see the warm sunlight through the gap in the curtains. He sat up slowly, his head heavy.
“Damn!” he said miserably. “What time is it, Dover? Am I late?”
“No, sir.” Dover’s face was very grave. “It is still quite early.”
Rathbone heard the seriousness in his voice. “What is it?” he asked a little sharply. “You sound as if someone had died.” He meant it with sarcasm.
“Yes, sir, I’m very much afraid so,” Dover replied.
Rathbone blinked, straightening up. Then suddenly he was ice cold. His father! His chest tightened and he could not breathe. The room seemed to disappear, and all he could see was Dover’s white face. He tried to speak and no sound came.
“The case you were presiding over, sir.” Dover’s voice came from far away. “The man accused … a Mr. Abel Taft, I believe …” He went on speaking but Rathbone did not hear him.
The room steadied itself, and the warmth flooded back into his body, which was tingling with life. Dover was still talking and Rathbone had not heard a word of it.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
Dover swallowed and began again. “Mr. Taft, sir. The police left a message for you. I’m afraid he has taken his own life. Shot himself. But before doing so it appears that he suffocated his wife and his two daughters. I’m very sorry, sir. It is most distressing. I thought you should know immediately. It is bound to be in at least some of the daily newspapers. I do not know what is the correct procedure in court, but no doubt there will have to be an alteration in the arrangements.”
Rathbone swung his legs out of bed and stood up slowly, swaying for a moment before regaining his balance. “I shall shave and dress,” he said. “And consider what would be best to do. The only part of the trial remaining was the summations. His suicide would make them appear redundant … as indeed a verdict would be. Society will make its own judgment now.” He took a shaky breath. “But in God’s name, why kill his poor family?”
“I have no idea, sir,” Dover said quietly. “It seems a very terrible thing to do. I assume the verdict would have been against him?”
“Yes. But it was only for fraud, not murder. He could have faced prison, but that is survivable. Difficult, unpleasant, but far from a death sentence.”
“Yes, sir. Would you like kippers for breakfast, sir, or eggs?”
Rathbone felt his stomach clench.
“Just toast, thank you,” he replied.
“It may be a difficult day, sir. It is better not to face it on an empty stomach.”
Rathbone looked at him and saw the concern in his face. He was doing his job.
“You are quite right. Scrambled eggs, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Half an hour later Rathbone sat at the dining-room table. The scrambled eggs had been excellent, the tea was hot and fresh and the toast crisp, the marmalade just as sharp as he liked it. But all he could think of was Abel Taft shooting himself. Why? Was the disgrace really more than he could bear? Could he not face his wife and daughters’ disillusionment in him?
Or was it his own disillusion in Robertson Drew? Had he really trusted him and had no idea of the man’s secret indulgences? Could he have known of them, and perhaps believed that Drew had repented and changed? Did something of his own value depend on his ability to bring others to redemption?
No, that was a foolish thought. Taft was charged with fraud, with taking money given for a specific purpose and diverting it to his own use. Squeaky Robinson had found ample proof of his guilt. This had nothing to do with Drew’s proclivities.
Maybe his death had been an act of momentary despair, perhaps after a heavy night of drinking, an indulgence he might well not be used to. But to kill his wife and children as well!
Had Rathbone driven him to that? Was this his fault?
No! He had driven himself to it, first by fraud, then by believing in a man like Drew, and either using him, or trusting him without any care or responsibility.
It would have to be declared a mistrial. The police would be left to clear up the tragic deaths of his family.
Dover was standing in the dining-room doorway, his face still as grave and shocked as before.
“Yes?” Rathbone asked. Had time slipped by so it was already half past eight and he should be going?
“The police are here, sir. They wish to speak with you,” Dover said.
That was a trifle prompt. Of course, they would be here to inform him officially of Taft’s death. They would hardly rely on his servants to tell him. Rathbone folded his napkin and stood up.
The police were waiting in the hall. There were two of them, the younger one in uniform. That seemed more than was necessary to pass on a fairly simple message, even a tragic one.
“Oliver Rathbone?” the elder of the two asked grimly.
Rathbone noticed the omission of his title and thought it a trifle rude, but it would be petty and self- important to correct the man.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Inspector Haverstock. I’m afraid I must arrest you, sir, for perverting the course of justice in the case against Abel Taft. I don’t want to handcuff you, but if you offer any resistance I will be obliged to. It would be best for us all if you were to make no resistance. I’m sure you don’t want to be seen struggling with the police in front of your household staff.” His voice was polite but there was no mistaking the threat in his words.
Rathbone froze. This was preposterous. It made no sense at all. Arrest him? They couldn’t. It …
“Sir!” Haverstock said warningly.
The other man, a constable, came a step closer, his young face flushed with embarrassment.
Rathbone drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting to compose himself.
“I have no intention of making a fuss,” he said more tartly than he had intended to. “I have not perverted the course of justice. On the contrary, I have done all I can to see that justice prevails.”
Haverstock did not yield an inch.
“Nevertheless, sir, I am arresting you on that charge as I have been instructed, and you will come with us to the police station. You will be formally arraigned later in the day. Is there anyone you would like to inform? Perhaps you would like to give instruction to your own counsel, whoever he is.”
“No, thank you,” Rathbone snapped. “I think that this will be cleared up and apologized for within a very short while. I am due to preside over the unfortunate end of what will inevitably be a mistrial at the Old Bailey this morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Haverstock agreed without the slightest change of expression. “I imagine they will call on someone else to do that. Now, if you will come with us, sir …” It was a command, and Rathbone had no choice but to obey, one police officer on either side of him, like any other prisoner.
Later that afternoon, shocked and still in a daze, Rathbone rode through the streets toward the magistrate’s court, thank heaven in an ordinary cab, but sitting with Haverstock to one side of him and the younger man on the other, all of them squashed together uncomfortably. It was like a bad dream, full of confusion. What exactly had happened? They could only be referring to the photograph. There was nothing else. But how did they know Rathbone had had anything to do with it? At least in theory, it could have come from anywhere.
Warne could not have told anyone where he got it. He had received it under privilege. Rathbone had done that as much to protect Warne as to safeguard himself.
Who else knew Rathbone had them? Only Monk, Hester, and Henry Rathbone. None of them would have told anyone. What had happened? He could hear the rattle of the wheels over the cobbles, the clatter of the horses’ hoofs, shouts of other drivers, the general noise of the streets, and none of it seemed real. No one in the cab spoke.
When they reached the building, he was taken in through a back door. There were a few people standing around, even at this hour. A man in ragged clothes leaned against a wall, obviously much the worse for drink. As Rathbone passed close by him he could smell the stench of stale alcohol and human waste.
Inside, in the entrance hall, a woman was sitting in one of the low seats, leaning forward. Her neckline was
