The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [116]
“Indeed it may,” Rathbone agreed, moving away from the table. “Thank you, Father. At last we have another avenue to explore. That is, if Monk has not already done it and found it empty. But he said nothing.”
“Are you sure you cannot see Hester?” Callandra asked quickly.
“Yes I am sure, but I shall be in court, of course, and I may be permitted a few moments then.”
“Please …” Callandra was very pale. Suddenly all the emotion they had been trying so hard to smother beneath practical action, intelligence and self-control poured into the silence in the warm, unfamiliar room, with its anonymous furnishings and smell of polish.
Rathbone stared at Callandra, then at his father. The understanding between them was complete; all the fear, the affection, the knowledge of loss hanging over them, the helplessness were too clear to need words.
“Of course I’ll tell her,” Rathbone said quietly. “But she knows already.”
“Thank you,” Callandra said.
Henry nodded his head.
The morning of the trial was cold, sharp and threatening rain. Oliver Rathbone walked briskly from the rooms he had taken just off Princes Street, up the steps of the mound towards the castle, then up Bank Street and sharp left onto the High Street. Almost immediately he was faced with the great Cathedral of St. Giles, half hiding Parliament Square, on the farther side of which was Parliament House, unused now since the Act of Union, and the High Court of Justiciary.
He crossed the square. No one knew or recognized him. He passed newspaper sellers not only pressing their news of today but promising all sorts of scandal and revelation for the next issue. The murderess of Mary Farraline was on trial. Read all about it. Learn the secrets known only to a few. Incredible stories for the price of a penny.
He walked past them impatiently. He had heard all these things before, but they had not hurt when it was only a client. It was to be expected and brushed aside. When it was Hester it had a power to wound in quite a new way.
He went up the steps, and even there, amid the black-gowned barristers, he was unknown. It was surprisingly disorienting. He was accustomed to recognition, even considerable respect, to younger men moving aside for him in deference, muttering to each other of his past successes, hoping to emulate them one day.
Here he was merely another spectator, albeit one who might sit near the front and occasionally pass a note to the counsel for the defense.
He had already made arrangements and obtained permission to see Hester for a few moments before court was in session. The stated time had been precise. He preceded it by two minutes exactly.
“Good morning, Mr. Rathbone,” the clerk said stiffly. “If you will come this way, sir, I’ll see if you can speak with the accused for a moment.” And without waiting to see if Rathbone agreed, he turned and led the way down the narrow, steep steps to the cells where prisoners were held before trial—or after, awaiting transport to a more permanent place of incarceration.
He found Hester standing white-faced inside the small cell. She was dressed in her usual plain blue-gray which she used for working and she looked severe. The ordeal had told on her health. She had never been softly rounded, but now she was considerably thinner and her shoulders looked stiff and fragile and there were hollows in her cheeks and around her eyes. He imagined this was how she must have looked during the worst days of the war, hungry, cold, worked to exhaustion and racked with fear and pity.
For a second, less than a second, a spark of hope lit in her eyes, then sight of his face made sense prevail. There would be no reprieve now. She was embarrassed that he should have seen such foolishness in her face.
“G-good morning, Oliver,”