Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (22 page)

Scuff was thinking about it. He had not even taken a second piece of cake.

“It’s like games,” she tried again. “You have to obey the rules.”

“But what if you’re right?” he argued. “What if the other person’s going ter win ’cos they’re cheating. Can’t you break the rules then—if they are? It in’t fair!”

“Most people think they’re right, even when they aren’t,” Hester pointed out. “And some people don’t care whether they’re right or not. They just want to win.”

“But Sir Oliver in’t like that!” he protested. “We know ’im. ’E really likes you. I seen ’im look at you.”

Hester felt the warmth flush up her cheeks. Trust Scuff to have noticed that.

“Even the people we care about make mistakes sometimes,” she said, picking her words carefully.

“Does that mean if they get it wrong you don’t like ’em anymore?” Deliberately he did not avert his eyes from hers. He was going to take the blow, if it came.

That was the question she had been dreading. What if Rathbone had done something seriously wrong? A mistake, even an error of hubris, was not impossible. She needed to explain to Scuff that however much you loved someone, you still didn’t cover for him when he made a grave mistake. Would he understand the morality of a greater good being more important than individual love?

He was waiting for her answer, his eyes grave.

“No, it doesn’t mean that at all,” she replied. “But you may not always like what they do. You … you can’t say a thing is right just because
it’s done by someone you like, and wrong because it’s done by someone you don’t. It hurts desperately if you have to find fault with someone you love, even worse if it’s someone who is part of your life. But right and wrong don’t change just because of the way you feel about the people involved.”

“Is it always right and wrong? In’t there anything in the middle?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, many times there is,” she agreed. “That’s when it gets really difficult.”

He frowned. “ ’Ow do yer know if it’s right or wrong or something in the middle?”

“You don’t always,” she admitted. “As you get older you begin to realize sometimes just how difficult it can be and how easy it is to make a mistake, even though you’re trying not to. When you’ve made a few yourself, you get slower to judge other people.”

He looked at her very carefully, his eyes wide and clear.

“You’ve never made mistakes, though, ’ave yer?” There was an innocence in his face, a faith in her. She realized with a jolt how deeply he loved her.

Hester found herself blushing. “I wish I hadn’t, except I suppose if that were true maybe I wouldn’t understand just how easy it is for mistakes to happen, even when we’re really trying to avoid them. That would make me very hard on others. It isn’t making mistakes that matters so much as whether you learn from them, whether you admit you were wrong or try to blame somebody else. And I suppose what matters most is that you get up again and try not to keep on making the same mistake.”

“ ’Ow many different ones are there?” he asked.

She gave a twisted little smile. “I don’t know. I’m still counting.”

“An’ yer gotter pay for ’em?” he said carefully. “You ’ave, ’aven’t yer?”

“Usually. Sometimes not. Sometimes there’s a kind of grace where you get forgiven without paying. You don’t really deserve it, so you really truly need to make yourself worthy afterward by being grateful and making an effort to change.”

“Is that what yer going to make ’appen for Sir Oliver?” He sounded as if he grasped on to that hope tightly.

“I’ll try,” she responded. “If he did make a mistake, that is. Maybe he didn’t, and we can help him prove that.”

Scuff relaxed a little. “That’s good. Can I ’elp?”

“Probably. I’ll certainly ask you, if I can think of anything.”

He gave her a sudden, dazzling smile, and then when he was sure she understood, he drank his tea and reached for the other piece of cake. She always put out two, but it was understood between them that both were for him.

I
T WAS EVEN MORE
difficult for Hester when it came time that evening to discuss the subject with Monk.

Scuff had already gone to bed when Monk came in, tired and wet after a long day on the river dealing with the discovery of a body and the tedious investigation that had proved the death accidental. Of course, he had heard about Rathbone’s arrest very soon after it had happened. The jailer’s note had reached him, and he had gone to the prison immediately. He had been permitted to see Rathbone, but only for a matter of minutes.

“How is he?” Hester had asked, almost before Monk was through the door. “Is he all right? What did they say he did?”

“He’s all right for the moment,” Monk had replied. “The charge is rather complicated. Officially it is perversion of the course of justice—”

“What? But he’s the judge!” she had exclaimed.

