on. “You said. .”
“I know what I said!” Monk snapped. “That was before I knew about the plague.”
“Don’t say that word!” Rathbone said sharply, his voice rising. “Coleridge will be back any minute!”
Monk winced, as though he had been caused sudden pain.
Rathbone drew in his breath to apologize, although he knew it was the truth which hurt Monk, not his words. Just at that moment there was a brisk tap on the door and Coleridge opened it, carrying in a tea tray and setting it on the table.
Rathbone thanked him and he withdrew again.
“Are you saying he died of. . illness?” Rathbone asked, passing the tea as he spoke.
“It fits the facts if Gould is telling the truth,” Monk replied, sitting down at last. He looked so weary it was going to be an effort for him to stand up again. “Hodge had to be accounted for. They couldn’t just get rid of the body, so someone took a shovel to the back of his head to make that seem the cause of death.”
Rathbone believed it. “But that’s no use as a defense for Gould,” he pointed out. “All I can think of so far is reasonable doubt, and I don’t know how to raise that without going too close to the truth.” He shivered and put his hands into his pockets. It was an uncharacteristic gesture because it pushed his trousers out of shape. “Who can I call?” he went on. “The prosecution will call the crew, who will say they know nothing. I daren’t call any medical experts, because if I question them, we would raise the issue of whether he was dead already, and if so, what caused it. His neck wasn’t broken, there was nothing to suggest heart attack or apoplexy, and the last thing on earth we can afford is to have them dig Hodge up again.”
Monk shook his head slowly, like a man in a fog of thought, too harried on every side to find his way. “You’ll have to play for time,” he said unhappily. “I need to find something to raise a doubt.”
Rathbone hated forcing the issue. Monk was exhausted, and Rathbone could barely guess at the fear which must be eating him alive. Margaret was safe. Rathbone had everything to look forward to. If he lost her, it would be his own doing: his cowardice, moral or emotional. The solution lay in his own hands. But Monk was powerless. There was nothing he could do to help. He did not even know from hour to hour if Hester was alive, still well, or already infected, suffering terribly. She was imprisoned with virtual strangers. Would they even care for her in her moments of extremity? Would they stay to nurse her, as she had nursed so many others? Would they run away in terror or inadequacy? Or would they be too close to death themselves to be able to raise a hand to fetch water, or whatever one did to ease the terror or pain of the dying? The thought made him sick with misery.
“What is it?” Monk demanded, cutting across his thoughts.
Rathbone recalled himself. “To raise reasonable doubt I have to suggest a believable alternative,” he answered. “If Gould didn’t kill him, either someone else did or it was an accident. Can you get evidence to back your original decision? Louvain wrote that paper swearing to get Hodge’s killer if you found the ivory. That’ll come out, because the undertaker will swear to it to protect himself. I can’t afford to question the medical evidence at all. They would dig the body up, and that’s a nightmare I don’t even want to imagine.”
Monk said nothing. He seemed to be lost in thought. As if noticing the tea for the first time, he poured himself a cup and drank it, wincing at the heat, and yet obviously grateful for it.
Rathbone poured some for himself as well. “Does Louvain know the truth?” he asked.
Monk looked up at him. “I really don’t know.”
“Then you’ve got to find out. At least one of us has to. If you. .”
“I’ll do it,” Monk said with such biting decision that Rathbone knew he would not raise the question again.
“If he didn’t know,” Rathbone said quietly, “then you will have to tell him. The only way he can protect himself is to testify that he was mistaken, and Hodge could have fallen and hit his head.”
“Or that Gould killed him, exactly as I first believed.”
“Do you believe it now?”
“No.” Again there was no hesitation.
“Then we’ll have to find a way of getting Louvain to testify for him, or he’ll hang,” Rathbone warned him. “We can’t let the plague loose in London to save one man, however innocent.”
Monk took a deep breath and rubbed the heel of his hand over his face. “I know. How many days till the trial?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll see Louvain,” Monk promised. He straightened up, but there was a weariness inside him that bowed his shoulders and his face was ashen. “Durban is still hoping to find the crew.” His face crumpled. “How many people are there, Rathbone, that disappear and no one misses? How many can fall, and we all just press onward without even seeing the space they’ve left? Does anyone care? Are there people suffering, crippled with grief, and we don’t notice that either?”
Rathbone wished he had a lie good enough to give even the remotest comfort, but he hadn’t. Whether anyone missed the crewmen he had no idea. They might be dead of plague in any town in the south of England, or more probably already at sea on another ship. There was no terror spreading, no cry of quarantine, evacuation, or fire to burn it out, to exorcise it like a thing from hell. But Monk was speaking of the void in his own life that Hester’s loss would create, and Rathbone knew that.
And he was contemplating allowing himself to love Margaret just as deeply-wasn’t he? With all the strength of emotion he possessed. It defied every instinct of self-preservation he had followed all his life. It was a denial of sanity, the ultimate madness.
Had he any choice? Can one decide whether to love or not? Yes, probably. One could walk away from life and choose half a life, paralysis of the soul.
He had walked away from Hester, and she had been wise enough to refuse him anyway, perhaps for precisely that reason. Monk had had the courage of spirit to care, and she knew that, and valued it for the infinite worth it was. Now Monk would be racked by it forever if she died.
Margaret was safe, as much as anything warm and living and vulnerable was ever safe. If he wanted to be part of life, not merely a watcher, then he would let himself love as well. Perhaps it was the nature of caring that you could not help it. There was no choice to make; your own nature had already made it. If you could pull back then you were not wholly involved.
He had never admired Monk more than he did at this moment, for the courage it had taken him to risk everything. With that knowledge came a pity so deep it hollowed out new places within himself and filled them with a helplessness that twisted like a knife. There was nothing to say or do as Monk turned and walked to the door. Their friendship was deeper than Rathbone had acknowledged to himself before, and it was on the brink of being destroyed because part of Monk himself would be lost.
If friendship could hurt so profoundly, what in heaven’s name could love do?
Rathbone spent the rest of the day catching up on other work he had put aside in order to prepare for the Gould case, and much of the following morning also.
However, his mind was made up regarding Margaret. Time was precious, far more so than he had appreciated until now. He had dithered on the brink of asking her to marry him. It was both cowardly and foolish. He had written to her and dispatched the letter by messenger, inviting her to dinner that evening, and rather than wait till this crisis was past, whatever the relief, or the irretrievable loss, he would tell her his feelings and ask her to marry him.
As he dressed, regarding himself unusually critically in the glass, he was aware with surprise that he had taken it for granted that she would accept. It had not occurred to him until this moment that it was possible she would not.
Then he realized why the nerves in his stomach were jumping and there was a tightness in his throat. It was not that she might decline. Everything in society and in her personal circumstances dictated that she accept, and he was perfectly certain that there was no other suitor she was considering. She was far too honest to have allowed him to court her had there been. She would accept him. The question that turned and twisted inside him was would she love him? She would be loyal, because loyalty was in her nature. She would be gentle, even-tempered, generous of spirit, but she would have done that for anyone. It was not enough. To have all that, not because she loved him but because it was a matter of her honor that she should give it, would be a refinement of torture he could not bear to face. Yet if he did not ask her, he had already chosen failure.
He took a hansom to call on her, and this time he found Mrs. Ballinger’s attentions even more difficult to
