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. Oliver did 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 conclusion. He did not raise the subject again. They turned and walked together back through the apple trees toward the house.
At home Rathbone and Margaret passed the weekend in bitter silence. The politeness between them was like walking on broken glass.
At dawn on Monday morning, Rathbone went again to see Arthur Ballinger to try to persuade him not to testify. As it was, he had a good chance of acquittal. He could prove his actual innocence later, if someone else were charged.
But Ballinger was obdurate. He would not leave the courtroom with this accusation still hanging over his existence, crippling his life, shadowing and tainting the lives of his family. Even the possibility of a guilty verdict did not deter him. He simply did not believe it could happen.
Was that supreme hubris, or was he actually innocent and Rathbone had badly misjudged him? He entered the courtroom still uncertain.
As soon as he called Ballinger to the stand, there was a rustle of excitement, a movement, a stiffening of attention.
Ballinger mounted the witness stand. He looked pale but composed, as grave as an accused man should, and with appropriate humility. He was clearly taking all the advice that Rathbone had given him. He looked the model of a good man unjustly afflicted by circumstance.
Nevertheless, Rathbone was as nervous as if he were on trial himself. His mouth was dry and his muscles ached with the built-up tension of going over and over every possibility in his mind. He was afraid his voice was going to betray him by cracking. He did not even glance at Margaret, who was sitting with her mother and sisters in the gallery. He could not bear to see the coldness in her face, nor to wonder where their lives were going after this, whatever the outcome.
He dared not fail.
Ballinger was sworn in and faced Rathbone expectantly.
“Mr. Ballinger,” Rathbone began. He cleared his throat. He was unaccustomed to being so nervous. “Did you know Mickey Parfitt?”
“I met him once, several years ago, very briefly,” Ballinger replied. “I don’t remember him. I know only because of the transaction concerned.”
“Indeed. And what was that, Mr. Ballinger?” Rathbone knew that he had to draw this out now, because it was a matter of record, and if he did not, then Winchester would make more of it.
“It was the sale to Mr. Parfitt of a boat, by a client I represented,” Ballinger replied levelly.
“Was this boat the same one we have heard about, used for pornographic performances and the imprisonment of children?” Rathbone kept all expression from his face.
“I don’t know. I only advised my client in the sale of the boat.”
“And was this client whom you represented Mr. Jericho Phillips, the same Jericho Phillips you later represented when he was tried for murder earlier this year?”
There was a rustle of movement, a sigh of indrawn breath around the gallery.
The jury sat motionless, faces pale.
“It was,” Ballinger answered quietly. “I believe that every man is entitled to the protection of the law, and a fair and just trial.”
“So do we all, Mr. Ballinger.” Rathbone nodded gravely. “That is why we are here.”
Neither of them even glanced at the jury. They could have been alone in Rathbone’s office.
“Have you ever visited this boat, Mr. Ballinger?” he continued.
“Once, at the time of its sale. It looked a very ordinary sort of craft. I was merely assuring myself that it was described correctly in the papers concerning it, which it was.”
“Did you ask Mr. Parfitt how he intended to use it?”
“No. It was none of my business.” A slight flicker crossed Ballinger’s face. “But if indeed he used it as has been described, it is hardly likely that he would have told me.”
“Quite.” Rathbone allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Were you, to your knowledge, acquainted with any of the men who frequented either boat, after they were turned to the use of pornography?”
“Certainly not. But of course men who practice this kind of behavior do not tell people, other than those who share their vices. From what I have heard during this trial, it seems they indulge in them together. Therefore, they would know each other.”
“Quite.” Rathbone found that the fullness of Ballinger’s answer made him uneasy. He had advised Ballinger to be extremely careful, to say only yes and no, but Ballinger was either too nervous to obey or too sure of himself to heed advice. Rathbone should leave that subject.
“Mr. Ballinger, where were you on the evening that Mickey Parfitt was killed?”
Ballinger carefully repeated the exact story he had told before, and which had been borne out by the witnesses.
Rathbone smiled. “Inspector Monk has testified that he followed your route, to the minute, and discovered that he could find a small craft and row down to Parfitt’s boat at its moorings, spend the time on board that it would take to kill Parfitt, and then row back to Mortlake again. He took a cab back to the crossing opposite Chiswick Eyot, and still was there at the time you said you were. Did you do that?”
Ballinger smiled back. “Mr. Monk is the best part of a generation younger than I am, and leads a very physical life. He is a river policeman. He probably rows a boat every day. I wish I were as young and as fit as he is, but, unquestionably, I am afraid I am not. I did not do it, nor had any desire to. But even had I wished, it would have been beyond my ability.”
“You did not?”
“I did not. It is my misfortune that I happened to spend that particular evening visiting an old friend in Mortlake, instead of at home with my wife, or out to dine in a public place. It is my additional misfortune that Inspector Monk has never forgiven me for acting for Jericho Phillips, insofar as I obtained your services to defend him when he faced trial. Monk appears not to believe that a man accused of evil acts is not guilty until he is proved
