William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

bit the words back. Instead it was Beata who spoke.
    “There is no point in catching people who commit fraud if they can’t be successfully prosecuted,” she observed. “As Sir Oliver says, it is the certainty that stops people, not the weight of the punishment. Surely no one commits a crime if they know they will have to pay for it.”
    Mary Allan turned to her. “I don’t see your meaning,” she said, her brow furrowed. “If the police find sufficient proof then is that not all we need?”
    Beata looked at her husband with a slight warning in her expression, then at Mary Allan. “With the right prosecution and the right judge, yes of course it is.” She lifted her wineglass so the others noticed it. “Let us drink to success.”
    “To success,” they echoed obediently.
    The subject changed to other matters. Beata asked if anyone else had been to the theater lately.
    Bertrand Allan surprised Rathbone by saying that he had been to the music hall a short while ago, in order to see Mr. John “Jolly” Nash perform. Catching sight of York’s raised eyebrows he hastened to explain that he had done so because he had heard that Nash was a favorite of the Prince of Wales, who particularly, it was said, enjoyed his rendition of “Rackety Jack.”
    “Really?” Beata responded with interest. “I hadn’t heard.” Mary Allan looked blank.
    Rathbone glanced at Beata, who instantly concealed a smile. He looked away.
    “I believe Mr. Nash is somewhat …” Beata hesitated, looking for the right word.
    “It was for gentlemen only,” Allan assured her.
    “Then uncensored it would be, I imagine, to the prince’s taste,” Beata observed. “How entertaining.”
    Rathbone was happy to watch and listen. He went to the theater very seldom these days. He realized with a sudden dismay that he and Margaret had gone on only a few occasions and had rarely cared for the same work. How often had he pretended to agree with her when he had not? Her opinions had seemed predictable to him; they provoked no new questions in his mind, stirred no questions he had not considered before, stirring no new depth of emotion.
    It had not occurred to him until now to wonder how often she hadfeigned an interest in something he had chosen, probably hiding her boredom more skillfully, and perhaps more kindly, than he had done.
    The subject had moved to another play now, something a little more decorous. Beata was guiding the conversation into more comfortable areas.
    “Did you like it?” Rathbone asked her a trifle abruptly, and then felt ashamed of his clumsiness. He wanted to add something to make it seem less demanding but did not know what.
    She seemed amused, far more so than Allan, who had been about to speak and was now at a loss.
    York looked from one to the other of them, his expression unreadable.
    Beata gave an elegant little shrug. “You have caught me out, Sir Oliver. I’m not certain that I did. People are talking about it, but I fear it is more for the performance than any content of the drama itself. I would have found it more interesting if it had concluded less satisfactorily. An awkward ending would have given one something to think about.”
    “People don’t like confused endings,” Mary Allan pointed out.
    “A thing should be either a comedy, in which case the ending is happy, or else a tragedy, when it is not,” Allan agreed, supporting his wife.
    York was amused. He watched them with undisguised satisfaction.
    Beata turned her wineglass gently, watching the light glow through it. Rathbone noticed that she had beautiful hands.
    “Surely life is both, even farce at times?” she asked. “A little ambiguity, even confusion, allows you to come to some of your own conclusions. I rather enjoy having to complete the thoughts myself. If the answer is easy, the question hardly seems worth asking.”
    “It’s a play—entertainment,” Mary Allan frowned. “We want to enjoy ourselves, perhaps laugh a little. There are times when I find tragedies moving, but I admit it is not very often. And I prefer the ones I know, such as
Hamlet
. At least I am prepared to see everyone dead atthe end.” She said it with a slight, rueful gesture, robbing the remark of any offense.
    Beata accepted it without demur. “There is so much in
Hamlet
one may see it dozens of times and never grow tired of it. Of course, that needs to be over several years!”
    Rathbone laughed in spite of himself, and reluctantly Allan joined