William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

loyalty over justice, or we betray not only those who trust in us, but ourselves as well.” She looked at Rathbone, waiting for him to concede her father’s point.
    In that instant he realized how deep her loyalty was to her father, so deep that she did not even perceive that it was instinctive rather than a matter of reason. It made her side against Monk without hesitation. Was that what it came to—the loyalty of blood? Or was her devotion to her father stronger than any other love?
    Did he feel any less for his own father?
    She was waiting now, the question in her eyes. It was not really about the law. It was about Monk, and the long past they shared, the battles Margaret had not been part of, and it was perhaps also about Hester.
    “My loyalty has always been to the truth,” Rathbone replied, choosing his words with intense care. “But I believe that Monk’s has also. On occasion he has been mistaken. So have I. He was slipshod in his prosecution of Jericho Phillips, and the man got off because I was more skilled, and more diligent. However, if you recall, Phillips was undoubtedly guilty, which means that Monk’s judgment of the man’s character was not at fault.”
    Ballinger rested his large square-ended fingers very gently on the leather arm of his chair. “That may be true, Oliver, but you have missed the point. Monk has no right to be judging Jericho Phillips, or anyone else. He is a collector of evidence to present before the court—no more than that.”
    “A sort of collector of moral refuse,” George added smugly, glancing at Ballinger, and away again.
    Celia smiled.
    “Then, what are we?” Oliver said, hearing the cutting edge of his own voice. “Sorters of that same refuse? Personally I am quite happy if the police at least begin the process, and give me some sort of pattern, either to confirm or deny.”
    “Oh, really!” Wilbert protested.
    Margaret looked unhappy, a mounting shadow in her eyes. Rathbone realized with surprise that she had not expected him to argue. Inher opinion he should not have defended either Monk or himself. This quiet room was like thousands of other withdrawing rooms in London, but in subtle ways he felt alien in it. The painted walls were very similar to all the others—the heavily swagged curtains, the long windows onto the great garden, certainly the busy red and green carpet, even the brass fire irons in the hearth. It was the beliefs that were foreign to him, things as invisible and as necessary as the air.
    “Perhaps we should speak of something else,” Ballinger said, leaning a little farther back in his armchair and crossing his legs. “I had a most amusing evening last Thursday …”
    For the best part of the next hour he regaled them with a detailed and amusing account of his journey across the river, with lurid descriptions of the ferryman and his interests. Apparently he had gone to visit an old friend named Harkness who lived in Mortlake.
    When at last he finished, Celia began to laugh. “Really, Papa! You had me hanging on every word you said! I could see the wretched ferryman, bowlegs and all.”
    “You think I’m joking? To entertain you?” Ballinger asked.
    “Of course,” she rejoined. “And I thank you for it. You are superb, as always.”
    “Not at all.” He turned to Rathbone. “Go to the ferry at Fulham and look for him. You’ll find him there. Ask him about our conversation. I challenge you! Any of you!” He looked back at Wilbert, and then George.
    “I believe you,” Margaret stated, still smiling. “It explains why you go to dine with a bore like Mr. Harkness. It isn’t the dinner at all; it’s the ride!”
    This time they all laughed.
    T HEY LEFT LATE, AFTER more wine, Belgian chocolates, and a last cup of tea.
    “Thank you,” Margaret said quietly as their carriage moved out into the traffic and she and Rathbone sat side by side in the back. The silk of her gown spread out and covered his knees, rustling slightly asshe turned toward him. He could see her face in the flickering glow from the lamps of carriages moving in the opposite direction. She was smiling, her eyes soft.
    For an instant he felt a complete belonging, a sweetness that ran right through him. He understood without effort exactly why Ballinger found his other sons-in-law irritating, why he had to bait them, and then in the end make them laugh. Whatever the trivial differences between all of them, there was an underlying loyalty that remained