Execution Dock Page 0,68

lately, that was it.

In the sitting room French doors were open on to a lawn sloping down towards an orchard in full leaf, the blossom long finished. Henry Rathbone himself was walking up the grass towards the house. He was a tall, lean man, very slightly stooped. He had a mild, pointy face and blue eyes that combined both a burning intelligence and a kind of innocence, as if he would never really understand the pettier, grubbier things of life.

"Oliver!" he said with evident pleasure, increasing his pace. "How very nice to see you! What interesting problem brings you here?"

Oliver felt a sharp jolt of guilt. It was not always comfortable to be known so very well. He drew breath to deny that it was a problem that brought him, and then realized just in time how foolish that would be.

Henry smiled and came in through the doors. "Have you had supper?"

"No, not yet."

"Good. Then let us dine together. Toast, Brussels sprouts, pate, and I have a rather good Medoc. Then apple pie and clotted cream," Henry suggested. "And perhaps a spot of decent cheese, if you feel like it?"

"It sounds perfect." Oliver felt some of the tension slip away. This was probably the best companionship he had ever known: gentle, without manipulation, and also totally honest. There were no lies, either intellectual or emotional. Over the meal he would be able to explain, primarily to himself, the exact nature of his unease.

Henry spoke with his manservant, then he and Oliver walked the length of the garden to the orchard at the end, and watched the light deepen in color as the sky began to burn and fade in the west. The perfume of the honeysuckle became stronger. There was no sound but the humming of insects and in the distance a child calling out to a dog.

They ate in the sitting room with the food on a small table between them, the French doors still open to the evening air.

"So what is it that disturbs you-the case?" Henry prompted, reaching for a second slice of crisp, brown toast.

Oliver had avoided mentioning it. In fact, he could even have let it slide altogether and simply absorbed the peace of the evening. But that was cowardly, and a solution that would evaporate in a few hours. Eventually he would have to go home again, and, in the morning, back to the law.

It was difficult to explain, and as always, it must be done as if it were all merely hypothetical. As he tried to frame it in his mind, he became aware that much of the pain he felt was due to the fact that Monk and Hester were involved, and it was their opinion of him, their friendship and the damage to it, that hurt.

"It concerns a case," he began. "An attorney, to whom I owe certain duties and obligations, told me that a client of his wished to pay for the defense of a man accused of a particularly appalling crime. He said that he feared that the nature of the offense, and the man's occupation and reputed character, might make it impossible for him to receive a fair trial. He would need the best possible representation if justice were to be served. He asked me, as a favor to him, to defend this man."

Henry looked at him steadily. Oliver found the innocence of his gaze unnerving, but he was too experienced an interrogator himself to be maneuvered into speaking before he was ready to.

Henry smiled. "If you would prefer not to discuss it, please don't feel pressured to do so."

Oliver started to protest, then changed his mind. He had been wrong-footed so easily, and it was because he did feel somehow guilty, although he did not know of what.

"I accepted," he said aloud. "Obviously, or I would have no problem."

"Wouldn't you?" Henry asked. "Surely you would then have denied a friend, to whom you owed something. Or at least you felt as if you did. What had this accused man been charged with doing?"

"Killing a child."

"Deliberately?"

"Very. He tortured him first."

"Allegedly?"

"I am almost certain that he did. In my own mind I have no doubt."

"At the time you took the case?" There was no judgment in Henry's voice.

Oliver stopped for a moment, trying to remember how he had felt when Ballinger had first asked him and he had reviewed the facts.

Henry waited in silence.

"My reasoning was sophistry," Oliver admitted unhappily. "I thought he was very probably guilty, but that