Acceptable Loss (27 page)

“Rathbone—,” Birkenshaw started.

“I have said all I can,” Rathbone replied, and with a brief nod, he turned on his heel and walked as rapidly as he could toward the High Street. With luck, he could catch a hansom cab from there westward back into the city.

But even though he was extraordinarily fortunate and found one within five minutes, he felt awful sitting in it, bowling along at a brisk pace, wheels rattling over the road toward familiar streets. He had been loyal to Monk, and to his own conscience, but had he in a way betrayed Margaret? He would not tell her of this conversation, and that in itself answered his doubts. It was not confidential. He knew before he even considered it that she would feel he had not acted in her father’s best interest. And perhaps that was true.

Of course Rathbone could make an argument that Ballinger was definitely innocent, and should have his chance to prove it so no one could ever imagine that there had been pressure to withdraw the
charge. That might appear a trifle like the Scottish verdict of “not proven,” particularly if no one else was ever successfully brought to trial for Parfitt’s death.

If it were his own father, what would Rathbone’s decision be? It might well be to go ahead and prove his innocence. But then he might also be afraid that some lie, some misread evidence, some quirk of the law, would allow an injustice to happen. There were only three short weeks between conviction and hanging. That was no time at all in which to reverse a verdict, or even raise sufficient doubt to stay an execution.

Now he must prepare to face Ballinger himself—something he was dreading. He realized how little he really knew the man. He did not even know whether Ballinger would be frightened, angry, humble, accusatory, or even so shocked as to be almost numb and unable to think of how to defend himself.

Rathbone leaned sideways and peered out of the cab to the streets, looking to see where he was. He recognized St. Margaret’s Arch. They were just coming into Eastcheap. They would probably go up King William Street, then bear left along Poultry and Cheapside to Newgate. Perhaps there would be a traffic jam and he would be granted a little more time in which to compose himself and think what he would say.

Ten minutes later the cab lurched to a stop. He sighed with relief, but that lasted only moments. All too soon he was on the pavement again in the sun, crossing the road, and then on the steps of Newgate Prison, his thoughts still whirling and uncertain.

He was granted access to Ballinger almost immediately, although he had been more than willing to wait. They met in a small cell with a stone floor and plain wooden furniture sufficient only to seat both of them, rather uncomfortably, with a battered wooden table on which to place books or papers, should they wish. It was not the same room in which he had seen Rupert Cardew, but the differences were negligible.

Ballinger looked rumpled and angry, but not as embarrassingly out of control as some people did when faced with sudden and appalling misfortune. He was shaved, and his hair was tidy. There was no
sign in his face of hysteria, and his eyes looked no more puffy than was natural from a night with little or no sleep.

“Good morning, Oliver,” he said without preamble. “Before you waste time on it, they are treating me perfectly well, and I have all I require in the way of such comforts as I am permitted. Margaret sent my valet with everything. You cannot yet begin to appreciate what a fine woman she is. If you are blessed with such daughters, you will be a most fortunate man. Now, will you act for me in this … this farce? I want to get it explained and discussed as soon as possible, before half the world knows about it.” He smiled grimly, with only an echo of humor. “Perhaps I will have more understanding of my clients’ fears in the future, and more sympathy.”

“Of course I will act for you, if you are sure it is what you wish,” Rathbone replied. “But have you considered the wisdom of having a member of the family in such a position? There are—”

Ballinger waved his hand sharply, dismissing the objections. “You are the finest lawyer in London, Oliver, perhaps in England. And I have no doubt whatever that you will fight for me harder than anyone else would, in spite of your past friendship with William Monk. You are my son-in-law, part of my family. I am well aware that we should not have favorite children, but Margaret is still mine. She always has been. There is a loyalty and a gentleness in her that is beyond even that of my other daughters. You will do everything that is humanly possible.”

Ballinger shook his head. “Not that it should be necessary. The whole charge is a tissue of coincidences piled upon one another because Monk has little idea of a solicitor’s responsibilities to his clients. He is also emotionally involved on a personal level through his wife and the little mudlark she has become attached to because the poor woman apparently cannot have children of her own.”

