Execution Dock - Anne Perry [122]
“Poor soul?” Rathbone questioned, wondering if there were something he should have known.
Margaret smiled. “Our hostess made a financially suitable marriage, and is more than a little out of her depth within ‘trade,’ instead of aristocracy,” she explained. “But if one wishes to, one can learn.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
For the first time in several days, she laughed outright. “You look concerned, Oliver. Do you regard yourself as trade? I had not seen myself as impoverished. And I certainly did not marry you for money I refused wealthier men than you. I thought you might be interesting.”
He let out his breath slowly, feeling a certain warmth rise up his cheeks. This was the woman he had fallen in love with. “I am professional,” he replied with mock tartness. “Which is nothing at all like trade. But it is still a considerable advantage to have a well-bred wife, even if she does have rather more wit and spirit than is entirely comfortable.”
She gripped his arm for a moment, then eased away. “It is not good for you to be comfortable all the time,” she told him. “You become complacent, and that is most unattractive. Perhaps you had better find whoever it is you wish to see.”
He sighed. “Perhaps I had,” he conceded, the misery swelling inside him again, making it hard to draw his breath.
It was not difficult to encounter Sullivan without it seeming forced, but Rathbone could feel his heart pounding; it was hard to get his breath, and when he spoke, to keep his voice steady. What would he do if Sullivan simply refused to see him alone? Rathbone must phrase it so that he had no suspicion. Or does a guilty man always suspect?
They were separated from the next group by a yard or two, and Sullivan had his back to an alcove full of books and objets d'art.
“Ah! Nice to see you, Rathbone,” he said warmly. “Still celebrating your victory, I imagine? You achieved what I would have thought was damned near impossible.”
Rathbone hid his feelings about his own part in the trial, which were growing more and more repugnant to him all the time. “Thank you,” he accepted, since to do anything less would be discourteous, and he had to be civil at least until he could find a time and place to speak to Sullivan alone. He was used to seeing him in his wig and robes, and at a distance of several yards, from the floor of the court up to the judicial bench. Closer he was still a handsome man, but the features were a little less clearly defined, the skin blotchier, as if his health were compromised, perhaps by self-indulgence, and the resultant dyspepsia. “It proved less difficult than I foresaw,” he added, since Sullivan seemed to be waiting for him to say something further.
“River Police dug their own graves,” Sullivan replied grimly. “Both Durban and Monk. I think their power needs curbing. Maybe the newspapers are right, and it's time they were dispersed and command given entirely to the local stations on shore. Too much a law unto themselves at the moment.”
Rathbone choked back his protest. He could not afford to antagonize Sullivan yet, and he would learn nothing if he put him on the defensive.
“Do you think so?” he asked, assuming an air of interest. “It seems they have a particular knowledge, and I must say, up to this point, an excellent record.”
“Up to this point,” Sullivan agreed. “But by all accounts, Durban was not as clever or as honorable as we had assumed, and this new man, Monk, has followed too much in his footsteps. You have only to look at the Phillips case to see that he is not up to the job. Promoted beyond his ability, I dare say.”
“I don't think so,” Rathbone protested.
Sullivan raised his eyebrows. “But my dear fellow, you proved it yourself! The man involved his wife, a good woman no doubt, but sentimental, full of well-meaning but illogical ideas. And he, apparently, fell victim to the same wishful thinking.