AFTER THE COURT WAS adjourned, Rathbone spread out on his dining room table all the documents he had regarding the trial of Habib Beshara. It was the best way he could think of to help Brancaster. They were drawing near to the final stage of the battle, and it was far more evenly balanced than he wished. There was a difficult judgment call to make. If they allowed the jury to be complacent, to believe that all was well with the justice system, then they would lose. It was always harder to defy or overturn a verdict than it was to reach one in the first place.
And yet if they used fear, either of the atrocity happening again because the guilty man had gone free, or of an innocent man being convicted and hanged in the future, they might panic the jury, and all its vision and balance would be lost.
That was the trouble: The whole case rested on emotion. Therefore none of the usual rules could be relied on.
Rathbone started reading the transcript of the trial of Habib Beshara, presided over by York. He smiled to himself. Here he was searching for emotional bias in York’s rulings, and he was so emotionally involved himself that he was overcompensating in every direction in order to try to be fair. He should not be the one doing this, but it was his skill, his experience, that was needed.
He understood the law and most of the idiosyncrasies, particularly those that opened either traps or opportunities for men who made their money and their fame in its practice.
Brancaster had to use this all-too-short weekend in order to think of a strategy to keep Pryor from simply closing the case and relying on the jury to return a decision that Sabri was not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
Rathbone had been reading for nearly two hours, unaware of the evening drawing in, when he found the first serious error. York had upheld Camborne’s objection when the grounds were insufficient. Over and over again Camborne had interrupted unnecessarily, played on the emotions of grief, even suggested that failure to convict Beshara was a blasphemy against the memory of the dead. Twice Juniver had argued vehemently and been overruled for questioning York’s decision. He had wisely refrained from trying a third time, but Rathbone could imagine his frustration. Had it been Rathbone in his place, he would have taken it as a warning that he had a deeply unfriendly judge, maybe even a prejudiced one.
Of course, it was always possible that the horror of the case had affected York. The authorities would have made certain that he had no immediate family bereaved by the atrocity, but many people would’ve had friends or neighbors or associates who had lost someone, or knew someone who had lost someone.
Rathbone requested a pot of tea, and read on. Camborne was good: In fact, he was excellent. Not only that, but of course the crowd had been with him, and he had taken advantage of it. The rulings had leaned more and more his way.
Would Rathbone have done that, in his place? If he were honest, he was obliged to admit that he probably would.
Dover brought the tea and Rathbone accepted it gratefully. He had not realized he was so thirsty.
He went back to the transcript and studied it further. Very few of York’s decisions were in favor of the defense. Had Juniver been so often wrong? Had he been so desperate that he’d been grasping at straws that would not bear the weight of his argument?
Or was Camborne simply the better lawyer? The fact that he was actually wrong could not have been known then.
Rathbone reached the end and went back to the beginning again. By that time it was midnight—the clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour. He ignored it. He made notes of every single one of York’s decisions, and slowly a pattern emerged. York had favored the prosecution, and then favored them again to avoid reversing the earlier decision, compounding the error.
Singly, each decision was just about acceptable. Only when viewed cumulatively, and apart from the emotion of the case, did they amount to prejudice.
He finally put the papers away and went to bed at just after two in the morning. He was determined to go to visit Alan Juniver the following morning, regardless of the fact that it was Saturday. They had no time to spare.
JUNIVER WAS STARTLED TO see him. He was sitting in his home glancing at the morning newspapers before preparing to go out for the day with his fiancée’s family.
“I’m sorry,” Rathbone said. “I wouldn’t call now if any other time would do. In fact I am concerned that I may already be too late.”
Juniver looked worried. “It will not be viewed well if I don’t turn up on time,” he said anxiously. “Mr. Barrymore is already of the opinion that I am not the best choice his daughter could make.”
Rathbone smiled ruefully. “I am not in a position to argue that particular case,” he admitted. “If she wishes you at her beck and call for social occasions she might do better with a banker, or a stockbroker in the City. Of course she might then be bored to death, but one has to pick and choose which virtues or advantages one counts most important.” The moment he had said it he could have bitten the words back, but it was too late. Apologizing might only make it worse.
“I suppose it is better he find out now.” Juniver pulled his mouth into a tight line. “I assume this is about the Beshara case? You must normally have something better to do on a fine summer Saturday.”
“I’m sorry,” Rathbone said again. “We resume the trial on Monday, and I don’t know how to stretch it out much further. If I were in Pryor’s place, I’d close as soon as possible, while emotions are high and there’s still reasonable doubt. We’ve no motive yet. It’s a mess …”
“What do you want from me? I didn’t get Beshara off.”
