This was a topic of conversation he was dreading. He had deliberately avoided it as long as possible, even to the extent of not coming to Primrose Hill but meeting his father in the City, where private conversations were too liable to interruption. Now it could no longer be deferred.
"Hester seems very well," he answered expressionlessly. At least he thought he had, but judging by Henry’s face, perhaps he deluded himself. "Of course, she is deeply concerned for this nurse, both personally and in principle," he added, feeling the warmth rush up his cheeks.
Henry nodded. "I can imagine that she is consumed with her usual fire." He did not say anything about Oliver’s motives for accepting what seemed a hopeless case. He was the only person who induced Oliver to make explanations of himself where none had been asked for.
"It matters!" Oliver said urgently, leaning forward a little. He looked at Henry, at his lean and slightly stooped form, his hair very gray, and imagined what he would feel if he had been a soldier or a sailor instead of a mathematician, if he were broken in body, bewildered and alone, unable to afford the care he needed, stripped of the dignity of old age and left only with its helplessness. It was so painful it caught his breath. Now the battle was for John Robb, for Henry, for all those affected by injury and age, or who would be in time to come. "It matters far more than any one person," he said passionately. "More than Cleo Anderson or even than Hester— or winning for its own sake. If we allow this injustice without doing all we can against it, what are we worth?"
Henry regarded him gravely, all the humor gone from his eyes. "Very little," he said quietly. "But emotion will not win for you, Oliver. It is an excellent driving force, the best, and it will keep your courage high. Anger at injustice has righted more wrongs than most other things, and it is one of the great creative forces in a civilized society." He shook his head. "But in order not to replace one enemy with another, albeit innocently intended, you must use your intelligence. You told me that you are certain that both Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Gardiner are lying to you. You cannot go into court without knowing at least what the lie is—and why they are telling it at the risk of their own deaths. The reason must be a very powerful one indeed."
"I know that," Oliver agreed. "And I have racked my brain to think what it could be."
"Is it the same reason for each?"
"I don’t even know that."
Henry sat thoughtfully, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled together. "I assume that you warned each of them that not only her own life, but the life of the other, rests upon the verdict. Therefore they each have a compelling reason for not telling you the truth. From what you say it seems possible that Mrs. Anderson does not know it, but certainly Mrs. Gardiner does. Why would a woman hang for a crime she did not commit?" He looked very steadily at Oliver. "Only because the alternative to her is worse."
"What could be worse than hanging?" Oliver asked.
"I don’t know. That is what you must find out."
"The hanging of someone you love..." Oliver said, as much to himself as to Henry.
"Is Lucius Stourbridge guilty?" Henry asked him.
"I don’t know," Oliver replied. "I don’t know why he could kill either Treadwell or his own mother."
"Treadwell is easier," Henry said thoughtfully. "The man may have threatened Mrs. Gardiner, or threatened the marriage, either through Mrs. Anderson or in some other way. He was a blackmailer. Much is possible. It is far more difficult to think of any motive for Lucius to have killed his mother."
"I’ve searched for one," Oliver admitted. "I’ve found nothing."
"It would be extraordinary if the two murders were not connected," Henry pursued, drawing his brows together. "What elements do they have in common?"
"Treadwell himself, and Miriam Gardiner," Oliver replied, "and the nature of the attacks."
"And the unknown," Henry added. "One must always include the possibility of a factor we have not considered, perhaps something outside our knowledge entirely. From what you have told me so far, it seems this may be the case here. Proceed with logic, eliminate what is impossible, and then examine what is left, no matter how ugly it may be. I have a feeling, Oliver, that this case may stretch your compassion to its limits and require more of you than you had thought to give. I am sorry. I appreciate that this is not easy for you, especially considering Hester’s involvement in it."
"Her involvement makes no difference!" As soon as the words were on his lips he knew that they were untrue, and quite certainly that Henry knew it also, but it was difficult to withdraw them.
Henry shook his head so minutely it was barely a movement at all.
"It makes no difference to the issues," Oliver amended. What he really meant—the aloneness, the knowledge of having held something precious and having let it slip through his fingers because he would not commit his passions fully enough, the regret—was all there between them, unsaid. Henry knew him well enough that truth was not necessary and lies were not only impossible but damaging. Henry understood as well as he did that Hester made all the difference in the world to the way he felt about it, to know he would continue to fight regardless of what he himself might lose in reputation, self-esteem or money.
Henry was smiling. Oliver knew in that moment that he approved. Much as he revered the law himself, and understood the dedication of a man to his chosen field, to his principles that superseded any individual, he also understood that to do all these things without caring was a kind of death to the heart. He would rather Oliver fought because he cared, and lost, than won with all the rewards but without belief.
They sat in silence for another half hour or so, then Oliver rose and took his leave. Henry strolled with him down the lawn in the darkness, heavy with the scent of wet grass, to look at the moonlight reflected on the leaves in the orchard, then walked back up again towards the road.
It did not need to be said that tomorrow Oliver must begin to prepare a sensible case to defend his clients and to look for whatever alternative was so hideous Miriam Gardiner would rather hang than have it revealed.
And if Oliver found it, where did his loyalty lie then? To Miriam or to the truth?
But after they had parted and Oliver walked towards the main thoroughfare he felt a strength restored inside him, a balance returned. He had faced certain lies and no longer allowed them to govern him.
10
FIVE WEEKS LATER, Cleo Anderson and Miriam Gardiner sat in the dock accused of conspiracy and murder. The courtroom was packed to suffocation, people sitting so close to one another that when they moved in discomfort the sound of fabrics rubbing together was audible. The shuffling and squeaking of boots were broken by a cough and the occasional murmur.
When the business of calling to order, reading the charge and pleadings had been accomplished, Robert Tobias opened for the prosecution. He was a man Rathbone had faced several times before and to whom he had lost as often as he had won. Tobias was of a fraction less than average height, slender in his youth, and now, at sixty, still supple and straight-backed. He had never been handsome, strictly speaking, but his intelligence and the power and beauty of his voice made him remarkable—and both intimidating and attractive. More than one society lady had begun by flirting with him for her own entertainment and ended by caring for him more than she wished to, eventually being hurt. He was a widower who intended to retain his freedom to do as he chose.