William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

innocent, then probably you need to show some evidence that someone else is guilty. Rupert Cardew? Is it Lord Cardew you are so loath to see suffer?”
    “I can’t do that,” Oliver replied. “The evidence is flawed, very badly flawed. Winchester would demolish it, and leave Ballinger looking even worse.”
    “And you are afraid that Ballinger is guilty? If not of killing Parfitt, then at least of something, presumably of financing this boat—or worse, of using Parfitt for the blackmail?”
    There it was: simple and astonishingly painful, the truth, in his father’s mild, exact voice. Oliver had no need to answer—it must have been clear in his face. Nevertheless he did so. They had always been frank with each other. His father had never asked for trust, or said how much he cared—at least not that Oliver could remember—but it would have been totally unnecessary, even absurd, a stating of something as obvious as breathing.
    “Yes. Worse than that. I’m afraid that Hester is right and he killed the girl who would have testified that she stole Rupert Cardew’s cravat and gave it to one of the men who worked for Parfitt, or even to Ballinger himself.”
    Henry straightened up a little in his chair, his face even graver.
    “You haven’t told me about this. I think perhaps you had better do so now.”
    Quietly, with simple words, Oliver told him all he knew, including his conversation with Hester that morning. His quarrel with Margaret was still too painful, and he brushed over it, more by implication than detail.
    “I see,” Henry said at last. “I’m afraid you are in for a great deal of distress. I wish I could remove it for you, but I can’t. There is no honorable way except forward, and eventually anything else would hurt even more. I’m sorry.” The pain in his face, the sharp note of helplessness in his voice, made further expression redundant.
    It was growing late, and outside the light was failing. At this time of the year, sunset came early, and the long twilight slowly drained the color from the land. The wind was gusty and warm, sending the yellow leaves flying.
    Henry stood up. “Let’s walk a little,” he suggested. “There are still some good apples left on the trees. I really should have picked them by now.”
    Oliver followed him, and they went out of the French doors onto the grass and down the garden. The hedge was full of bright berries, scarlet hips from the dog roses, darker bloodred haws from the may blossom. There was a rich, sweet smell of rotting leaves and damp earth, and the sharper tingling aroma of wood smoke. A few purple asters were in bloom, shaggy and vivid, and the tawny bronze and gold chrysanthemums.
    Beyond the poplars in the distance, a cloud of starlings swirled up into the darkening sky, making for home.
    The scene was all so familiar, so deep in his heart and mind, that it was woven through every memory and dream he could imagine. It would be absurd—embarrassing, even—to say so, but his love for his father was so intense he could not bear to think of life without his friendship. Would he place his father’s safety, his happiness before Margaret’s? He did not really have to ask himself; he knew the answer before the question formed. Yes, he would. To betray him would be unbearable.
    But at the same moment he also knew that Henry Rathbone would never do the things that Arthur Ballinger had. He made mistakes, had flaws in his character; of course he did, everyone did. Oliverdid not wish to think of them, but he knew they were there. He could have named them, if forced to.
    But he also knew that Henry would never have asked someone else to pay the price, or take the blame for him.
    Perhaps Margaret believed the same of Ballinger? Were her memories just as deep, as woven into her own life, her beliefs? Was he being unfair to her?
    But his withdrawal from her had nothing to do with ambition, or even with love. It had to do with Rathbone’s own identity. She was asking him to destroy himself, but if he did that, there would be nothing left for either of them. What she was asking of him was not a case of personal sacrifice; that might have been a more difficult decision. It was an issue of doing something he believed—no, something he knew—to be wrong.
    He looked up at the sky as the starlings wheeled back again into the wind, still flying as if to some understood pattern, all going home to roost for the night.
    Henry seemed to know he had reached a