William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

greeted him cheerfully.
    He was guilty because he wished to see Hester, even if she was abrasive, unsympathetic, or told him things he would prefer not to know. There was something clean, even astringent, about her beliefs. He could not remember a time in all their friendship when she had tried to manipulate him. Heaven knows there had been some uncomfortable times, some quarrels, many differences of opinion. He had thought her outrageous, and he had said so. She had thought him pompous, and had said that too. But they had been honest, not only in word but in intent. Just at the moment, he would welcome that.
    He realized, as he spoke to Squeaky Robinson—who lived here and so was always around—that he also felt a different guilt. This one was edged with acute discomfort; he was afraid of what he might learn here.
    “Upstairs,” Squeaky said, pointing a finger over his shoulder. “Can’t leave it alone. Should be at home, that one. But the boy’s off with Monk, boating or some such.”
    “Thank you,” Rathbone said quickly, and walked on past him before he could be ensnared in conversation. He went up the stairs two at a time, in spite of their narrowness. He knew every turn and creak, every unevenness, and did not miss his step.
    He found Hester making beds in one of the larger rooms, which was unoccupied. She heard the creak of the door as he pushed it wider, and turned to see him, surprise widening her eyes.
    “Oliver?” She dropped the sheet, and it fell on the bed in white folds, and he smelled the pleasant cleanliness of fresh cotton. “Is something wrong?” She looked at him more closely. “What is it?”
    There was no point in trying to approach it obliquely, with her, of all people. “I need to know more about how Hattie Benson left here, and anything else you can tell me about her.”
    She studied his face. “Why?”
    That was the one response he had not foreseen. “What do you mean, why? She was going to testify. Then she left here and was found later that day floating in the river. She was unquestionably murdered, and almost as certainly by whoever murdered Parfitt. You know all this.”
    “If I knew who killed her, Oliver, I would say so, whoever it was,”she replied. “I have the confidences of no one, and no loyalties other than to pursue the truth. I had a duty to protect her, and I failed. I have no duty to protect whoever killed her. You might have.” She did not fill in the rest of the thought; it was unnecessary.
    It made him hesitate for a moment. “I … I believe the only way I can best serve my client is by knowing as much of the truth as I can,” he said slowly. “You may find it hard to believe it was Rupert Cardew who killed her, but if it was—and it is possible—it would not only gain an acquittal for Arthur Ballinger, but it would restore his reputation, without which he is ruined.” He hesitated again, seeking a way of saying what he had to more gently. There was none. “And I appreciate that an acquittal for Ballinger means that Monk was wrong, and you cannot separate your emotions from that. I wouldn’t ask you to.”
    “It’s loyalties again,” she said with a twist of irony in her smile. “Yours is to Ballinger, because he is Margaret’s father. Mine is against him, because that would make William wrong. But it’s hardly the same depth of importance, is it?” It was not a question so much as a reproof. “Do you think I would see an innocent man hanged rather than have my husband shown up in a mistake? What would that make me? Or him?”
    “Nor would I see a guilty man go free because he is my father-in-law,” he responded.
    “He is your client,” she corrected him. “That binds you to give him the best defense you can, unless you actually know that he is guilty. Then you would have a problem with which I could not help you. But you don’t know that, or you wouldn’t be here asking me about Hattie.”
    “Don’t chop logic with me, Hester,” he pleaded. “You don’t know who is guilty either, or you would have told Monk and it would be all finished, except for the sentencing.”
    A sudden, deep compassion filled her face. He did not immediately understand it. Then he realized what his own words had been—“all finished, except for the sentencing,” not “except for the trial.” Some part of him feared that Ballinger was guilty, and she had seen that.
    “I have to know, Hester,” he said, his throat dry. “He wants totestify.