“An excellent speech.” Monk applauded. “And absolutely true in every regard. But incomplete. The trial is over. I have already conceded that we were slipshod. We were so certain Phillips was guilty that we left loopholes for you to use, which you did. We can now never try him again for Fig's murder. Any new case would be separate. Are you warning me that you would defend him again, either by choice, or from some kind of necessity, because you owe him, or someone else who has his interests at heart?” Monk changed his position deliberately.
“Or possibly you, or your principal,” he continued, “are bribed, coerced, or threatened by Phillips, and feel you have no choice but to defend him in any issue whatever?” It was a bold, even brutal question, and the moment he had said it, he doubted himself.
Rathbone was now very pale. There was no trace of friendship in his eyes. “Did you say ‘bribed’?” he asked.
“I included it as a possibility,” Monk replied, keeping his eyes and his voice steady. “I don't know the man, or woman, who paid you to defend Phillips. You do. Are you certain you know why?”
Something in Rathbone's stance changed. It was so slight Monk could not identify it, but he knew that a new idea had suddenly occurred to Rathbone, and it was one that troubled him, possibly only very little, but he was uncomfortable nevertheless.
“You may speculate as you please,” Rathbone answered him, his voice almost as level as before, almost as assured. “But you must be aware that I cannot comment. My advice to other people is as confidential as is my advice to you.”
“Of course,” Monk said drily. “And what is your advice to me? I am commander of the River Police at Wapping. I need to prevent the crimes of violence, abuse, and extortion, of pornography and child murder that happen on my beat. I made a mess of Phillips murdering Figgis. How do I prevent the next one, and the one after?”
Rathbone did not answer, but he made no attempt to hide the fact that he gave the matter consideration.
He walked over to his desk.
“Our loyalties are different, Monk,” he said at last. “Mine is to the law, and therefore is larger than yours. And I do not mean by that that it is better, simply that the law moves slowly, and its changes can stand for generations. Your loyalty is to your job, to the people on the river today, to their immediate danger or suffering. The simple answer is that I cannot advise you.”
“Your loyalty is not larger,” Monk replied. “You care for the interests of one man. I care for everyone in that community. Are you certain you want to tie your name and your commitment to that man, and therefore to whomever he in turn is bound, for whatever reason? We all have fears, debts, hostages to fortune. Do you know his well enough to pay the price?” He bit his lip. “Or are they really your own?”
“Ask me that again, Monk, and I shall take offense. I dance to nobody else's tune except the law's.” Rathbone's eyes were steady, his face utterly without humor or gentleness. He drew in his breath. “And I might equally ask you if you are as certain of Durban 's loyalties as you would like to be. You have tied your reputation and your honor to his. Is that wise? Perhaps if I had any advice to give you, it would be to think far harder before you continue to pursue that. He may have had flaws of which you are unaware.”
The blow cut deep, but Monk tried not to show it. He knew he must leave before the interview became a battle in which too much was said for either of them to retreat afterwards. It was on the brink of that point now.
“I didn't expect you to tell me his name, or what you know of him,” he said aloud. “I came to advise you that in looking more closely into Phillips's business, I am also learning more of everyone he associated with, what he owed them and what they owed him. I cannot prosecute him for murdering Figgis, but I may be able to for pornography and extortion. That will obviously lead me much closer to those who patronize his business. There is much to suggest that they come from all walks of life.”
“Even police,” Rathbone said tartly.
“Of course,” Monk agreed. “No one is excluded. Even women can have much to lose, or to fear, in those they love.” And he turned and walked out the door, wondering if he had said far more than he wanted to.
Rathbone looked at the closed door with far greater disquiet than he had allowed Monk to see. Monk's questions had struck a nerve, and far from fading away, the unease they had caused was increasing. Arthur Ballinger was Margaret's father, a highly respected attorney with whom it was natural-indeed expected-that he would do business. Those facts had dulled his natural edge of inquiry as to why Ballinger had handled the subject of Phillips's defense for whoever it was who was financing it. Was it possibly even Phillips himself? Ballinger had said that it was not, but as Monk had pointed out, did Ballinger really know?
Rathbone admitted to himself that some of the evidence had shaken him more than he had expected. He could no longer dismiss it from his mind or pretend that it was an issue that could be forgotten.
He knew at least the first step he would take, and once that was made, he was able to address the rest of the day's business.
Seven o'clock in the evening found him in a cab on the way up Primrose Hill on the outskirts of London. The evening was bright and warm, and the sun was still high enough that there was no gold in the air yet, no lengthening haze to the light. There was a faint wind in the trees so that the shadows flickered. A man was walking his dog, and the animal raced around, busy with scents and movements, in a whole exciting world of its own.
The cab stopped; Rathbone alighted, paid the driver, and walked up the path to his father's door. He always came here when he had issues that troubled him and he needed to explain them, clarify the questions so that the answers emerged unclouded. He realized now, standing on the step, aware of the heavy perfume of honeysuckle, that since his marriage he had been here a lot less often than before. Was that because Henry Rathbone had been so fond of Hester, and Oliver had not wanted him to make the comparison with Margaret? The fact that he had raised the question was at least in part an answer.
The door opened and the manservant welcomed him in, his face expressionless except for the civility a good butler should always show. If anything were needed to confirm that he had been here too seldom lately, that was it.
In the sitting room French doors were open on to a lawn sloping down towards an orchard in full leaf, the blossom long finished. Henry Rathbone himself was walking up the grass towards the house. He was a tall, lean man, very slightly stooped. He had a mild, pointy face and blue eyes that combined both a burning intelligence and a kind of innocence, as if he would never really understand the pettier, grubbier things of life.
“Oliver!” he said with evident pleasure, increasing his pace. “How very nice to see you! What interesting problem brings you here?”
Oliver felt a sharp jolt of guilt. It was not always comfortable to be known so very well. He drew breath to deny that it was a problem that brought him, and then realized just in time how foolish that would be.
Henry smiled and came in through the doors. “Have you had supper?”
“No, not yet.”
“Good. Then let us dine together. Toast, Brussels sprouts, pâté, and I have a rather good Medoc. Then apple pie and clotted cream,” Henry suggested. “And perhaps a spot of decent cheese, if you feel like it?”
“It sounds perfect.” Oliver felt some of the tension slip away. This was probably the best companionship he had ever known: gentle, without manipulation, and also totally honest. There were no lies, either intellectual or emotional. Over the meal he would be able to explain, primarily to himself, the exact nature of his unease.