Only in that moment did Rathbone perceive how deeply that still wounded Juniver. It was not his own failure that hurt—no lawyer always won—it was the fact that he now knew his client had been innocent, and was already dead, however long he might or might not have lived otherwise. It was not advisable to use that guilt against Juniver, but done well, it would be effective, and Rathbone dared not lose.
He put his leather attaché case on the floor. “I have the trial transcripts here. I spent a good deal of the night going over them several times. I would like very much to go over them again with you, because there are instances that trouble me. I would like your recollection, in case I am reading errors into them that, had I been present, I would realize were not as they seem.”
Juniver frowned. “I was overruled a lot, but I was pretty desperate, and I knew it. I thought the man was guilty.”
“I think everyone did,” Rathbone conceded.
“You didn’t?”
“I was out of the country. I didn’t have an opinion at all. I’m sorry about your day, but a great deal hangs in the balance. It’s the devil of a lot more than simply proving Sabri guilty.”
“I know. Excuse me while I send a message that I cannot come.”
“Of course. Juniver … I’m sorry!”
Juniver smiled. “I’d do the same … I hope.”
A few minutes later he was back again. They went through the entire transcript, Rathbone making notes where York’s judgments could have gone either way. Some of them were above question, some he had ruled for Juniver anyway, but precious few.
With increasing anxiety, Rathbone asked Juniver about each ruling that was against him. He had him look at the transcript and see if it was absolutely accurate, and if he could to recall anything more about the circumstances.
Juniver’s memory was excellent. Very often he could recite what his objection had been and, word for word, what York had ruled. He also remembered the objections Camborne had made, and almost all of them had been upheld.
“There’s a pattern,” Rathbone said finally, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Taken one by one they all seem reasonable, except the last two. But put together, and including your memory of small remarks not noted, expressions and silences, it amounts to bias, at the very least.”
“It’s only my memory,” Juniver pointed out unhappily. “And when I look at it now, honestly, I didn’t fight as hard as I could have, or would have if I hadn’t believed Beshara was guilty. I’m not proud of that.”
“None of us is proud of our losses,” Rathbone said gently. “Whatever the reason.”
Juniver’s face was pale. “The reason was that I didn’t fight with everything I could think of. I believed he deserved it. He was a nasty man and I disliked him from the beginning. I couldn’t get the vision of those people in the water out of my mind, even though I didn’t see it myself …”
“I imagine the jurors couldn’t either,” Rathbone agreed. “And Beshara may have been involved, on the periphery. The law is the question, and what pressures were brought to bear.” He smiled, but his eyes did not waver from Juniver’s, and it was the younger man who lowered his gaze first.
Juniver breathed in and out slowly. “Are you speaking of York?” he asked.
“Do you know if I’m right?” Rathbone countered. “Or suspect it?”
“Suspect,” Juniver said immediately. Then, quite clearly, he regretted having not been more evasive. “At least … I wondered. It may have been no more than an emotional revulsion to the crime. It would be natural to be outraged. In fact, how could you not be?”
“We are all offended by crime,” Rathbone answered. “Some more than others, of course. Violence is frightening; extreme violence is extremely frightening. We appoint judges because we believe they have the strength and the wisdom to separate their personal fears or weaknesses from the facts of the case. Lawyers who prosecute or defend are allowed to be as passionate as they wish. Judges are not … as I know, to my cost.” He saw Juniver’s face and immediately wondered if he had been wise to make the remark. Perhaps he had temporarily forgotten Rathbone’s fall from grace. It could have been profoundly inopportune to remind him.
“We are all vulnerable,” Juniver replied, lowering his eyes. “We want justice as we see it. We want to be heroes. We want to be on the side of right. And a good few of us want to climb on up the ladder as well …” He stopped. Then he added as if it were an afterthought, “And some of us want to earn favors of certain people.”
That was what he had been meaning to say. Rathbone knew it as surely as if he had spoken of nothing else. He did not need to ask if he were referring to York. What did York want? To rise to the Supreme Court or the House of Lords? Not lord chief justice, surely? He had neither the brilliance nor the reputation among his peers for that.
Rathbone looked at Juniver again. Had the Beshara case really been big enough to build a reputation from which to reach for that? Or was York deluding himself? Perhaps Rathbone should have read more of the newspapers from the time of the sinking; then he would have understood the mood better.