“Exactly. That makes it all the more serious. It has to do with the use of one of Ballinger’s photographs. Technically he should have stepped aside and let someone else take his place.”

“As judge?”

“Yes. Which would mean abandoning the whole trial and starting again.”

“But they might not even have prosecuted a second time!” she had protested.

“I know. That’s probably why Rathbone didn’t do it, knowing him.”

“What will happen to him?”

“I expect they’ll try him. I didn’t get the chance to ask much more than that. I asked what he needed—”

“He needs a lawyer! Someone to help …”

“He said he wanted a clean shirt and personal linen,” Monk then replied grimly.

O
NCE HE HAD PUT
on dry, clean clothes himself and was seated in the warmth of the sitting room, Monk felt a great deal more comfortable, but only marginally happier. Hester had just told him about her conversation with Scuff.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. “Surely all Oliver did was to nudge justice back into the right path? After all, if Drew was in one of these photographs, then he was hardly the upstanding churchman he pretended. The jury needs to know that!”

She saw the flash of humor across Monk’s face, lighting his eyes for a moment out of their somber mood. “I don’t think the law sees a difference between perversion and a nudge into the right path … as you perceive it,” he observed.

She was stung, for all the gentleness in his voice. “You mean you think he’s guilty?” she challenged. This was going to be even worse than she expected.

“I don’t know. And if you’re honest, neither do you.” He smiled, but there was pain in it. “I might have done the same thing myself. I don’t know. We never do until we’re tested. But that doesn’t make it right, either morally or legally. I’ve tripped over my own pride before now.”

She ignored the mention of pride. She knew what he meant about Rathbone, and about himself. “But Drew was in that picture!” she protested. “And if Taft isn’t guilty, why did he kill himself? Actually, whether he was guilty or not, why kill his family? Do you suppose he’s
in one of the photographs as well? Was he afraid Warne would produce that one too?”

Monk leaned forward a little, his dark gray eyes steady on hers. “That’s a more interesting question—why did they arrest Rathbone at all? How did they even know he had anything to do with it? Rathbone said he retained Warne as his own lawyer, so Warne would be protected by privilege from telling anyone who gave him the photographs.”

Hester felt a little chill, as if there were a draft in the room. “Is it possible it was Warne who told them, anyway?” she asked. “But that doesn’t make sense. Surely if he were going to do anything it would have to have been before he used the picture, not afterward—wouldn’t it? Otherwise, wouldn’t he be equally guilty, of violating the privilege?”

“I don’t know,” Monk confessed. “Perhaps they offered him the chance to escape prosecution if he testified against Rathbone? Or they went for him in the first place, and he gave up Rathbone to save himself?”

“That’s vile!” she said with sudden fury. “What kind of a man is he if he would do that? What kind of a lawyer? Lawyers have a duty of confidentiality! They can’t just betray anyone and pretend it’s all right.” She was so angry she could barely get the words out.

“No,” he replied, but there was hesitation in his voice. “Apart from anything else, Warne would know such an act would ruin his reputation. No one who had any secrets worth a damn would employ him.”

“Everyone facing trial has secrets,” she responded. “Even if they’re innocent of the particular charge they’re facing.”

“Exactly. I can’t imagine he would risk his entire livelihood to betray Rathbone.”

“Then who was it?” she demanded. “If it wasn’t Warne, then who could it be?”

He settled a little deeper in his seat, relaxing weary muscles.

“We don’t know for certain it wasn’t Warne. But Rathbone has enemies, Hester. He’s prosecuted some very important people, people who have friends and influence. And he’s defended a few people that
others would rather see executed. He’s stirred up a lot of dirt, one way or another. He’s gone where his cases led him and has not been afraid whose toes he trod on. Some of them are going to be only too happy to come out of the woodwork now and kick him while he’s down.”

Another, darker thought occurred to her. “Worse than that, William, what about the other people in the photographs? We don’t know who they are, and maybe Oliver doesn’t either, but
they
know. And who is to say Ballinger even had all the photographs. There may be people who think Oliver has their picture, but who don’t know for sure—I bet they’d rather see him destroyed and put away so there’s not even a chance that he’s a risk to them. London could be seething with enemies he doesn’t even know he has.”

