someone else; then it can’t be your fault.
“Where do we begin?” Orme said quietly as the light broadened in the sky.
A string of barges was coming slowly up the river, their wash barely disturbing the surface.
Monk glanced sideways once, seeing the anger and the grief in Orme’s blunt face. They faced a long, slow journey barely begun, and Orme’s trust mattered to Monk intensely.
“Find out more about him,” he replied slowly, searching for the words. “Perhaps his death was justified, perhaps not. It could have been a rival. Who was behind him? Who put in the money-or took it out? Was he blackmailing people too?”
Orme nodded slowly. He looked quickly at Monk, then back again at the river.
“Have some breakfast first, and a little sleep. Get warm,” Monk added with a slight smile.
CHAPTER 3
Oliver Rathbone waited in the withdrawing room for Margaret to come downstairs. They were going to dine with her parents, and as usual, it was a somewhat formal affair. Her two sisters and their husbands would also be present.
He walked to the windows and stared out at the darkening garden. The September sun was warm on the last of the flowers in the herbaceous border: purples and golds, autumn colors. It was the richest season; soon even the leaves would flame. Berries would ripen. Blue wood smoke and early morning frosts were not far away. For him the glory of autumn always held an echo of sadness, a knowledge that beauty is a living thing, delicate, capable of injury, even of death.
This would be the first time he would dine with Arthur Ballinger since the drownings at Execution Dock. Rathbone was dreading it, yet of course it was inevitable. Ballinger was his father-in-law, and Margaret was unusually close to her family.
Sullivan had made it hideously clear that he blamed the man behind the child-abuse racket for his downfall, from beginning to end, but he had offered no proof that it was Ballinger, so legally and morally there was nothing Rathbone could do about it. Sullivan’s words had been no more than those of a desperate man, disgraced beyond recall.
Outside, a flock of starlings swirled up into the evening sky, and clouds drifted in from the south.
For Margaret’s sake, Rathbone knew he must pretend. It would be difficult. He did not find family gatherings easy anyway. He was very close to his own father, but their dinners together had the quiet comfort of old friends, conversation about art and philosophy, law and literature, gentle amusement at the oddities of life and human nature. There were companionable silences while they ate bread and cheese, good pate, drank a little red wine. Sometimes they had apple pie and cream by the fireside in the evening, and shared a joke or two.
The door opened and Margaret came in. She saw Rathbone standing and immediately apologized, assuming she had kept him waiting. She looked lovely in a gown of rich, soft green, the huge crinoline skirt bordered with a pattern of Greek keys in gold.
“I was early,” he replied, finding it easier to smile than he had expected. “But I would have been happy to wait. You look wonderful. Is the gown new? Surely I couldn’t have forgotten it?”
The stiffness disappeared from her back and became the grace he had first seen in her when he had been drawn to her sense of humor, and the innate dignity that was her loveliest gift.
Now he found his anxiety slipping away. They would negotiate the evening, whatever challenges it offered. It was a family occasion; the past and its unproved accusations should be left behind. To entertain them was unjust.
“Come.” He offered her his arm. “The carriage will be at the door any moment.” He smiled at her and saw the answering pleasure in her eyes.
They arrived just after Margaret’s elder sister, Gwen, and her husband, Wilbert, and followed them into the long oak-paneled withdrawing room. Wilbert was thin, fair-haired, and rather earnest. Rathbone had never discovered exactly what occupation he followed, but apparently he had inherited money and was interested in politics. Gwen was only a year or two older than Margaret, and not unlike her to look at. She had the same high, smooth brow and soft hair; her features were prettier, but lacked a little of Margaret’s individuality. Because of that, to him she was less attractive.
The eldest sister, Celia, was already present, sitting on the couch opposite her husband, George. She was the handsomest of the three. She had beautiful dark hair and eyes, but Rathbone noticed that she was beginning to thicken a little in the waist and was already more buxom than he cared for. The diamonds at her ears must have cost as much as a good pair of carriage horses, if not more.
Mrs. Ballinger let go the embrace of her middle daughter and came forward to welcome Margaret, the last of her daughters to achieve matrimony, but also the one who had done the best. Rathbone had not only money, but now a title, and he was very personable into the bargain.
“How lovely to see you again, Oliver,” she said warmly. “I am so happy your commitments allowed you time for a little pleasure. Margaret, my dear, you look wonderful!” She kissed Margaret on both cheeks and offered her hand to Rathbone.
A moment later Ballinger himself was shaking Rathbone’s hand with a firm grip. However, his eyes were guarded, offering no clues as to his inner thoughts. Had it always been like that, or was Rathbone noticing it now, because of Phillips’s death and Sullivan’s accusation?
They had barely time to exchange greetings and make a few polite inquiries as to health and recent social engagements, when dinner was announced and they went into the enormous and lavish dining room with its hot Indian-red walls and glittering chandeliers, its over-spilling bowls of fruit on the sideboard. The table, which could have comfortably seated sixteen, was superbly set with the best crystal and silver, cut-glass bowls of bonbons, and snow-white linen napkins folded like swans. In the center, there was one of the loveliest arrangements of flowers that Rathbone could remember seeing-late roses in crimson and apricot, and tawny bronze chrysanthemum heads. It was given additional character by two spires of something deep, rich purple.
“Mama-in-law,” he said spontaneously, “this is quite amazing. I have never seen a more exquisite table anywhere.”
She blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Oliver. I believe even the best food is complemented by beauty to the eye.” She glanced at her husband to see if he had heard the compliment, and when she saw that he had, her satisfaction doubled.
They took their places, and the first course was served-a delicate soup, quickly finished. It was followed by baked fish.
Celia made some trivial remark about a display of drawings she had seen, and her mother replied. Ballinger looked around them all, smiling. Gradually the conversation embraced each one of them in turn. There was laughter and compliments. Rathbone began to feel included.
Ballinger asked his opinion a number of times on various subjects. The fish was removed, and saddle of mutton was served with roasted and boiled vegetables, rich sauce, and garnishes. The men ate heartily, the women accepting less and eating a mouthful or two, and then resting before eating a little more. Conversation moved to more serious subjects: social issues and matters of reform.
Ballinger made a joke with quick, dry wit, and they all laughed. Rathbone told an anecdote. They applauded it, Ballinger leading, looking at them all to join in, which they did, as if given permission to be enthusiastic.
There was more wine, and then pudding was served, an excellent apple flan with thick cream, or treacle tart for those who preferred. Most of the men took both.
Rathbone looked across at Margaret and saw the flush in her cheeks, her eyes bright and soft. He realized with surprise and considerable pleasure not only that she was happy but that she was actually proud of him, not for his skills in argument or his professional reputation, but for his charm, which was so much more personal a thing. The warmth inside him had nothing to do with the dinner or the wine.
“They tried to get some curb on it through the House of Lords several years ago,” he said in answer to a question of Wilbert’s about industrial pollution in rivers, in particular the Thames.
