William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

could see in the jury’s faces that the balance had tipped irrevocably against him. They knew Ballinger had lied, possibly about everything. And strangely enough, even if Rupert had turned on his own social class, for which he would never be forgiven, the jury believed him, possibly even admired him. He had chosen the honorable thing to do, at a terrible price to himself.
    “I … I have nothing to add, my lord,” Rathbone answered. Only as he sat down again did he even consider that perhaps he should have demanded that the names be made public. Then in the instant afterward, he knew he should not. Winchester had them. If there was anything to be done, he would do it. He would investigate, examine, and if necessary prosecute any corruption. It did not occur to Rathbone, even as a fleeting thought, that Winchester was bluffing. Cardew’s face and Ballinger’s denied that.
    He made a desperate final summation, but he knew he could not succeed. The tide was against him, and he had no more strength to turn it.
    The jury was out for an hour, which seemed like eternity. When they came back, their faces told the verdict even before they were asked.
    “Guilty.” Simple. Final.
    Rathbone was in a daze as the black cap was brought to the judge. He put it on his head and pronounced sentence of death.
    Mrs. Ballinger cried out in horror.
    Margaret slipped to the ground in a faint.
    Without thinking, Rathbone scrambled from his seat and went to her just as she was stirring. Gwen was with her, holding her. Celia and George were trying to support Mrs. Ballinger.
    “Margaret! Margaret,” Rathbone said urgently. “Margaret?” He wanted to say something, anything to comfort her, but there were only empty promises, things that were meaningless.
    She stirred and opened her eyes, looking at him with utter loathing. Then she turned her face away toward Gwen.
    He had never felt so completely alone. He rose to his feet, trembling, and walked back to his table. The court was in an uproar, but he neither saw nor heard it.

CHAPTER
13
    W HEN A PERSON WAS sentenced to hang, it was the law that three Sundays should pass before the execution was carried out. It was both the longest and the shortest period of time in the sentenced person’s experience. Unquestionably it was the most painful.
    Toward the end of the first week, Rathbone was alone in his room in chambers when his clerk entered and told him that Hester wished to speak with him.
    At first Rathbone was not sure if he wanted to see her. Pity would only add to his hurt, especially from her, and there was nothing she could say that would help. There was no help. And yet he had never had a better friend, except for his father.
    “I have a few minutes,” he told the clerk. “Come back after about ten minutes and say there is a client wishing to speak with me.”
    “Yes, sir.” The clerk withdrew, and a moment later Hester came in. She looked calm and composed, but still very pale. She was dressedin the same blue-gray she often wore, and it still suited her just as well.
    Rathbone stood up. “What can I do for you?” he asked quietly.
    She sat down in the chair opposite the desk, as if she meant to remain.
    He sat also; not to would have been discourteous.
    “Probably nothing,” she said with a tiny smile. “I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help you. William told me there was nothing, and that you might even prefer not to see me. I would understand that. But I would rather come and be asked to leave than not come and then afterward learn that there was something I could have done, or said.”
    “How like you,” he replied. “Always do, never hesitate, and never abdicate.”
    A shadow crossed her face, a moment of hurt.
    “That was a compliment,” he said wryly. “I have spent too much of my life weighing and judging, and in the end doing nothing.”
    “Not this time,” she answered. “There was nothing more you could have done. If Rupert hadn’t come forward, you would have won. I’m not sure that would have been a good thing, even for Margaret, not in the end.”
    “It would have been a bad thing for Monk,” he said frankly. “Everyone would have said he had made a second mistake, gone after the wrong man because he had a personal vendetta against Ballinger over the Phillips affair. He might even have lost his job. I’m glad that didn’t happen.” Surprisingly, he meant that. He had not thought he would; the void inside himself