William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

father to be free from all taint or suggestion of wrongdoing. Was that not natural? Wouldn’t he do exactly the same if it were his father? Wouldn’t Lord Cardew fight just as hard and as ruthlessly for Rupert, when that time came? Would he ask Rathbone again to defend him? Would Rathbone accept?
    Would Monk even be in command of the River Police anymore to pursue it? Or by then would it be some new man?
    Hester would not have found this loyalty so cut and dried. She was far more complex, more torn by conflicting passions and convictions. And yet at this moment, at least, she was easier for him to understand. She would weep for Hattie; she would not accept that it had been inevitable; and she would weep for Rupert Cardew, and his father. What about for Monk? He was her own. She would fight for him, blindly, without care for injury, weariness, even temporary defeat, just as Margaret fought for her father. But would Hester be sure that Monk was right? He thought not. It would not lessen her love for him, but she would consider the possibility that he had been mistaken, even that the error had been moral as well as factual.
    Was that good, or bad?
    Margaret was staring at him, her eyes puzzled and angry. “If he’s guilty, then he deserves it,” she replied. “I don’t like it, but I accept it. Don’t you?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t find the difference between right and wrong so simple.”
    “He murdered Parfitt, and probably Hattie as well, and he was looking to see my father hang for it. What is complicated about that?” There was challenge in her face, a stiffness, nothing anymore that he could reach out and touch.
    “Proving it,” he said coolly. “But I will go to see your father tomorrow and ask how hard he wishes me to press the issue. He has until Monday morning to decide. As it is now, I think we have a good chance of reasonable doubt. I could call him to testify, and he can swear his innocence, but that will allow Winchester the opportunity to cross-question him. He may prefer not to do that. It is his choice, not yours or mine.” He put a finality into his voice, closing the subject from any further discussion. He sounded cold, and he knew it, but he felt cold inside, as if a door had been shut, and he did not know how to open it again.
    I N THE MORNING HE went to see Arthur Ballinger in Newgate Prison. He had to wait some little time before at last Ballinger was brought to see him. In the gray light he looked tired, and for the firsttime Rathbone was acutely aware of how afraid he was. Pity twisted inside Rathbone for Margaret, and he wished he had been gentler with her, but he did not know now how to retrace his steps.
    “Oliver!” Ballinger said sharply. “Why are you here? I thought it was going well?”
    “It is,” Rathbone replied. Why did this man make him feel so uncomfortable? He had spoken to scores of clients in circumstances like these, both the guilty and the innocent. He cleared his throat. “I need to know if you wish to testify yourself or not. You don’t need to make up your mind until Monday morning, but you must give it very serious consideration.”
    “Why wouldn’t I?”
    “Because it will give Winchester the opportunity to cross-question you, and I can’t protect you from anything he says, nor can I foresee what it might be. Don’t underestimate him. As it is, I believe we have a very good chance of a verdict of not guilty, because there is more than reasonable doubt.”
    “Doubt?” Ballinger said unhappily. “Reasonable doubt is the same as saying they believe I am guilty but they can’t prove it. I need ‘not guilty,’ Oliver, with certainty.” He took a breath. “I need them to believe that someone else killed that wretched creature.”
    “They will say ‘not guilty,’ ” Rathbone assured him. “And you cannot be charged again. It is finished.”
    “In court, perhaps, but not in the public mind. There I am still ruined. For God’s sake, man, can’t you see that?” Ballinger controlled the panic rising in his voice with obvious difficulty. “Saying that the case was inadequate is not enough.” He fixed Rathbone with an intense gaze. “I need them to know that they had the wrong man, Oliver. I need that! There is another man out there that the police should be pursuing. I imagine it is Rupert Cardew. They must go after him as diligently as they did after me. I don’t give a damn if his father is a decent man that everyone admires, or