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“Not as I remember it,” he replied. “He stumbled and fell backward, grasping the cane to save himself, and regrettably caught me with the end of it as I lunged forward to help him. May I stay with you until you have assistance? Perhaps you should sit down and I will fetch the butler …”
She straightened her shoulders. “I will fetch him, thank you, Oliver. As … as you say, my husband is ill. I think perhaps he has been so for some time, and I did not realize how serious it was.”
“Exactly,” he agreed.
The butler was at the door. He must have heard the crash of York’s fall. He regarded his master, who was still senseless on the floor, with some pity, but his concern was for Beata.
“I shall send Duggan for Dr. Melrose, ma’am,” he told her. “Immediately. Perhaps, Sir Oliver, you would be good enough to remain here until we can get the appropriate assistance, and give Mrs. York what comfort you can? I don’t believe we shall be able to resume … things as they were.”
York was still lying insensible on the floor, coffee and blood on his head and face, spittle on his lips.
Rathbone said nothing, but bent to straighten out the fallen man’s legs, before guiding Beata to one of the other chairs. Then he sat in silence opposite her until the servants returned.
CHAPTER
21
RATHBONE WAS AT BRANCASTER’S chambers by eight o’clock the next morning, carrying the papers he had regarding York’s conduct of the Beshara trial. He was too tired and too confused in his emotions to feel any sense of triumph in the fact that he almost certainly had enough material to gain Beshara a new trial, were he alive, or—since he was not—to overthrow a highly questionable verdict. But the victory over Ingram York gave him no sense of triumph. The man had abused his position. Perhaps Rathbone would never know all the small reasons that had brought it about, but he would not have had Beata suffer the distress of seeing him collapse in such a way, stripped of dignity and reason.
The doctor had come immediately. On seeing York still lying on the sitting-room floor, apparently in some sort of coma, the doctor had had him carried gently and carefully to his own room. When the doctor had heard more of the story, York had been taken to a private clinic.
Rathbone had stayed to be of whatever assistance he could. He felt foolish, perhaps intrusive, but he could not leave Beata alone to watch over what might very well be York’s last journey from his own home to a place where he could be cared for, and perhaps from which he might never emerge.
Dr. Melrose could offer no prognosis. He was at a loss, and he had more dignity than to lie about it. Beata seemed to be grateful for that. At her insistence, he also looked at the angry red weal on Rathbone’s shoulder and across his cheek. He glanced at the cane still lying on the floor but he did not ask Rathbone what had occurred. Perhaps York had lost his temper before and Melrose already knew it.
Rathbone was cold at the thought of what Beata might have endured, and forced the imaginings from his mind—not for his own sake, but for hers. If York had indeed struck her, she should be able to believe that Rathbone had no idea.
There was nothing to say beyond the formal words that filled the awkward silence. He had met her eyes once, and knew that she understood at least something of his feelings.
She answered with a tiny smile. It was not yet time for anything else.
It was after midnight when he left. He wished he could do something to help, but was certain that there was nothing yet, except to be discreet. He would speak to no one, not even Monk or Hester, about the blow York had struck him, or the convulsion of rage he had seen. But he could not remove from York’s memory, and also Beata’s, the knowledge of York’s misconduct in the trial of Beshara. That was an abuse of the law, even if they attributed it to York’s ill-health, and it must be faced.
Accordingly he was at Brancaster’s chambers before Brancaster was there himself, and was waiting for him as he arrived. The morning was warm with the still, faintly dusty tiredness of late summer, when the air longs for the cleanness of autumn, the edge of frost, crisp leaves underfoot and the sharp tang of woodsmoke on the wind. The gardens would be bright again with the purple of Michaelmas daisies and the gold of late-blooming chrysanthemums.
Brancaster looked at Rathbone’s face, started to speak, then sensed the gravity in him and waited.
Rathbone followed him inside and set his case of documents down on the floor. “We have sufficient for a reversal, I believe,” he said very quietly. “If we cannot be sure of a conviction then we may have to use it. If we lose, Sabri cannot be charged again.”
An expression of relief crossed Brancaster’s face, and yet none of the tension slipped away from the body. His shoulders were still tight as if he could hardly draw a full breath, and his eyes did not leave Rathbone’s face.
“York will fight hard,” he said grimly.
“He won’t fight at all,” Rathbone answered, and the words sounded odd to his own ears. “He has had a seizure and I’m not sure he will recover. Certainly he will not be in a position to defend himself.” Briefly he gave Brancaster the details of the errors he had found in the rulings. He gave only the facts, as if he were presenting a case to a jury. He said nothing of mercy, professional honor, the reputation of justice or the law. He trusted that Brancaster would know it all without the necessity of words. No discipline under the law could equal in darkness, confusion, and disgrace what York’s own raging mind had done to him already.
For several seconds Brancaster said nothing. His face reflected many emotions. Then anger and pity gave way to a kind of desperation.
“Even if we overturn the verdict against Beshara, we still have to prove Sabri guilty,” he pointed out. “How can I give the jury any confidence that we have the faintest idea what we are doing?” He clenched his fist as if he wished to strike at something, but there was nothing deserving of his anger, nothing to direct it against, so he was left standing there helplessly. “Why?” he demanded, suddenly.
“Why what? Why York?” Rathbone asked.
“Why any of them?” Brancaster replied, his voice rasping. “Why was Camborne so diligent in prosecuting a case he must have known was flawed? He’s a damn good lawyer. He can’t have missed the holes in it, even if Juniver did.” His eyes searched Rathbone’s, as if he should have the answer.
Rathbone had heard from Hester how passionate Camborne had been. At the time he had considered that the horror of the case fueled a natural outrage. Now he wondered, reading York’s decisions and how harsh they had been against Juniver, if there had been more to it than that. Was it possible Camborne had also had some personal interest in it, a gain or a loss?
“And why is Pryor so dedicated to preserving the first verdict?” he said to Brancaster. “What stake has he in it? It’s gone far beyond trying to defend the reputation of the law. Is he trying to gain higher office? To be a judge? He loves the battle too much merely to preside, for all its apparent power.”
“Apparent?” Brancaster asked wryly.
