave of relief.
Rathbone turned it over and over in his mind, rereading the conclusions that he and Juniver had reached. The answer was inescapable. Either he must have Brancaster raise the issue in court, with reference to Beshara’s conviction, which so closely reflected on the trial of Sabri, or he must face York with it himself.
Both possibilities were extremely unpleasant, but also unavoidable. What was the right thing to do? His first instinct was to ask Henry’s advice, then he realized how feeble that was, how selfish. Of course Henry would give his counsel. He would do it gently. But would he not also wonder when Oliver was going to become adult enough to trust his own judgment and carry his own responsibility? He had always done so professionally, on occasions with too much self-assurance. But on the moral questions, and those of deep emotion and the possibility of hurt, he had sought strength from Henry.
During their tour of Europe and the Near East they had been as equals. Oliver had tried very hard to carry extra luggage, and take care of details to relieve his father of the necessity, but he had done it so carefully it had not shown. At least he thought it had not!
Now he should make the decision about facing York without expecting anyone else to examine the details with him, or bear the brunt afterward for whatever pain it caused.
Facing York would be excruciating. But it was a lot less dishonorable than reporting him behind his back. He must do it, prepare exactly what facts he would cite, with the proof, and do it this evening. The trial of Gamal Sabri continued tomorrow morning.
He had not even weighed up what might be York’s reasons for his bias. It could be as simple as revulsion at the crime. Anyone would understand that.
But there was also the far darker possibility that someone had brought pressure to bear on him, threats or promises, to protect their own interests. Or worse even than that, to hide their guilt.
He took a hansom to York’s house. There was no way to determine in advance whether he would be at home or not. Traveling at a fast clip through the darkening streets, the summer evenings already significantly drawing in, he half wished he would find York out and not expected back within hours.
And yet it was like going to have a tooth pulled. If it was infected it would have to be taken. Better to get it done without delay.
He alighted at the end of the block where York’s house was, and paid the driver. He would look for another cab in which to return. He had no idea how long it would be. He might even be refused at the door!
Would it really be so ugly a meeting?
