Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [83]
Rathbone found that those assumptions irritated him, and that his respect for the establishment, while deep in the roots of his life—on the surface at least—was becoming a trifle frayed. He despised prejudice, tradition set in rigid minds and no more than habit.
He had also accepted the case in part because he liked the challenge. There was an excitement in stretching himself to the full, and a danger. What if he were not equal to it? What if he failed to secure justice and an innocent man or woman was hanged because he had not been clever enough, brave enough, or imaginative, articulate, persuasive?
Or a guilty man were to be freed? Perhaps to kill again, at the best to profit from his crime and show to others that the law was not capable of protecting his victims?
But even without these he knew he would have accepted it because Hester was involved. She had not said so, but he had seen in her face that she cared for Merrit, might even find something of herself in her, as she might have been at sixteen; wayward, idealistic, too much in love to believe ill of the man in whom she had vested so much, too close to her dream to deny it, whatever the cost.
Was that how she had been? He wished he had known her then. Ridiculous how sharp that ache was, even half a year after she had married Monk. In fact, it was sharper now than it had been when she was still single and Rathbone could have asked her to marry him, if he had only realized how much he had wanted it.
When the case reached its conclusion, satisfactorily and a good hour earlier than he had expected, he accepted his client’s thanks and went out into the hot, noisy August street. He hailed the first available hansom that passed him, giving his father’s address in Primrose Hill. He settled back for the long ride and deliberately let his mind slip into idleness. He did not wish to think of Monk or of his new case. Especially he did not wish to think of Hester.
After an agreeable supper of fresh bread, Brussels pâté, a very pleasant red wine, and then hot plum pie with flaky pastry and fresh cream, he sat back in his armchair and looked through the open French windows across the lawn to the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. There was no sound but birds singing, and the faint scratch as Henry Rathbone wiggled a small knife around in the bowl of his pipe, not really achieving anything. He did it out of habit, his mind not on the task, just as he seldom actually smoked the pipe. He filled it, tamped down the tobacco, lit it, and invariably allowed it to go out.
“Well?” he said eventually.
Oliver looked up. “Pardon?”
“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”
It was both comfortable and disturbing to be understood so well. There was no room for evasions, no escape, and no temptation to try.
“Have you read about the murders in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street?” Oliver asked.
Henry knocked out his pipe on the fire surround. “Yes?” he said, looking anxiously at Oliver. “I thought it was supposed to be an American gun buyer. Isn’t it?”
“Almost certainly,” Oliver said ruefully. “Monk has just brought him back here to stand trial.”
“So what does he want from you? He does want something, doesn’t he?”
“Of course.” Occasionally he tried hedging with his father. It never worked, because even if he succeeded in misleading him, he felt so guilty he found himself admitting