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amateur, but it’s really very pleasing. Found it in an antique shop the other day.”
    The painting was small, as he had said, but the colors were beautiful. The artist had used the paper in true watercolor style, allowing it to show through and give the whole picture light. The wind-whipped sea seemed almost luminous.
    Oliver wanted to ask Henry his opinion about Ballinger’s photographs, and if he should destroy them. Or if perhaps the information they held was too valuable to be allowed to disappear. Once obliterated, their power could never be used for evil or for good. There was also the question of whether one should destroy evidence of a crime, which the photographs most certainly were. It was hard to find the words to sort through the tangled situation.
    “It’s quite lovely,” he said instead, looking at the little painting. “I think he could well become professional, don’t you?”
    Henry smiled. “Actually it’s a ‘she,’ so I doubt it. But I’m delighted you like it. I’ll have it framed, I think. Now, what kind of cake would you like with tea?”
    “Fruitcake, thank you,” Oliver replied, knowing it was also Henry’s favorite.
    Henry looked up and caught Oliver’s troubled face. “What is it?”
    “Ballinger’s photographs,” Oliver replied. “I … I’m still undecided whether I should destroy them or not.”
    Henry thought for a few minutes before speaking.
    Oliver waited.
    “I presume you have weighed the arguments on either side, and reached no conclusion,” he said finally.
    “I’m not sure that it’s quite that simple,” Oliver answered frankly. “To destroy them would be irrevocable. I suppose I’m reluctant to do that. What if a situation arises where, with them, I could right a great wrong, but I had thrown that opportunity away because I was too cowardly to deal with the responsibility of keeping them? I would have to face the fact that I destroyed a precious means of helping make a difference. Ballinger himself first used them to save countless lives after all.”
    There was no joy in Henry’s face, no light of agreement.
    “To begin with, yes,” he said. “But I think it’s more important to remember where he ended up.”
    “Are you saying I should destroy them?” Oliver asked.
    Henry regarded him slightly critically. “No, I’m not. It is too big a decision for you to allow anyone else to make for you. You are dealing with an immense power. Be very careful.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Whatever you do there is a terrible risk. That is no doubt what Ballinger intended.” He smiled bleakly; then his face lifted with gentleness. “I’m sorry.”

CHAPTER
3
    T HE SUMMER WEATHER WAS beautiful. Rathbone stood by the window in his chambers and watched the traffic pass below him. The sun glinted on harnesses and the shining coats of the horses as a brougham went by, coachman sitting upright. In the carriage two ladies held colored parasols, the frilled edges fluttering in the breeze.
    There was a brief knock on the door. As he turned to respond, the door opened and his clerk came in, his face somber.
    “Yes, Patmore?” Rathbone said, curious. Usually Patmore would begin to speak as soon as he had closed the door. Obviously this was a matter of some gravity.
    “There is a new case added to your docket, Sir Oliver,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “I think you might like some warning before it actually comes to court.”
    Rathbone was intrigued already. “Scandal?” he asked. “Something we need to handle delicately?” He was used to such things.
    “Yes, sir, but not in the usual way,” Patmore replied. “It’s … it’s really very nasty.”
    “Things usually are if they find their way to the Old Bailey,” Rathbone observed a little drily. “Murder?”
    “No, sir. As far as I know, nobody was physically harmed. It’s all quite literally about money.”
    Rathbone almost lost interest immediately. Greed was