Monk was frowning. “But that would be stupid. Put his back against the wall and he’ll come out fighting. He would have nothing to lose. Even if he goes to prison he could have all the pictures published, just to get back at his enemies. That seems even riskier.”

She stared at him intensely, her heart racing. She felt as if her throat were so tight she could hardly breathe. “William … where are the photographs?”

He caught her fear instantly. “In his house, I suppose. I don’t know. Perhaps we’d better ask him and make sure they’re put somewhere else. Otherwise someone desperate enough could set fire to it. They could burn the servants alive, and Oliver, too, if they wait till he gets bail and goes back there.”

“Yes. They should be in a bank vault or something. Just don’t bring them here!”

He said nothing, his expression bleak.

She looked at his face and saw no light in it. “I’m sorry. But, please …” She trailed off, more frightened than she wanted to admit. What had begun as a shadow was spreading far wider than she had foreseen. Was the trial of one man guilty of fraud worth all this?

She had thought so at the time when she had listened to Josephine Raleigh and seen herself so clearly in Josephine’s distress. It was a chance to put right what she had failed signally to do for her own father.
Taft was vicious, destructive … seeing now what he had been capable of, with his actions against his own wife and children, it was clear the extent of his disease of the soul was far greater than she had imagined.

But if she had not meddled, then Taft and his family would still be alive, and Rathbone would be safe at home.

And John Raleigh might be dead like her father.

When do you walk away? How can you know?

“We’ve got to help Oliver,” she said. “For Scuff as well as for himself.”

Monk looked puzzled. “For Scuff?”

“For heaven’s sake!” She was close to tears. She could feel them prickling in her eyes and the tightness getting worse in her throat. “Oliver is our friend, William! Scuff’s watching to see if we’re loyal to the people we care for, even if they make mistakes and everyone else turns against them.”

He looked startled. “Does he think we’d do that to him?”

“He doesn’t know!” she cried out. “He’s afraid! He’s terrified that love is conditional, that we love people only when they do the right thing, and that that applies to anyone.”

Understanding flooded his face. “He’s only a child! You don’t …” He let out his breath in a sigh.

“You were afraid,” she pointed out. “When you thought you killed Joscelyn Grey, you were afraid I’d abandon you.”

He flushed slightly. “But you didn’t think I had!”

“I didn’t think so. I didn’t know! But if you had, I wouldn’t have walked away.”

“Were you that much in love with me?” he asked very quietly. “You never said so.”

“No I wasn’t, you complacent oaf!” she cried in exasperation. “But even if you had killed him, I knew you were a good man, and I couldn’t leave you to hang for it. Even good people sometimes do stupid and ugly things. Besides, no one else believed in you. If I hadn’t fought for you, who else would have?”

“No one,” he said even more quietly. “Sergeant Evan did only because
you did. Honestly, even I wouldn’t have fought for me. You know, one day you’ll have to tell Scuff about that. But not yet. I don’t think he’s ready for it—and I know I’m not. I need him to think better of me than that, for a while. But if it goes badly with Rathbone, maybe we should tell him. Then at least he’ll know you never give up, and never leave.” He breathed in and out slowly. “Perhaps we should tell him sooner, after all.”

Hester shook her head briefly, as if to dispel the idea, then started again, even more seriously. “William, do you think Oliver made the wrong decision? I mean morally wrong? How could he sit back and let Taft get away with everything, let Drew slander all those people who were only doing their best to right a wrong? They were so vulnerable and Drew destroyed them with words. And it was him in the picture, unmistakably.”

“I know,” he agreed, reaching out his hand and catching hers. He held her gently, but with too much strength for her to pull away. “But yes, I think he may have made a mistake in this. He should have destroyed those photos when he first got them.”

“But they can be used for good!” she protested. “That would have left him helpless to … William, you can’t throw away power just because it could be misused, or you might make a mistake, or maybe it’ll turn out badly. Because—maybe it won’t! Maybe it’ll help someone. Can you imagine standing over somebody with a knife in your hand—”