William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

she were angling for the greater influence he hadobliquely referred to … perhaps … or perhaps not. It was the last thing she had meant. It was not only crass, it was clumsily done. She could feel the color burning up her cheeks.
    She rose to her feet and turned away. She must say something quickly, but it must be the right thing. Haste might even make it worse. It was so easy to talk too much.
    He had risen when she did and now he was behind her, closer than when they were sitting. She was sharply aware of him.
    “I don’t really have that kind of skill,” she said very measuredly. “Miss Nightingale has. She is a brilliant administrator and arguer. She can make a point so that people have to concede she is correct, and she never gives up.…”
    “Do you?” he said with laughter in his voice. She could hear it, but she did not look around.
    “No, of course I don’t.” There were too many shared memories for that to need an answer. They had fought battles together against lies and violence, mystery, fear, ignorance. They had faced all kinds of darkness and found their way through to at least what justice there was left, if not necessarily any resolution of tragedy. The one thing they had never done was give up.
    She swung around to face him now. He was only a yard away, but she was confident of what she was going to say. She even smiled back at him.
    “I have learned a few tricks of a good soldier. I like to choose my own battlefield and my own weapons.”
    “Bravo,” he said, answering softly, his eyes studying her face.
    She stood still for a moment, then moved to the table and sat in one of the chairs, her skirts draped unusually dramatically. She felt elegant, even feminine, although she had never seemed to herself stronger or more alive.
    He hesitated, looking down at her for several moments.
    She was aware of him, and yet now she was not uncomfortable.
    The servant came in and announced the first course of the meal.
    Rathbone accepted, and it was brought and dished.
    Hester smiled across at him. She felt a little fluttering inside, but curiously warm, excited.
    “What cases are you engaged in that need no detection?” she asked. For a second Monk came to her mind, and the fact that Rathbone had chosen issues where he did not use him. Could it be intentional? Or was that a shabby thought?
    As if he too had seen Monk’s face in his inner vision, Rathbone looked down at the plate.
    “A society paternity suit,” he said with a half smile. “There is really very little to prove. It is an exercise in diplomacy.” He raised his eyes to hers and again they were brilliant with inner laughter. “I am endeavoring to judge discretion to the precise degree of knowing how much pressure I can exert before there will be war. If I succeed, you will never hear anything about it. There will simply be a great exchange of money.” He shrugged. “If I fail, there will be the biggest scandal since …” He took a deep breath and his expression became rueful, self-mocking.
    “Since Princess Gisela,” she finished for him.
    They both laughed. Their laughter was crowded with memories, mostly of the appalling risk he had taken and her fear for him, her efforts and ultimately her success in saving at least the truth, if not unmixed honor, from the issue. He had been vindicated, that was probably the best that could be said, and the truth, or at least a good deal of it, had been laid bare. But there had been a vast number of people who would have preferred not to know, not to be obliged to know.
    “And will you win?” she asked him.
    “Yes,” he replied firmly. “This I will win …” He hesitated.
    Suddenly she did not want him to say whatever it was that was on his tongue.
    “How is your father?” she asked.
    “Very well.” His voice dropped a little. “He has just returned from a trip to Leipzig, where he met a number of interesting people and, I gather, sat up half of every night talking with them about mathematics and philosophy. All very German. He enjoyed it immensely.”
    She found herself smiling. She liked Henry Rathbone more each time she saw him. She had been happy the evenings she had spent in his house in Primrose Hill with its doors whichopened onto the long lawn, the apple trees at the far end, the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. She remembered walking once with Oliver across the grass in the dark. They had spoken of other things, not connected with any case, personal