Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (42 page)

“Clever,” he said appreciatively. “Very clever. Yes, that fits perfectly. He was a little cool for having shot himself at five. Not beyond possibility, but enough to make me notice it. I didn’t think to question it, though, with the neighbors hearing the gun and all.” He shook his head. “What a hell of a thing to do. Do you know who did it?”

“An idea,” Monk replied. “Can’t prove it yet. But your evidence will help.”

“Get the man,” the surgeon said simply. “It was a vile thing to do. If you’d seen those girls, and the woman, you’d not stop till you hanged the bastard.”

“I don’t intend to stop,” Monk promised him, rising to his feet. “I’ve more against him than just this, and this is bad enough. Thank you.”

N
EXT HE WENT BACK
farther into the city and caught Dillon Warne just as he was about to leave his chambers and go home.

“Sorry,” Monk apologized. “I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need an hour or so of your time.”

A flash of hope lit Warne’s dark face. “Something happened?”

“Yes. And I’ll tell you after you’ve answered a question that is still outstanding,” Monk promised. “I’m still trying to fit the final pieces together.”

Warne told his clerks they could go and went back into his office. He closed the door and stood facing Monk. “I still don’t know where the missing money went, if that’s what your question is,” Warne said unhappily. “I’ve had people go over it again and again. I would dearly like to have proved it in court, but it was done extremely cleverly.”

“That isn’t what I need,” Monk told him. “I think I can account for a good deal of it, actually. The paintings on the walls of Taft’s house—they’re framed slightly off-center, not from side to side, but up and down. The artists’ names are blocked out, and a new, slight scrawl is on them, mostly half hidden by grass blades, or fence posts, that kind of thing.” He saw Warne’s puzzled look. “I think they’re pretty valuable works of art, disguised as pleasant copies,” he explained.

“Good God!” Warne breathed out. “We saw no papers on them. But how does it help now? What is it you want from me?”

“I need to know—is there a way to see whether they were registered as owned by Taft? Are they in his will, for example?”

Warne straightened up. “I don’t know. I’ve got a copy of it, but I hadn’t looked over it very carefully. Let me find it.” He went over to the safe in the corner and came back holding papers in his hands. His eyes were bright, and there was excitement in his voice. “This is a copy, as I said—but it appears the paintings are owned by Drew—lent to the Tafts and to the Church. They’re marked as of no particular value, but definitely they belong to Robertson Drew. Do you think Taft was taking the blame for both of them, then?”

“A sort of great sacrifice for the good of the Church?” Monk said with a twist of irony. “No, I don’t. I think Drew was the prime mover. I think he gave most of the orders and took most of the stolen money. Taft was the man with the golden voice, and Drew used him.”

“And poor Taft killed himself when he was thrown away …” Warne’s voice was full of a sudden dark pity.

“Actually—no,” Monk replied. “Drew betrayed him more terribly than just giving him up in court when Rathbone left him no choice.” He told Warne what he and Hester had found in the attic of Taft’s house.

Warne sank back and slumped into the big chair a couple of steps behind him. “What a totally evil man. God, what a mess!” He looked at Monk with intense emotion in his face. “What are we going to do about it?”

“I’m going to give all the evidence to the police,” Monk replied. “And we’ve got to save Oliver Rathbone, if possible. He in no way is to blame for these deaths. I’m going to see Brancaster right away.”

Warne hauled himself to his feet, his face pale. “And do what? Ask for an adjournment? Believe me, York won’t give it to you.”

16

I
N THE COURTROOM AT
the Old Bailey Rathbone sat in the dock feeling utterly powerless. At the lunchtime adjournment he had found it difficult to swallow anything. Even the tea, too strong and not hot enough, had tasted sour, but at least it had eased the cramp in his stomach. Now he was back, forced to listen to his own condemnation without being able to speak. No matter what was said, he could not defend himself. Perhaps he had deluded himself that he even could. He would be wiser to face reality now, to plan how he could deal with the inevitable verdict. Should he sell the house? He would have no income. How long could he maintain it? It was of no real use to him now, anyway. The servants would find other positions. A recommendation from him would hardly help! He regretted that. It was unfair. They had been loyal over many years.

How he would fare in prison was another matter. The thought of it knotted his stomach again. How would he live on that food? Uglier and
far more painful, how would he ever defend himself? Who would care for him if he became ill? Or if he were injured? He thrust the thought away—it was too much to bear at this moment.

Wystan began the afternoon session by calling a police officer who had arrested a man Rathbone had defended. The man was wealthy and had been accused of systematic fraud. Rathbone had not known whether he was guilty or not, only that the prosecution had not proved him so, beyond a reasonable doubt, as the law required.

Wystan questioned the man, always slanting the words to make Rathbone sound unreasonable and vindictive, a lawyer who had to win at any cost, the fight for justice being his vehicle to wealth and fame. Other men’s reputations, even their lives, were there solely to serve his purpose.

The bare facts were correct. There was nothing Brancaster could disprove. The condemnation was there in the language used.

“And was Mr. Rathbone determined to win this case?” Wystan asked, his eyes innocently wide. “By that I mean did he use every ounce of steel at his command, work tirelessly, pursue every possibility and cross-examine every witness over and over again until he obtained the answer he wished for?”

Brancaster rose to his feet. “My lord, every lawyer is supposed to do that for every defendant. My learned friend is trying to make it sound as if it is an extraordinary and unusual effort.”

York’s heavy eyebrows rose. “Are you objecting to Mr. Wystan trying to persuade the jury that the accused was an energetic and diligent lawyer, Mr. Brancaster?”

