William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

feared an endless fall.
    “Oliver?”
    He heard her voice, but it was a moment before he could recall himself to the present, the small room in the clinic, the bed with the clean sheet on it, and Hester looking at him.
    “What are you going to do?” she asked anxiously.
    “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I suppose you are certain of all this?”
    “Yes.” Her voice was gentle. “Margaret told me herself, when I faced her with it. She didn’t evade it. She didn’t say it was Gwen, though. That I deduced by going out and asking people in the streets. I found a peddler who saw Hattie with another woman, and described her. I found the hansom they took to Fulham, right to the house. I took the same cab to the same house, and spoke to the woman who owns it. There might be one chance in a hundred that I’m wrong. It was another woman who looked just like Hattie, at the same time on the same day. And another Mr. Cardew rented the place for her. And our Hattie turned up dead later that day, in the river just a mile away.”
    “One chance in a hundred?” he said bitterly. “Perhaps in a million.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Did this landlady see Cardew’s face?” It was a desperate last throw. Rathbone knew how he sounded even asking.
    “No. He stood well back in the shadows, and he had a heavy coat on, and a hat. He could have been anyone.”
    He could think of nothing to say, nothing that eased the increasing pain inside him.
    “Thank you … I …”
    Hester shook her head. “I know. Winchester won’t call me, and you shouldn’t. I can’t testify to anything firsthand. Do whatever you feel is the right thing.”
    “The right thing!” The words escaped with a wild bitterness. “For God’s sake, what is that?”
    “Do you believe Ballinger is guilty?” she asked.
    “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I suppose I fear it. It will bea kind of hell if he is.” He meant it: he was not exaggerating the horror he saw in his own imagination.
    She looked at him steadily. “Would you have Rupert Cardew hanged to save him, because he is your family and Rupert isn’t? If you would, Oliver, then what is the law worth? What if Lord Cardew felt the same way, and would have anyone else hanged, guilty or innocent, as long as his own son didn’t have to face himself and his deeds? Would you accept that? Is that really what you believe—one law for your family, another for anyone else?”
    “What about loyalty, what about love?” he asked.
    “What have you left to give, if you have already given away yourself?”
    “Hester …”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t always like it, but I can’t believe anything different. It doesn’t mean you stop loving. If you could care only for those who are good all the time, we would none of us be loved. I’m sorry.”
    He nodded. Then he touched her hand briefly and turned to go.
    H E REACHED HOME AT lunchtime; Margaret was waiting for him.
    “Where have you been?” she asked, her voice sharp-edged. “You didn’t say you were going out.”
    “I left before you were up.” He found himself defensive. “I went to see your father. He wants to take the stand. I think he shouldn’t, but I couldn’t persuade him.”
    “Why shouldn’t he take the stand?” she demanded. She was wearing pale blue, her hair pulled back a little severely, and she looked angry. “He must defend himself. The jury has to hear him deny all the charges and explain that he is a solicitor. He acts on behalf of all sorts of people. Even men like Parfitt are entitled to legal advice, and to a defense, if they are wrongly accused.”
    “They are entitled to it even if they are rightly accused,” he pointed out.
    “Don’t quibble!” she snapped. “Why don’t you wish him to testify? You haven’t explained that to the jury—I don’t know why not.”
    “Because I don’t want to say it more than once,” he replied tartly. “It sounds like an excuse if I push it too hard, like protesting too much. I am keeping it for my final address to them.”
    “Well, Papa should still testify. He’ll look guilty if he doesn’t. You’ve said that often to me. It seems to them like running away. If they hear him, see him, they’ll know what kind of a man he is, and that the whole charge is ridiculous. It’s Monk trying to make a name for himself. He probably knows he’s wrong by now, but he daren’t back out of it or he’ll look a fool.”
    Rathbone felt as if a nightmare were