“Not guilty,” the foreman said with perfect confidence. He even looked up at Dinah in the dock and smiled, a gentle look of both pity and relief, and something that could have been admiration.
Rathbone asked permission to speak to Pendock in chambers, privately, and he walked out of the court before anyone else could catch his attention. He did not even look at Hester, Monk, or Runcorn, all waiting.
He found Pendock alone in his chambers, white-faced.
“What now?” the judge asked, his voice hoarse and shaking in spite of his attempt to remain calm.
“I have something that should belong to you,” Rathbone answered. “I don’t wish to carry it around, but if you come to my house at some time of your convenience, you may do with it, and all copies of it, whatever you please. I would suggest acid for the original, and a fire for the copies, which are merely paper. I … I regret having used them to obtain justice.”
“I regret that you had to,” Pendock replied. “You did not create the truth; you merely used it. I shall be retiring from the bench. I imagine after this victory, you may well be offered it. For reasons that must be obvious, I shall not mention our arrangement. You may believe me, or not, but I truly thought I was serving my country in attempting to prevent you from frightening the general public from using the only medicine easily available to them. I thought Lambourn was a foolish man wishing to curtail the freedom of ordinary people seeking some respite from the worst of their afflictions, perhaps even a man attempting to keep the sale of opium in the hands of a very few, of whom I was told he might be one. God forgive me.”
“I know,” Rathbone answered softly. “It was very believable. Our record of the use and abuse of opium, the smuggling and the crime already attached to it, are damnable. Alvar Doulting is only one of its victims, Joel Lambourn another, Zenia Gadney a third. We must become far wiser in the treatment of pain, of every sort. This is a warning we ignore at our peril.”
“You will make a good judge,” Pendock said, biting his lip, his face pale and tight with regret.
“Maybe,” Rathbone answered. “I imagine it is a great deal more difficult than it looks from the floor of the courtroom, where your loyalties are defined for you.”
“Indeed,” Pendock answered. “I have found nothing harder in life than to be certain of my loyalties. I am sure in my head; it is my heart that ruins it all.”
Rathbone thought of Margaret. “It always does. It would be easier not to love,” he agreed.
“And become the walking dead? Is that what you want?” Pendock asked.
“No.” Rathbone had no hesitation. “No, it isn’t. Good luck, sir.” He went out without looking backward, leaving Pendock to his thoughts.
Outside in the hall he almost bumped into Monk.
Monk looked at him with intense concern.
Rathbone wanted to affect indifference, but the warmth in Monk’s eyes made it impossible. He stood still, waiting for Monk to speak first.
“You used them, didn’t you?” Monk asked. “Ballinger’s photographs.”
Rathbone thought of lying, but discarded the idea. “Yes. This was too big, too monstrous to think only of my own peace of mind.” He searched Monk’s face now, afraid of what he would see.
Monk smiled. “So would I … I think,” he said quietly. “The burden is heavy either way.”