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Yes. Yes, of course it would.
He turned and walked up the short path to York’s front step, and before he could let thought weaken him, he grasped the bellpull.
The door was answered within a few moments.
“Good evening, sir,” the footman said courteously, his blank face inviting some explanation.
Rathbone put his card on the silver tray that the man held out.
“Oliver Rathbone.” He did not give his title. “I apologize for calling without previous arrangement, and at such an hour, but it concerns business taking place tomorrow, and therefore it cannot wait.”
The footman blinked. “If you will come inside, Sir Oliver, I will see if Sir Ingram can see you. May I tell him what manner of business it is?”
“It concerns a trial that is of national importance,” Rathbone replied, following the man into the vestibule and then the hall. The evening was too warm for him to have worn a coat, but the footman took his hat.
“Would you care to wait in the morning room, sir?” the footman asked.
Rathbone smiled. “I would prefer to wait here, thank you.”
The footman did not argue but disappeared toward the withdrawing room, closing the door behind him. He returned a few moments later and showed Rathbone in.
York was sitting in the large armchair nearest the fireplace. He was possibly a little heavier than when Rathbone had last seen him, but his white hair was as gleaming and
as thick. His complexion was flushed as if even the expectation of seeing Rathbone irritated him.
Rathbone glanced at Beata, who was on the sofa to his right. Not to have acknowledged her would have been appallingly rude. When he did, he felt a jolt of electricity. She was more than beautiful. There was a passion for life in her face, laughter, and tenderness. He looked away quickly, even before he spoke, afraid his own eyes would give him away.
“Good evening, Mrs. York. I am sorry to intrude—”
“What is it you want, Rathbone?” York interrupted. “If you’ve come to plead with me for some leniency on your bar from practice of the law, don’t embarrass yourself. I have neither the power nor the will to do anything of the sort. Your punishment was deserved. For God’s sake stop whining and take it like a man!”
“Ingram!” Beata said sharply, horrified at his bluntness. She turned to Rathbone, but before she could speak, York cut across her.
“Beata! This is not your concern. Your compassion speaks well for you, but please do not interfere. You can only make it worse.” He looked at Rathbone again, leaning forward a little in the big chair. “I am quite aware of the current, farcical trial of Gamal Sabri, for a crime of which Habib Beshara is already convicted. I am also aware of your part in it, and I can imagine the desperation you must feel that you can only sit silently and watch it crumble. Were your friend William Monk not such an ambitious fool, you would not be placed in such elegant torture. But there is nothing whatever that I could, or should do about it. Now please leave my house without giving me the necessity of calling extra staff to remove you by force. Good night, sir.”
This was the moment. Oddly enough, Rathbone did not feel a surge of anger boil up inside him; it was rather more pity, a regret that this could not be avoided, only pointlessly delayed.
“You are perfectly correct, sir,” he said quietly. “It is a deserved punishment. Those who transgress the law must be removed from the practice of it, in the interests of us all.” He moved his attaché case a little farther into view.
“Then why the devil are you intruding on my evening, and into my home?” York demanded.
“Would you not prefer to discuss this in private, sir?” Rathbone asked.
“No, I would not! If you want to make a fool of yourself in my home, then you will do it in front of my wife!” York retorted.
There was no escape.
Rathbone remained standing.
“I have studied the transcripts of Beshara’s trial very carefully, and with legal colleagues, in case I should misinterpret anything in them,” he began. “I have studied your rulings and your summation.”
“For what purpose?” York snapped.
“To see if there are any grounds for reversal …”
York started to his feet, his left hand grasping for the cane that leaned against his chair.
“How dare you, sir?”