“Is York in line for the next high office vacant?” he asked Juniver. Answers winged through his mind: York as lord chief justice, smiling under his white wig, nodding as he spoke with the prime minister, bowing before the queen. He saw Beata behind him, watching. Even if she just affected to be proud to be his wife, his heart ached for her. If she really was proud, because she had no idea the price York had paid for the honor, Rathbone was hurt as if with a raw wound. And if she knew the price, and did not care, then the pain within him was intolerable.
Had his tragedy with Margaret so warped his belief in people, and in his own judgment, that he trusted nothing anymore? He should not allow her to do that to him! No, that was not strictly fair: He was doing it to himself. Blaming others was what had driven them apart, the refusal to accept the truth because it hurt.
He forced himself back to the issue.
“It began as minor error,” he said to Juniver. “But it looks to me as if he compounded it until it moved into the realm of something that would be cause for reversal in an ordinary trial for theft or assault. No one is going to reverse Beshara’s conviction, because of the horror of the crime. York will have known that, as will Camborne. But is there anything here, looking at it now with the knowledge that Beshara was innocent, that could be viewed as corruption?”
Juniver’s eyes widened. “You’d accuse York of corruption?”
“If there are grounds,” Rathbone replied. “Wouldn’t you?” Then instantly he changed his mind. He had been willfully insensitive. “If it is necessary, I will. I have nothing to lose anyway, and more chance of presenting it successfully. If it came to that.”
“Bring down York?” Juniver said in little more than a whisper. “Because of the Beshara trial?” There was more than doubt in his voice; there was the weight of all he must know about Rathbone’s own trial over which York had presided, and he might even guess what else lay between them.
“Do you think I should ignore it?” Rathbone asked quietly. He did not mean it, or like the sound of it on his lips. “Or give the information to someone else to use? Would you like it?”
“I should have done it at the time of Beshara’s trial,” Juniver replied unhappily. “I should have gone over it all, and I should have appealed then. Not that I imagine it would have done much good.” He bit his lip. “But it wasn’t fear for myself that stopped me, I swear. I thought the man was guilty, and the sooner they hanged him the better.”
“And now?”
“I’ll help you prepare an exact statement of the facts, all York’s rulings on the Beshara case. If they amount to corruption, I’ll do whatever I can to help you bring it to the right attention. A corrupt judge damages every person in England.”
RATHBONE THOUGHT ABOUT IT all the rest of the day after he got home, and for far too much of the night. When he and Juniver had assembled all their notes and references, there was no doubt left. York’s bias had come through in his rulings, and then his summing up. It had probably not been noticed by anyone else because the heat of emotion had been so high, and a conclusion was greeted with a wave of relief.
Rathbone turned it over and over in his mind, rereading the conclusions that he and Juniver had reached. The answer was inescapable. Either he must have Brancaster raise the issue in court, with reference to Beshara’s conviction, which so closely reflected on the trial of Sabri, or he must face York with it himself.
Both possibilities were extremely unpleasant, but also unavoidable. What was the right thing to do? His first instinct was to ask Henry’s advice, then he realized how feeble that was, how selfish. Of course Henry would give his counsel. He would do it gently. But would he not also wonder when Oliver was going to become adult enough to trust his own judgment and carry his own responsibility? He had always done so professionally, on occasions with too much self-assurance. But on the moral questions, and those of deep emotion and the possibility of hurt, he had sought strength from Henry.
During their tour of Europe and the Near East they had been as equals. Oliver had tried very hard to carry extra luggage, and take care of details to relieve his father of the necessity, but he had done it so carefully it had not shown. At least he thought it had not!
Now he should make the decision about facing York without expecting anyone else to examine the details with him, or bear the brunt afterward for whatever pain it caused.
Facing York would be excruciating. But it was a lot less dishonorable than reporting him behind his back. He must do it, prepare exactly what facts he would cite, with the proof, and do it this evening. The trial of Gamal Sabri continued tomorrow morning.
He had not even weighed up what might be York’s reasons for his bias. It could be as simple as revulsion at the crime. Anyone would understand that.
But there was also the far darker possibility that someone had brought pressure to bear on him, threats or promises, to protect their own interests. Or worse even than that, to hide their guilt.
He took a hansom to York’s house. There was no way to determine in advance whether he would be at home or not. Traveling at a fast clip through the darkening streets, the summer evenings already significantly drawing in, he half wished he would find York out and not expected back within hours.
And yet it was like going to have a tooth pulled. If it was infected it would have to be taken. Better to get it done without delay.
He alighted at the end of the block where York’s house was, and paid the driver. He would look for another cab in which to return. He had no idea how long it would be. He might even be refused at the door!
Would it really be so ugly a meeting?
Yes. Yes, of course it would.