Rathbone felt a stab of guilt so acute, it was hard to believe it was not an old physical injury torn open again. At the trial of Jericho Phillips he had ridiculed Hester when she had given testimony against Phillips, painting her as a childless woman who had half adopted a street urchin to fill her own loneliness, and implying that her judgment had become warped because of it. The jury had believed him
and had discounted her testimony. He had not spoken of it since with Hester, and he did not know if she had entirely forgiven him for such a betrayal. He had not forgiven himself.

“We need to answer evidence.” Rathbone controlled his emotion with difficulty. He owed his loyalty to Ballinger, who was his client and, if the case actually came to trial, would be fighting for his life. He was Margaret’s father, which made him a part of Rathbone’s life that could never be turned away from or forgotten.

“Of course,” Ballinger agreed. “What evidence is it that Monk thinks he has? I cannot imagine.”

“A note, written by you, inviting Parfitt to meet you on his boat, handed over to him in front of witnesses an hour or two before his death. When Parfitt read it, he immediately sent for ’Orrie Jones to row him out.”

The color drained out of Ballinger’s face, leaving him ashen. For a moment he seemed unable to speak. It might have been shock, disbelief, but Rathbone had a terrible fear that it was guilt.

“That’s … impossible!” he said at last. “Who says so? Monk?”

“Yes. And he must have such a letter, or he would not dare claim to, even if you think him immoral enough to try.”

“Then, it’s a forgery,” Ballinger said immediately. “For God’s sake, Oliver, why on earth would I have business with a creature like Parfitt?”

“To buy him off for a client,” Rathbone answered. He was sinking into a morass of nightmare, and yet strangely his mind was going on quite reasonably, as if he were something apart, almost a bystander watching this desperate, highly civilized discussion of murder and betrayal.

Ballinger hesitated, weighing his answer.

Rathbone watched him, feeling the sweat trickle down his body in fear that Ballinger was going to admit that it was his own blackmail he’d been dealing with. After his years of criminal prosecution and defense, nothing ought to have surprised Rathbone, but he could not believe that Arthur Ballinger could have become involved with Parfitt’s vicious pornography.

Why not? Did he believe Ballinger was so moral? So happy in his
present life? Or so careful? What did Rathbone think of him, not as his son-in-law, the husband of his admittedly favorite daughter, but as his lawyer, bound by duty to see the truth, because only by knowing it could he best defend him?

Rathbone realized again how very little he knew the man except in his role of successful husband and father. Alone, what was he like? What were his dreams, his fears, his pleasures? Who was he without the mask? Rathbone had no idea.

Ballinger was staring at him, still trying to decide how to answer.

“Were you acting for a client?” Rathbone repeated.

Ballinger appeared to have reached a decision. “No. I spent the evening with Bertie Harkness. Then I returned as I had come, crossing the river again at Chiswick. I may have passed Parfitt’s wretched boat, but I neither saw nor heard anything untoward, which the ferryman will tell you. My time is accounted for. And if I had paid Parfitt on some client’s behalf, I would have had more sense than to do it secretly and alone with such a man.” He breathed in deeply. “For God’s sake, Oliver, think about it! Would you go creeping around boats alone at night, in order to conduct a perfectly legal piece of business for a client, however desperate or foolish that client had been? And would you go alone?”

“No,” Rathbone said without hesitation. It all sounded very reasonable, but it was not a defense. “We will have to have far more than a mere denial.”

Ballinger managed a tight, bleak smile. “They have to prove that I was there, that I was in possession of Rupert Cardew’s cravat, and that I had a compelling reason to kill Parfitt. They can do none of those things, because none of them is true. I was on the river, crossing it from the south side, on my way home. I was in a ferry, and the ferryman will vouch for it. From there I took a hansom straight home. No one can prove differently, because that’s the truth.”

“And you are sure you didn’t have any dealings with Parfitt?” Rathbone pressed.

“For heaven’s sake, what dealings would I have?” Ballinger protested. “From what you say, the man’s unspeakable!”

