William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

carefully, Commander Birkenshaw, I think you will find that the River Police will suffer even more. You will have to go to trial, and Arthur Ballinger will either be cleared … or be hanged.”
    “Rathbone—,” Birkenshaw started.
    “I have said all I can,” Rathbone replied, and with a brief nod, he turned on his heel and walked as rapidly as he could toward the High Street. With luck, he could catch a hansom cab from there westward back into the city.
    But even though he was extraordinarily fortunate and found one within five minutes, he felt awful sitting in it, bowling along at a brisk pace, wheels rattling over the road toward familiar streets. He had been loyal to Monk, and to his own conscience, but had he in a way betrayed Margaret? He would not tell her of this conversation, and that in itself answered his doubts. It was not confidential. He knew before he even considered it that she would feel he had not acted in her father’s best interest. And perhaps that was true.
    Of course Rathbone could make an argument that Ballinger was definitely innocent, and should have his chance to prove it so no one could ever imagine that there had been pressure to withdraw thecharge. That might appear a trifle like the Scottish verdict of “not proven,” particularly if no one else was ever successfully brought to trial for Parfitt’s death.
    If it were his own father, what would Rathbone’s decision be? It might well be to go ahead and prove his innocence. But then he might also be afraid that some lie, some misread evidence, some quirk of the law, would allow an injustice to happen. There were only three short weeks between conviction and hanging. That was no time at all in which to reverse a verdict, or even raise sufficient doubt to stay an execution.
    Now he must prepare to face Ballinger himself—something he was dreading. He realized how little he really knew the man. He did not even know whether Ballinger would be frightened, angry, humble, accusatory, or even so shocked as to be almost numb and unable to think of how to defend himself.
    Rathbone leaned sideways and peered out of the cab to the streets, looking to see where he was. He recognized St. Margaret’s Arch. They were just coming into Eastcheap. They would probably go up King William Street, then bear left along Poultry and Cheapside to Newgate. Perhaps there would be a traffic jam and he would be granted a little more time in which to compose himself and think what he would say.
    Ten minutes later the cab lurched to a stop. He sighed with relief, but that lasted only moments. All too soon he was on the pavement again in the sun, crossing the road, and then on the steps of Newgate Prison, his thoughts still whirling and uncertain.
    He was granted access to Ballinger almost immediately, although he had been more than willing to wait. They met in a small cell with a stone floor and plain wooden furniture sufficient only to seat both of them, rather uncomfortably, with a battered wooden table on which to place books or papers, should they wish. It was not the same room in which he had seen Rupert Cardew, but the differences were negligible.
    Ballinger looked rumpled and angry, but not as embarrassingly out of control as some people did when faced with sudden and appalling misfortune. He was shaved, and his hair was tidy. There was nosign in his face of hysteria, and his eyes looked no more puffy than was natural from a night with little or no sleep.
    “Good morning, Oliver,” he said without preamble. “Before you waste time on it, they are treating me perfectly well, and I have all I require in the way of such comforts as I am permitted. Margaret sent my valet with everything. You cannot yet begin to appreciate what a fine woman she is. If you are blessed with such daughters, you will be a most fortunate man. Now, will you act for me in this … this farce? I want to get it explained and discussed as soon as possible, before half the world knows about it.” He smiled grimly, with only an echo of humor. “Perhaps I will have more understanding of my clients’ fears in the future, and more sympathy.”
    “Of course I will act for you, if you are sure it is what you wish,” Rathbone replied. “But have you considered the wisdom of having a member of the family in such a position? There are—”
    Ballinger waved his hand sharply, dismissing the objections. “You are the finest lawyer in London, Oliver, perhaps in England. And I have no