“Wait a moment,” he told the cabby. “He may be out. I’ll be right back to tell you.” He turned and strode up the path, now in a hurry as if every second counted. He banged on the door, and thirty seconds later banged again.

There was no answer. His heart sank with a ridiculous, overwhelming disappointment. He was angry with himself for behaving like a child. He stepped back, and the door opened. Henry Rathbone looked grubby and disheveled, a gardening fork in his hand. He was taller than Oliver, lean and just a trifle stooped. His gray hair was sparse and windblown, his blue eyes mild.

“You look terrible,” he observed, looking Oliver up and down. “You’d better come in. But pay the cabby first.”

Oliver had already forgotten the cab. He strode back, paid the man, and thanked him, then went back to the door and into the house.

“Where’s whatshisname?” he asked. He could never remember his father’s manservant’s name.

“Saturday afternoon,” Henry Rathbone replied. “Poor man has to have some time to himself. He’s got a grandson somewhere. Go and put the kettle on the cooktop while I wash my hands and put my tools away. Then you can tell me what’s happened. I presume it is something to do with your father-in-law’s case? Quarter of London is talking about it.” He rarely exaggerated.

Oliver obeyed. Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the large, old armchairs on either side of the fire in the familiar sitting room with its watercolors on the wall and its shelves upon shelves of books. The tea was poured, but still too hot to drink, although its steamy fragrance filled the air. There were also several slices of fruitcake on a plate. It was rich and inviting, even if Oliver had thought he might never feel hungry again.

“What is your dilemma?” Henry asked.

“I don’t know that I have one,” Oliver replied. “I can see only one acceptable choice, but I hate it. I suppose …” He stopped, uncertain what it was he wanted to say.

Henry took one of the slices of cake and began to eat it, waiting.

Oliver started to sip his tea, trying not to scald himself.

Several minutes passed in silence, comfortable but still needing to be filled with words to frame the burden.

“You are required to do something repugnant to you,” Henry said at last. “If you are certain Ballinger is innocent, then probably you need to show some evidence that someone else is guilty. Rupert Cardew? Is it Lord Cardew you are so loath to see suffer?”

“I can’t do that,” Oliver replied. “The evidence is flawed, very badly flawed. Winchester would demolish it, and leave Ballinger looking even worse.”

“And you are afraid that Ballinger is guilty? If not of killing Parfitt, then at least of something, presumably of financing this boat—or worse, of using Parfitt for the blackmail?”