“You were prepared to act for Jericho Phillips,” Rathbone pointed
out. “And for Sullivan, who was using the filthy trade, and paying Phillips blackmail money. The prosecution would not find it difficult to suggest you did the same for Parfitt or, on the other hand, for one of his victims.”

Ballinger swallowed. There was still no color in his face, and he looked cornered and embarrassed. “I acted for Sullivan because the man was desperate.”

Rathbone could no longer put it off without very deliberately lying, both to Ballinger and to himself. He had pretended that he did not need an answer, and it lay like poison inside him.

“Sullivan told me that you were the one who introduced him to the pornography, and that you were behind Phillips financially.”

Ballinger stared at him.

Seconds ticked by.

Ballinger gulped. “He told you that?” he said incredulously.

“Yes.”

“And you said nothing … until now?”

“I chose to believe it was the hysterical accusation of a man whose mind was turned by despair, and who was about to take his own life.”

“And so it was.” Ballinger took an enormous breath, and the sweat beaded on his face, although the cell was cold. “My God, that makes sense of Monk’s insane behavior. You spoke to him, didn’t you!” That was a statement, not a question, close to the edge of blame.

Rathbone found himself off balance. He almost started to make excuses for himself.

“Are you telling me that you were not involved with Sullivan’s behavior?” he said, measuring his words very deliberately.

Arthur Ballinger hesitated. He glanced down at his hands, strong and heavy on the table, then met Rathbone’s eyes. “Sullivan blackmailed me into representing him,” he said quietly. “Not for anything I did, but for Cardew. Helping him was his price for keeping Cardew out of it.”

Rathbone was so amazed that for a moment he could think of nothing to say.

Ballinger stared at him, waiting.

“Cardew?” Rathbone said at length. “You were prepared to get involved with that sordid mess, to save Cardew?”

Ballinger’s face softened, his shoulders eased a little bit, and he almost smiled. “I’ve admired him immensely, for a long time.”

“He was involved with Phillips, and you admired him?” Rathbone’s voice carried his disgust, and his disbelief.

“Rupert Cardew was involved with Phillips, for God’s sake! I admired his father!” Ballinger said witheringly. “And I was desperately sorry for him. You haven’t children yet, Oliver. You have no idea how you can love your child, regardless of how they behave, or what wretched things they do. You still care, you still forgive, and you can never abandon them, or stop hoping they will somehow change and be at least something of what you want for them.”

Rathbone was totally confused. Was it possible?

Ballinger leaned forward across the table. “I did all I could to save Sullivan, for his own sake. I should not have been surprised that he took his own life, but I regret to say I did not see it beforehand, or I might have stopped him. Or perhaps not. He was a man with nothing left, and death was the only answer remaining. Thank God that at least he took with him the evidence that would have ruined Rupert Cardew as well.”

“Took with him?” Rathbone echoed.

“I meant into oblivion,” Ballinger elaborated. “I don’t suppose he had it literally … in his pockets. It was his one half-decent act, poor devil.”

“But he blamed you.”

“So you say. Half-decent, but not entirely.” He reached out his hand toward Rathbone. “But I will not say this in court, Oliver. I must clear my name without destroying Cardew. Possibly no one can save Rupert, but leave his father out of it.”

“How is his father involved?” Rathbone found the words difficult to say. He knew of Lord Cardew only by repute, for his crusade against industrial pollution. The man had apparently found some means to change Lord Justice Garslake’s mind, heaven knew how! Oliver himself had had only one highly emotional meeting with him, over the
danger against Rupert, but he could not imagine Lord Cardew having anything to do with Parfitt or Phillips, unless he were tricked into it. Monk would have no interest in that.

“You don’t need to know,” Ballinger said softly. “Leave the man a little dignity, Oliver. And if you can, leave his name out of the court proceedings. You can defend me from this without mentioning Phillips, or Sullivan, or any of the others who were dragged down by him. I did not kill Parfitt, nor do I know who did, or specifically why. The man was human filth and must have had scores of enemies. If you can’t find the one who killed him, at least oblige the jury to know what type of person that would be. Don’t ruin Cardew in the process … please.”