He turned and walked up the short path to York’s front step, and before he could let thought weaken him, he grasped the bellpull.
The door was answered within a few moments.
“Good evening, sir,” the footman said courteously, his blank face inviting some explanation.
Rathbone put his card on the silver tray that the man held out.
“Oliver Rathbone.” He did not give his title. “I apologize for calling without previous arrangement, and at such an hour, but it concerns business taking place tomorrow, and therefore it cannot wait.”
The footman blinked. “If you will come inside, Sir Oliver, I will see if Sir Ingram can see you. May I tell him what manner of business it is?”
“It concerns a trial that is of national importance,” Rathbone replied, following the man into the vestibule and then the hall. The evening was too warm for him to have worn a coat, but the footman took his hat.
“Would you care to wait in the morning room, sir?” the footman asked.
Rathbone smiled. “I would prefer to wait here, thank you.”
The footman did not argue but disappeared toward the withdrawing room, closing the door behind him. He returned a few moments later and showed Rathbone in.
York was sitting in the large armchair nearest the fireplace. He was possibly a little heavier than when Rathbone had last seen him, but his white hair was as gleaming and as thick. His complexion was flushed as if even the expectation of seeing Rathbone irritated him.
Rathbone glanced at Beata, who was on the sofa to his right. Not to have acknowledged her would have been appallingly rude. When he did, he felt a jolt of electricity. She was more than beautiful. There was a passion for life in her face, laughter, and tenderness. He looked away quickly, even before he spoke, afraid his own eyes would give him away.
“Good evening, Mrs. York. I am sorry to intrude—”
“What is it you want, Rathbone?” York interrupted. “If you’ve come to plead with me for some leniency on your bar from practice of the law, don’t embarrass yourself. I have neither the power nor the will to do anything of the sort. Your punishment was deserved. For God’s sake stop whining and take it like a man!”
“Ingram!” Beata said sharply, horrified at his bluntness. She turned to Rathbone, but before she could speak, York cut across her.
“Beata! This is not your concern. Your compassion speaks well for you, but please do not interfere. You can only make it worse.” He looked at Rathbone again, leaning forward a little in the big chair. “I am quite aware of the current, farcical trial of Gamal Sabri, for a crime of which Habib Beshara is already convicted. I am also aware of your part in it, and I can imagine the desperation you must feel that you can only sit silently and watch it crumble. Were your friend William Monk not such an ambitious fool, you would not be placed in such elegant torture. But there is nothing whatever that I could, or should do about it. Now please leave my house without giving me the necessity of calling extra staff to remove you by force. Good night, sir.”
This was the moment. Oddly enough, Rathbone did not feel a surge of anger boil up inside him; it was rather more pity, a regret that this could not be avoided, only pointlessly delayed.
“You are perfectly correct, sir,” he said quietly. “It is a deserved punishment. Those who transgress the law must be removed from the practice of it, in the interests of us all.” He moved his attaché case a little farther into view.
“Then why the devil are you intruding on my evening, and into my home?” York demanded.
“Would you not prefer to discuss this in private, sir?” Rathbone asked.
“No, I would not! If you want to make a fool of yourself in my home, then you will do it in front of my wife!” York retorted.
There was no escape.
Rathbone remained standing.
“I have studied the transcripts of Beshara’s trial very carefully, and with legal colleagues, in case I should misinterpret anything in them,” he began. “I have studied your rulings and your summation.”
“For what purpose?” York snapped.
“To see if there are any grounds for reversal …”
York started to his feet, his left hand grasping for the cane that leaned against his chair.
Beata rose also, her face creased with anxiety. “Ingram!”
“Don’t you dare protect him!” he snarled, then swung back to face Rathbone. “I know you want to make a spectacle of yourself, one way or another, but this is beyond disgraceful! You dare to question the rulings of one of Her Majesty’s judges, and a verdict that every sane man in England knows was fair and true?”
“Yes, I do,” Rathbone answered him. “Some of your rulings were arbitrary and in error. At least two of them seriously so, and—had the case not been so deeply emotional and the verdict desperately desired—they would have been questioned at the time. Your summation was biased to the point of, politely, serious error; less politely, corruption.”
York lurched fully to his feet. At first he leaned his weight on his cane, and then, ashen-faced, he raised it in the air.
“How dare you, of all people, question the law?” His voice was raised and shrill. “You took the law into your own hands and smashed it to pieces when you were on the bench. I backed you! I recommended you, and you thanked me by perverting the course of justice, blackmailing a witness with obscene photographs and very justly getting yourself disbarred. And now you come into my home, under false pretenses, and in front of my wife you accuse me of corruption in a case you weren’t even in the country to see.”
