has nothing to do with happiness," says Bird, wagging his finger almost humorously. "Lay persons often make the mistake of believing it a legal remedy for the purpose of relieving miserable couples. In fact, divorce frees a good spouse from a wicked one."
The Watsons nod in perfect unison.
"It's not only requisite for one of you to be guilty, you see," Bird tells his client, "but for the other to be guiltless."
"Of adultery, you mean?" asks Harry, frowning. "I assure you—"
"Of all wrongdoing and negligence," the solicitor clarifies, steepling his fingers on the desk. "I very much fear it will be alleged, in this case, that you've been guilty of allowing Mrs. Codrington improper freedoms."
"Are you married, Mr. Bird?" Harry demands.
"I am not, Admiral; I've seen that craft founder in too many storms to ever trust myself to its timbers," says Bird, obviously pleased with his nautical metaphor.
"For fifteen years I've done my best to maintain the domestic peace," Harry growls, "and that meant keeping my wife on rather a long leash. If it's true that she's been ... that she's formed a, a criminal connection, then I can only say that I knew nothing about it."
"Nothing at all?"
"Do you doubt the admiral's word, Mr. Bird?"
"Not at all, madam—"
Acid burns in Harry's oesophagus. What a double-dyed buffoon I've been. "I was preoccupied with work."
"It's just that there's a danger they'll argue remissio injuriae. Meaning that you must have guessed and forgiven her years ago, you see," explains Bird. "In which case the jury will probably consider you to have made your bed, et cetera."
"Forgiveness—" begins the reverend.
"Oh, it's considered very estimable at the bar of Heaven," Bird interrupts with a grin, "but down here, in court, quite the contrary, I'm afraid. It's not so inexcusable if a wife forgives—especially if she has children, and nowhere else to go—but a husband..." He shakes his head.
"I assure you, Mr. Bird, I was unaware that there was anything to forgive," says Harry, his voice tight as a rope. "I believed my wife to be flawed, yes, but not ... I was labouring under the misapprehension that she wasn't a passionate person." They're all staring at him now. Of course Helen's a passionate person, given to whimsical notions and impetuous demands. But how, especially in mixed company, can he explain his long-held view that, after two babies, all her yearnings were ... north of the equator?
Bird nods kindly. "And our counsel will portray you as a loving husband who, though noticing certain signs of lightness in his wife, refused to believe the worst until the occasion of the unanswered telegram."
The Unanswered Telegram: it sounds like a ghost story from one of the popular magazines. "If you knew her..." Harry's head is in his hands. "She's still such a girl; always striking some arch pose from one of her yellow-jacketed French novels. Once, after a chance meeting at a party, she talked a lot of rodomontade about the Prince of Wales being infatuated with her, do you remember, Mrs. Watson?"
She nods, her face puckered.
"Early on, I formed a policy of discounting at least half of what Helen said. We've led such separate lives..."
"Ah, but that smacks of negligence," says Bird, holding up one finger in warning.
"Would it help if the admiral now began laying down the law in earnest, at home?" asks Mrs. Watson. "Enquiring into or forbidding her excursions?"
Bird smiles. "Paradoxically, that would make it impossible for—what's the agent's name?"
"Crocker," she supplies.
"Crocker, yes, to collect any evidence. No, your dilemma," turning to Harry, "is that of a policeman who notices a dubious character loitering in an alley. Should you chase him off, thus preventing a crime, or linger silently till the ruffian breaks a window, which allows you to make an arrest?"
Harry's head is beginning to thump dully.
"No, you must act a subtle role, Admiral," says Bird. "By all means, throw out the odd animadversion on her neglect of you and the children, but do nothing to thwart her meeting her paramour."
None of this sounds real to him: her paramour, a faceless bogey, a slavering silhouette on a magic lantern.
"Restrain your feelings, and remember that in all likelihood there's no virtue in her left to save."
Harry swallows. "How long will all this drag on?"
"That depends on what Crocker can gather here, and what my own agents can dig up in Malta," says Bird.
"Strike not till thy sword be sharpened," Mrs. Watson puts in, in biblical tones.
***
His faith is little comfort to Harry, these days. He