“I’m told it was a very complicated case,” she went on. “How on earth do you remember all the details? Do you take a great many notes? When I write in a hurry I can never read it afterward.” She gave a little grimace of self-mockery, and then laughed lightly.
“Neither can I,” he agreed. “I write only a word or two, and hope to remember the rest. I don’t have to make the decisions, thank goodness, only see that the game is fair.”
“Is fair always the same as right, do you think?” she asked with sudden grave interest.
He was caught off guard. It was far more profound a question than he had expected. It demanded an honest answer, not a trivial one. “Perhaps it is my duty to make it so,” he said quietly.
She smiled at him, meeting his eyes, and turned to greet Bertrand Allan and his wife. They had just arrived and were talking to York closer to the door into the hall.
Introductions were made and Rathbone found himself with Mrs. Allan. She was a woman of very ordinary features, a little too thin, but agreeable enough.
“Congratulations, Sir Oliver,” she said courteously. “My husband says that it was an unusually difficult case that he did not expect to win so convincingly. It must take great skill to disentangle all the threads of evidence and summarize them so the jury understands their meaning and weight.”
“Thank you,” he accepted. “Your husband presented his arguments very clearly, which made it a great deal easier for all of us.”
She smiled her acknowledgment. “I dare say you will be pleased to have a change to something a little less complicated for your next case. Or do you enjoy the challenge?” She did not look truly curious, just mildly interested.
He had no idea how to answer. He wished he could go back and speak to Beata York instead, but the moment with her was one that could not be caught again.
“I accept the challenge, as I have to. I have no control over the cases I am given, though,” he replied. “Perhaps that is just as well.”
Dinner was announced and they went into the dining room. This too was exquisite. A long table was set with silver and crystal, which sparkled in the lights. Swaths of pale flowers twined down the center of the table: pear blossom, late narcissus, white hyacinth, every petal perfect. They sent up the faintest of delicate perfumes, a few dark green leaves stark against the white linen.
The carpet was dark blue, the curtains ivory and blue. The walls were ivory with a delicate gold beading at the edges of the panels. Over the mantel was a huge painting of a seascape after the Dutch School, its cool colors complemented by the classic pallor of the walls. On either end of the mantel shelf crystal candlesticks held perfect white candles, unlit, waiting. The house said much about York. It was expensive, of high quality without open ostentation, and made up in the best possible taste. Was that York himself, or Beata? There was an intellectual quality to the décor rather than true warmth, and Rathbone could not equate that with the glimpse of humor he thought he had seen in Beata. But perhaps he had imagined it.
Each of them was shown to his or her place, York at the head of the table, Beata at the foot. Mrs. Allan sat next to Rathbone and Allan himself opposite Rathbone. The table had been set with as much balance as possible, so as not to make Rathbone’s lack of a companion any more obvious than it was already.
The first course was a light vegetable consommé, followed by grilled white fish, and then roast duck with a rich red-wine sauce. The servants came and went with only the occasional murmur, everyone trained to perfection.
York was a gracious host. He spoke to both Rathbone and Allan about the case, complimenting them obliquely by saying how important it was.
“I think fraud is a crime often dealt with far too lightly,” he said, looking from one to the other of them. “Because there is no open violence people think of it as less serious. And I quite see how that can be.” He took a delicate mouthful of the baked fish on his plate, and continued when he had swallowed it. No one interrupted him. “When there is no blood, no bruised or bleeding victim, we feel safer. They can walk away. How serious can it be?”
Rathbone drew in breath to reply, and then let it out again without speaking. He knew York wished to answer the question himself. He glanced across at Beata and saw the amusement in her eyes. The next moment it had vanished, and he was not sure if he had imagined it because it was a reflection of his own feeling.
Allan was nodding, and his wife smiled with satisfaction at the praise he was receiving. It was appropriate that she, too, say nothing.
But York didn’t speak; he was looking at Rathbone. Having watched his face during his remarks, Rathbone was certain he expected more than mere acknowledgment. He wanted a commitment to the same view. He was searching for allies, or perhaps supporters would be more accurate.
“That is the perception of those who are not the victims,” Rathbone said in the silence. “Fraud is just as much a crime of robbery as that done in the street with a knife to the ribs. The physical fear is not the same, but people perhaps forget or discount the sense of shock and betrayal that still occurs in the victims. Those are wounds as well, and I am not sure if the pain of them is so quickly healed. There may be very large amounts of money involved in fraud cases, as much as one’s home is worth. And more than that, there can be a sense of shame in the victims, as if somehow they were foolish not to have seen it earlier, gullible because they did not suspect. They have been made a fool of by the perpetrator. That feeling isn’t present in a street robbery, when someone threatens you with physical harm and you have little choice but to comply.”
York nodded, his face smooth with satisfaction. “Exactly. It is quiet, but it is a deadly sin. Just because the wounds are not easily visible does not mean you cannot bleed to death from them. You have put it very well. With your permission, I would like to use your words when I next address the Law Society.”
It was a question, in a roundabout way, but not one to which no was a possible answer. It would be professional self-injury of a remarkably clumsy kind to refuse, as York was perfectly aware.
Rathbone forced himself to smile. “Of course,” he agreed. “I think you had exactly the same thought yourself, sir.” He lowered his eyes to his plate, but not before he’d stolen a glance at Beata.
Her brows were slightly puckered, her generous mouth pulled a little tight. She knew exactly what her husband had just done, and she did not approve of it. Or was that merely what Rathbone wanted to believe? He must stop thinking about her! He needed to clear his mind and pay total attention to the conversation, or he would make more stupid errors and lose the game. And it was a contested game, a match of wits; he should make no mistake about that. Success was the prize, visible success as seen and understood by others.
He was suddenly aware Margaret had accused him of seeking exactly that: professional fame and success before love and loyalty to family.
Was he like that? Was that the reason he was sitting here in this beautiful house with Ingram York? Was he like Bertrand Allan, who was clearly an ambitious lawyer looking for the next opportunity to climb another step?
Allan was talking eagerly to York again. Rathbone watched him, watched the flicker of his eyes and the moments of hesitation and tried to remember himself ten years ago. Had he been as easy to read? Or was it only that, having been through it himself, he could now understand Allan? Maybe then York, by token, could read both of them with ease.
He turned to Mary Allan, discreetly searching her face. She was watching her husband with admiration in her eyes. Was that emotional or intellectual? Did she understand the nuances as Allan commented on other cases and his views of certain judgments and York agreed with him? Was any of it completely honest? Possibly Allan was expressing what he believed, but he definitely selected to please.