William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

he fully face the possibility that she was not yet home. “I got him!”
    The words fell on silence.
    Then there was a clatter at the top of the stairs and she came running down, feet flying. Her hair was half undone, thick and fair and unruly as always. She hugged him with all her strength, which was considerable, in spite of her slender frame and lack of fashionable curves.
    He picked her up and swung her around, kissing her with all thejoy and victory he felt, and the sudden upsurge of belief in everything good. Most of all his elation was due to the possibility that she was right to have had faith in him, not just in his skill but in his honor, that core of him that was good and could treasure and hold on to love.
    And Phillips's capture at last meant that Durban was right to have trusted him too, which he realized now had also mattered.

TWO
    n an evening nearly two weeks after the capture of Jericho Phillips, Sir Oliver Rathbone, arguably the best attorney in London, returned a little early from his offices at the Inns of Court to his elegant and extremely comfortable home. It was the middle of August, and the air was hot and still. It was much pleasanter in his own sitting room, with the French windows open onto the lawn and the perfume of the second flush of roses rather than the odor of the streets, the sweat and dung of horses, the dust and the noise.
    Like Monk, Rathbone was in his late forties, but very different in appearance. He was slender, fair-haired, with the air of confidence of one who has long proved his worth. Margaret greeted him with the same pleasure she always had since their marriage not so long ago. She came down the stairs with a swirl of pale green and white muslin, looking impossibly cool in the heat. She kissed him gently, smiling perhaps still a trifle self-consciously. He found a pleasure in it that he thought might be tactless to show.
    They talked of many things over dinner: a new art exhibition that was proving more controversial than expected; the queen's absence from the London Season due to the recent death of Prince Albert, and quite how much difference that was going to make in the future; and of course the wretchedly miserable matter of the civil war in America.
    The conversation was sufficiently interesting to occupy his mind, and yet also supremely comfortable. He could not remember ever having been happier, and when he retired to read a few necessary papersin his study he found himself smiling for no other reason than his inner peace.
    Dusk was already gathering, and the air was mercifully cooler when the butler knocked on the door and told him that his father-in-law had called and wished to see him. Naturally Rathbone accepted immediately, although somewhat surprised that Arthur Ballinger would specifically ask to see him, rather than including his daughter as well.
    When Ballinger came in, hard on the servant's heels, Rathbone saw at once that the matter was professional rather than personal. Ballinger was an attorney of high standing and very considerable repute. From time to time they had had dealings, but so far no clients in common, Rathbone's practice being almost entirely in major cases of criminal law.
    Ballinger closed the study door behind him to ensure their privacy, then walked over to the chair opposite Rathbone. Barely acknowledging the greeting, he sat down. He was a large, rather heavy man with thick, brown hair that had only touches of gray. His features were powerful. Margaret had gained all the delicacy of her face and bearing from her mother.
    “I am in a difficult position, Oliver,” he began without preamble. “A long-standing client has asked a favor of me that I am loath to grant, and yet I feel I cannot refuse him. It is a business that frankly I would prefer to have nothing to do with, but I can see no honorable way of escape.” He gave a slight shrug, with one shoulder only. “And I suppose, to be honest, no legal way either. One cannot pick and choose in which matters you will act for people, and in which you will not. That would make a mockery of the entire concept of justice, which must be for all, or it is for no one.”
    Rathbone was startled by such a speech; it suggested a lack of confidence quite uncharacteristic of Ballinger. Something had clearly disturbed him. “Can I be of help, without breaking your client's privilege of discretion?” he asked hopefully. It would please him to assist Margaret's father in a matter that was