course was served, and then the ladies withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to pass the port and take a little cheese if they cared to.
I N THE WITHDRAWING ROOM the conversation was trivial again: small matters of gossip and amusement. Rathbone found it hard to join in, because he was not acquainted with most of the people they referred to, and it was even harder to laugh at the humor. The wit lacked the dryness that pleased him.
“You are quiet, Oliver,” Mrs. Ballinger observed, turning from Celia to face him, her brow furrowed. “Does something trouble you? I hope it was nothing in the dinner.”
“Of course it wasn’t, my dear,” Ballinger said quickly. “He is out of sorts because over the port and cheese I criticized his friend Monk, who is, I think, a far more dangerous man than Oliver wishes to accept. His loyalty does him credit, but I believe it is misplaced. It is not an uncommon trait to think well of our friends, in spite of evidence to the contrary.” He smiled, a brief flash of teeth. “And it is in a way admirable, I suppose.” He shrugged again, very slightly, merely a creasing of the fine fabric of his jacket. “But as he himself has just observed, in the law we cannot afford such emotional luxuries. We are the last refuge of those who desperately need no more and no less than justice.”
“Bravo, Papa,” Margaret said with a faint flush of pink across her cheeks. “How perfectly you balance the head and the heart. You areright, of course. We cannot favor loyalty over justice, or we betray not only those who trust in us, but ourselves as well.” She looked at Rathbone, waiting for him to concede her father’s point.
In that instant he realized how deep her loyalty was to her father, so deep that she did not even perceive that it was instinctive rather than a matter of reason. It made her side against Monk without hesitation. Was that what it came to—the loyalty of blood? Or was her devotion to her father stronger than any other love?
Did he feel any less for his own father?
She was waiting now, the question in her eyes. It was not really about the law. It was about Monk, and the long past they shared, the battles Margaret had not been part of, and it was perhaps also about Hester.
“My loyalty has always been to the truth,” Rathbone replied, choosing his words with intense care. “But I believe that Monk’s has also. On occasion he has been mistaken. So have I. He was slipshod in his prosecution of Jericho Phillips, and the man got off because I was more skilled, and more diligent. However, if you recall, Phillips was undoubtedly guilty, which means that Monk’s judgment of the man’s character was not at fault.”
Ballinger rested his large square-ended fingers very gently on the leather arm of his chair. “That may be true, Oliver, but you have missed the point. Monk has no right to be judging Jericho Phillips, or anyone else. He is a collector of evidence to present before the court—no more than that.”
“A sort of collector of moral refuse,” George added smugly, glancing at Ballinger, and away again.
Celia smiled.
“Then, what are we?” Oliver said, hearing the cutting edge of his own voice. “Sorters of that same refuse? Personally I am quite happy if the police at least begin the process, and give me some sort of pattern, either to confirm or deny.”
“Oh, really!” Wilbert protested.
Margaret looked unhappy, a mounting shadow in her eyes. Rathbone realized with surprise that she had not expected him to argue. Inher opinion he should not have defended either Monk or himself. This quiet room was like thousands of other withdrawing rooms in London, but in subtle ways he felt alien in it. The painted walls were very similar to all the others—the heavily swagged curtains, the long windows onto the great garden, certainly the busy red and green carpet, even the brass fire irons in the hearth. It was the beliefs that were foreign to him, things as invisible and
I N THE WITHDRAWING ROOM the conversation was trivial again: small matters of gossip and amusement. Rathbone found it hard to join in, because he was not acquainted with most of the people they referred to, and it was even harder to laugh at the humor. The wit lacked the dryness that pleased him.
“You are quiet, Oliver,” Mrs. Ballinger observed, turning from Celia to face him, her brow furrowed. “Does something trouble you? I hope it was nothing in the dinner.”
“Of course it wasn’t, my dear,” Ballinger said quickly. “He is out of sorts because over the port and cheese I criticized his friend Monk, who is, I think, a far more dangerous man than Oliver wishes to accept. His loyalty does him credit, but I believe it is misplaced. It is not an uncommon trait to think well of our friends, in spite of evidence to the contrary.” He smiled, a brief flash of teeth. “And it is in a way admirable, I suppose.” He shrugged again, very slightly, merely a creasing of the fine fabric of his jacket. “But as he himself has just observed, in the law we cannot afford such emotional luxuries. We are the last refuge of those who desperately need no more and no less than justice.”
“Bravo, Papa,” Margaret said with a faint flush of pink across her cheeks. “How perfectly you balance the head and the heart. You areright, of course. We cannot favor loyalty over justice, or we betray not only those who trust in us, but ourselves as well.” She looked at Rathbone, waiting for him to concede her father’s point.
In that instant he realized how deep her loyalty was to her father, so deep that she did not even perceive that it was instinctive rather than a matter of reason. It made her side against Monk without hesitation. Was that what it came to—the loyalty of blood? Or was her devotion to her father stronger than any other love?
Did he feel any less for his own father?
She was waiting now, the question in her eyes. It was not really about the law. It was about Monk, and the long past they shared, the battles Margaret had not been part of, and it was perhaps also about Hester.
“My loyalty has always been to the truth,” Rathbone replied, choosing his words with intense care. “But I believe that Monk’s has also. On occasion he has been mistaken. So have I. He was slipshod in his prosecution of Jericho Phillips, and the man got off because I was more skilled, and more diligent. However, if you recall, Phillips was undoubtedly guilty, which means that Monk’s judgment of the man’s character was not at fault.”
Ballinger rested his large square-ended fingers very gently on the leather arm of his chair. “That may be true, Oliver, but you have missed the point. Monk has no right to be judging Jericho Phillips, or anyone else. He is a collector of evidence to present before the court—no more than that.”
“A sort of collector of moral refuse,” George added smugly, glancing at Ballinger, and away again.
Celia smiled.
“Then, what are we?” Oliver said, hearing the cutting edge of his own voice. “Sorters of that same refuse? Personally I am quite happy if the police at least begin the process, and give me some sort of pattern, either to confirm or deny.”
“Oh, really!” Wilbert protested.
Margaret looked unhappy, a mounting shadow in her eyes. Rathbone realized with surprise that she had not expected him to argue. Inher opinion he should not have defended either Monk or himself. This quiet room was like thousands of other withdrawing rooms in London, but in subtle ways he felt alien in it. The painted walls were very similar to all the others—the heavily swagged curtains, the long windows onto the great garden, certainly the busy red and green carpet, even the brass fire irons in the hearth. It was the beliefs that were foreign to him, things as invisible and
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