“And I paid for my mistake,” Rathbone kept his voice level. “I am no longer practicing law. I am doing no more than giving Brancaster my advice …”
York gave a loud, derisive laugh. “The more fool he!”
“Your rulings were biased in favor of the prosecution against Habib Beshara,” Rathbone continued. “The case is going to be overturned …”
“The hell it is!” York shouted, his face twisted with rage, spittle on his lips. “The man was as guilty as sin. If Sabri is guilty too, then they were in it together.” His knuckles were white where he clutched the cane. His whole body shook.
“Ingram …” Beata tried again, moving a step toward him.
“Be quiet!” he said furiously, brushing her aside so hard he actually knocked her off balance. Only her closeness to the side of the armchair saved her from falling.
Suddenly the tone in the room changed. Rathbone struggled to regain control of the situation, and then he saw York’s eyes and knew he had already failed.
“Beshara is dead, as he needed to be,” York went on. “If you can hang Sabri as well, so be it. But you will not question my rulings or my conduct of one of the most important cases in British jurisprudence. It was my last great case, and I will not have a disbarred hack like you smear my legacy with your pathetic whining. Do you hear me?”
His voice was so loud they must have heard him in the kitchens.
“Only one man laid the dynamite on the Princess Mary, then lit the fuse and jumped overboard,” Rathbone said as levelly as he could, but his voice was shaking. “Your ruling said it was Beshara, and he is dead. It was not Beshara, it was Gamal Sabri, and he is very much alive. We cannot convict two men of the same, single act. And apart from that, Beshara may be guilty of many things, but he was not guilty of this.”
York lifted his cane and raised it to the side of him.
Beata jerked backward.
“Don’t you dare tell me how to judge the law, you prancing jackass!” York shouted. “You are disbarred!” He swung the cane through the air with a sharp hiss of sound. “You are a suborner of perjury!” He swung the cane again. “A dealer in filthy pictures, a blackmailer … a lecher!”
“Ingram!” Beata shouted at him. “Stop it! That is untrue!”
York ignored her. He was moving toward Rathbone now, his cane lifted in the air. His face was scarlet. “I’ve seen you looking at my wife! Sniffing around her like a dog …” He lashed out with the cane, swinging it sideways until it struck Rathbone across the shoulder and sent him crashing to the floor with the force of the blow.
York took another step forward, his cane raised to strike again.
Beata picked up the coffeepot off the side table and smashed it over the back of his head. He stood swaying for a moment as coffee and blood trickled down his face and over his shoulders. Then he crumpled up and pitched forward to collapse on the floor in front of the couch.
Rathbone climbed to his feet, bruised, feeling shocked and ridiculous, but above all concerned for Beata.
She was shuddering, her face ashen, her eyes wide.
“I’m so sorry,” she said huskily. “I—I think he has lost his mind. I must call his valet … and the doctor. Are you … hurt?” She looked stricken.
He took a deep breath. His well-being, and York’s mistakes in the Beshara case, seemed insignificant now. This was the end of Beata’s life in the way she knew it. It had to be a disastrous end to her husband’s career.
The thoughts raced in Rathbone’s mind.
“Yes,” he agreed. “You must call the doctor immediately. There has been a most unfortunate accident and I fear Mr. York may have had some kind of seizure.”
“He attacked you …” There were tears in her eyes; he thought they were of shame.
“Not as I remember it,” he replied. “He stumbled and fell backward, grasping the cane to save himself, and regrettably caught me with the end of it as I lunged forward to help him. May I stay with you until you have assistance? Perhaps you should sit down and I will fetch the butler …”
She straightened her shoulders. “I will fetch him, thank you, Oliver. As … as you say, my husband is ill. I think perhaps he has been so for some time, and I did not realize how serious it was.”
“Exactly,” he agreed.
The butler was at the door. He must have heard the crash of York’s fall. He regarded his master, who was still senseless on the floor, with some pity, but his concern was for Beata.
“I shall send Duggan for Dr. Melrose, ma’am,” he told her. “Immediately. Perhaps, Sir Oliver, you would be good enough to remain here until we can get the appropriate assistance, and give Mrs. York what comfort you can? I don’t believe we shall be able to resume … things as they were.”
York was still lying insensible on the floor, coffee and blood on his head and face, spittle on his lips.
Rathbone said nothing, but bent to straighten out the fallen man’s legs, before guiding Beata to one of the other chairs. Then he sat in silence opposite her until the servants returned.