Slowly the buzz ebbed away. Every eye was on York.
“Gentlemen of the jury, the accused has presented excuses for his behavior, but he has not attempted to deny it, therefore it is not open to you to bring in a verdict of not guilty. The court thanks you for your service.”
The foreman of the jury glanced at his fellows then rose slowly to his feet.
“My lord?”
York looked at him grimly. “Have I not made myself clear, sir?”
The foreman swallowed. “Yes, my lord. We wish to know if it is open to us to agree with the prosecution, and ask that Sir Oliver just serve the time he already has done in prison, and then the Lords Justice discipline him whatever way they have to? Can we do that?”
York’s face was pale. “You may recommend whatever you wish,” he said somewhat ungraciously. “Thank you for your consideration.”
The foreman sat down again, apparently satisfied.
In the dock Rathbone was so weak with relief he felt dizzy. He was guilty. Perhaps that verdict had been inevitable. It was almost a relief to acknowledge it to himself. If you break the law, for whatever reason, then you must pay the price for it. If it had been anyone else he would have said as much. But the price was not prison. Certainly his resignation from the bench would be required, probably even his right to practice law, at least for a while. But he would be a free man, living in his own home, able to choose his path. He was overcome with gratitude for a price less than he deserved to pay. The room swam around him, wavering in his vision. He saw Monk go down the steps and across the floor to where Hester and Scuff were waiting for him. Hester abandoned decorum and hugged him, and he put his arms around her, then around the boy also. Henry Rathbone joined them, tears of gratitude gleaming for an instant on his cheeks.
Brancaster was shaking hands with Wystan. The jurors were turning to one another, smiling, happy, relieved that they had served justice well, but had also acted with honor.
In the third row from the front of the gallery seats, Margaret sat motionless, her face white and stricken, as if she were mourning a death all over again.
Rathbone felt a wave of pity for her. He had no joy at all in seeing her so bitterly forced to stare into the reality of her father’s corruption. It was a tragedy, not a victory. Ballinger had yielded to the same power that Rathbone had. The only difference was that it was Ballinger who had created that particular monster, and he had had no friends with the courage, the skill, and the loyalty to rescue him, such as had rescued Rathbone.
Rathbone could never go back to her. That door was closed forever, for both of them. But he could wish her well, wish her healing and one day even happiness. And he found he did.
They were ushering him out of the dock. It was all over. At least as far as this trial was concerned, he was free. He would have tonight’s supper in his own home. He would walk around and touch things, gaze at them, treasure them-before one day soon selling the house and getting rooms elsewhere. Not too far-his friends were here; but he needed a new start.
He walked a little shakily down the steps toward the ground floor. He would have to find something else to do for as long as he was banned from practicing law, however long that was. But he had learned something about law that few other lawyers would ever know. He might not have any greater legal skills than they, but now he would have other gifts, gifts of empathy, of humanity. He had paid dearly for them. A chance to use them again, in the future, was a grace far greater than he had once dreamed was possible.
A week later the initial relief had passed and Rathbone faced a different kind of reality. The verdict and sentence of the judiciary had been passed on him. His resignation from the bench, and the crown of his career he had so long worked for, was a thing of the past. He was also banned from the practice of law for an indefinite period. He could appeal to be reinstated in a year. That might, or might not, be granted.
He considered what else he had lost, what of himself, and the inner things he valued more dearly than position or career. Monk’s friendship he did not question. Monk himself had traveled some of the darkest halls of guilt and self-doubt. Rathbone appreciated that now with a sharper and far keener edge than he had before. Much of his own certainty in all manner of things had eroded away in these last months. Some of the old safeties were shown to be far more fragile than he had believed. Now he was aware of his own deep flaws of judgment, and the fact that he too could face the censure of his fellows and fall short in the eyes of those he loved. Forgiveness was suddenly a far sweeter, more tender thing than he had ever known it to be.
It was past time he stopped telling himself that one day he would take his father to Italy, spend time with him, listen a great deal more. He could do it now, this autumn, as soon as he could sell the house and would have the funds to do it. He would make it the trip of a lifetime, to be savored in all the years ahead. It was one thing that would hold no regrets. In time it would crowd out all the sorrows and perhaps leave behind only the lessons learned.
The next morning dawn rose over the Thames, spilling light across the water, as Rathbone sat with Monk in a police boat. They were on a lonely, deep stretch, where the bottom mud was thick. Nothing lost here would ever be found again.
Monk shipped the oars and rested them. He was here as a witness, but even more as a friend.
Rathbone picked up the heavy box of photographic plates that Arthur Ballinger had bequeathed him. Inside it was everything that was left of them. He stood up, balancing carefully, and dropped it over the side. It went down like a stone, leaving barely a ripple on the water.
“Thank you,” Rathbone said quietly, tears stinging his eyes in the cool morning breeze.
Monk smiled, his face serene in the widening light.