Brancaster’s face tightened. “No, my lord, I am objecting to his making it sound as if Sir Rathbone treated this case differently from the way every defense lawyer should treat every case.”

“That is not an issue of law, Mr. Brancaster,” York said tartly. “Please do not keep interrupting pointlessly. You are wasting the court’s time.”

Rathbone could see from where he was that Brancaster’s face was pale with anger. He sat down slowly, reluctantly.

Rathbone looked at the jury. It was a different thing to read their
mood when you were the accused; fear colored his ability to assess them objectively. And yet once he had allowed himself to look, he could not tear his eyes away. The man farthest to the left on the upper row looked worried, as if something in the evidence or the proceedings troubled him. The man next to him appeared to be bored, as though his attention were on something else. Had he already made up his mind? But the defense had not even begun!

What defense could there be? Rathbone had given the photograph to Warne. That was not arguable. He had weighed the right and wrong of it and made his decision. It was not unreasonable that he should have to pay the price for that. The personal accusation of pride and ambition was unnecessary—and irrelevant. Why did Brancaster not object on those grounds? Perhaps Brancaster thought Rathbone was guilty, exactly as everyone else seemed to. And they were right. He had made a selfish and stupid misjudgment.

He looked away from the jury, unwilling to meet their eyes. He looked instead at the front rows of the gallery. No one was looking back at him; everyone’s attention was on Wystan’s next witness, a young lawyer Rathbone had defeated when he was prosecuting a case a few years ago. He had disliked making a fool of the lawyer, but the man had not prepared his case well. He had been slipshod, and it had showed. Now he was complaining about Rathbone’s underhanded tactics and suggesting mysterious undue influence.

Rathbone looked away and suddenly saw Beata York, the light catching her pale hair. He froze. There was nobody he wanted to look at more. She idealized the gentleness, the strength, and the humor that he understood now was what he hungered for. There was a beauty in her that he thought he had seen in Margaret, a courage, a generosity of heart and mind.

He had run away from Hester because she would always have challenged him. She might also have made him happy.

Was that what he saw in Beata—another chance at least to know and care for a woman uniquely beautiful in such a way? It could never be more than friendship, but even that would have been precious.

Then as if she had felt his gaze on her, she turned her head and looked up at him. She gave a sad little smile, not cold, not condescending, but as if she felt for his distress. She hesitated only a moment, long enough for their eyes to meet, then she turned back to the witness, as if she did not want to draw attention and prompt others to stare.

He felt his face burning, a rage of conflicting emotions inside him. What had she meant? How much was his imagination making her expression into what he had wished it to be? Maybe he was replacing regret with something gentler that he would find easier to bear: sympathy for a man in pain, rather than pity for someone who had been given so much and wasted it.

Wystan was rambling on and on. The afternoon seemed endless.

Rathbone did not look at Beata York again. Nor did he look to find Henry Rathbone. To see his distress was more than he could handle. He needed to keep some composure.

At last Wystan closed the case for the prosecution, eloquent and satisfied. York adjourned the court until the next day.

Rathbone waited in the hope that Brancaster would visit him, at least to discuss the progress of the case and tell him what he planned to do next; but the silence dragged on, and there was nothing but the briefest message from Brancaster telling him to keep hope.

The long prison night seemed like the worst in his life.

T
HE NEXT DAY
R
ATHBONE
was led back to the dock, still without having seen Brancaster. He felt numb, as if his body belonged to someone else. He stumbled and banged his elbow sharply against the wall. Even the pain of it barely registered. He was like a pig on a roasting spit, stripped of all moral and emotional dignity, stared at, talked about, and unable to do anything but listen.

The fight over his future, his reputation, his life, went on anyway, with or without him.

If ever he were able to practice law again, he vowed never to do
what Brancaster was doing to him; from now on he would talk to his clients, tell them what he planned and why, what he hoped to achieve. At the very least he would make them feel part of the proceedings and let them know that he cared, that he understood what they were experiencing and how they felt.

But it was too late for that now. He wouldn’t practice law again. It was all pointless and too late.

Rufus Brancaster rose to begin his defense. The jury watched him, but their faces suggested good manners rather than interest.

Brancaster called Josiah Taylor.

Rathbone struggled to remember who he was and what on earth he might have to do with the Taft case. Was he one of the parishioners Rathbone had forgotten?

Taylor was sworn in. His occupation was apparently as an accountant in a small business. His face looked vaguely familiar, but Rathbone struggled in vain to think from where or when.

Brancaster seemed to ramble on, asking questions that appeared pointless, but Wystan sat smiling, never raising any objection. York looked more and more irritated.

Then Rathbone recalled how he knew Taylor. He had been an expert witness in a case of embezzlement some three or four years ago. What on earth did Brancaster hope to get from him? All he could offer was that Rathbone had won that particular case, and done it with some skill, according to Taylor, and with an unusual degree of consideration for the witnesses, and for the victim of the crime. In Taylor’s view, Rathbone’s courtesy and honor were exemplary. He was a character witness, no more.

Rathbone had studied juries all his professional life. He knew that most of this jury had lost interest now.

York was becoming quite openly restive when Brancaster drew to a close.

Rathbone knew that this was the moment when Brancaster gave up. After all the hope, absurd as it was, and the brave promises, he had nothing.

Wystan rose to his feet. He looked infinitely satisfied. Not that he must have ever doubted that in the end he would win.

“No questions, my lord,” he said simply, and sat down again. Apparently he did not feel he needed to add anything more. Victory was in his hands. He could afford to be casual.

“I call Richard Athlone,” Brancaster said loudly.