Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (16 page)

What would she think of this? Would she be resigned to the law, seeing it as a purpose in itself? Or would she be like Hester, viewing the law as servant to justice, and in this case failing? Would she be disappointed in him that he was not clever enough to find a way of using the law to obtain or create justice? What would her morality require he do?

Why was he even thinking of Beata York? It was ridiculous. She was a woman he had met once. He was not twenty, to allow her face to haunt him like this.

Hester’s desires were plain in her face. She wanted John Raleigh saved, Squeaky vindicated, and Abel Taft stopped from ever doing this to other people. She would like to see Robertson Drew shown for the sanctimonious liar he was. And she would probably like to see herself vindicated as well. Drew had given a warped and very partial view of the Jericho Phillips affair. Certainly both Monk and Hester had been shown to be lacking in judgment, especially Hester. Rathbone himself
had caused that. It was not an action he was proud of, no matter how legally justified in his defense of Phillips.

Gavinton was recalling Drew’s evidence in order to ask Taft his own opinion of the various financial contributions made by different people.

“And you passed all these on to the charities you work with?” Gavinton concluded.

“Of course,” Taft assured him.

“I imagine my learned friend will remind you that Mr. Sawley could find no evidence of these charities ever having received the sort of amounts you were given by your congregation. How do you account for that, Mr. Taft?”

“I can’t,” Taft said frankly, his face creased in puzzlement. “I have all the receipts, properly in order and countersigned. It is quite necessary that I do, for financial reasons as well as moral ones. If Mr. Sawley had come to me, and given me some valid reason why he should see them, I would have shown them to him. I’m afraid he is … not being strictly honest in this.”

“He claimed that the charities themselves had received almost nothing from you,” Gavinton persisted.

Taft smiled. “Perhaps they misunderstood him. They may have thought that he was asking what they had in hand, rather than what they had received over the years.” He lifted his shoulders slightly. “The charity workers are not all fluent in English, and some are elderly, or in poor health. Or, dare I say, Mr. Sawley heard what he wished to hear. Overemotional people, in a state of distress, are prone to do that.”

“Indeed they are.” Gavinton nodded agreement.

Rathbone glanced at Warne and saw him writing something hurriedly on a piece of paper. Perhaps it was a note to himself for the time when he would have the chance to question Taft.

Gavinton bowed. “Thank you, Mr. Taft. I can think of nothing further to ask you. Perhaps my learned friend has something?”

Warne did not look happy. He had nothing to pursue, unless he
could catch Taft in a lie; everything Taft and Drew had said was so vague, so much a matter of hint and understanding, implication and belief, that he was left floundering; it was clear in his face and in the uncertainty of his gestures.

Rathbone made a decision, knowing that perhaps he would regret it for the rest of his life. But if he let this go, presiding over a farce and doing nothing, then his whole purpose was void.

“I think we will adjourn a little early,” he said distinctly. “Mr. Warne, prepare yourself to question Mr. Taft in the morning.”

H
E WAS OBLIVIOUS OF
the streets as he rode home. It was high summer. Everyone who could be was outside. As usual the traffic was heavy. Possibly someone had lost a load farther ahead, Rathbone thought as he felt the carriage jolt forward, stop, then move forward again. He moved his body with the rhythm automatically, trying to ignore the impact of the thinly upholstered seat on his bones.

The decision was not irrevocable. He had not yet acted. He wished there were someone he could ask, but he had not the right to. He would contaminate them with the outcome. If he could have chosen anyone it would be Monk, but that would be a very particular abuse of friendship. He could imagine the conversation. “I have this photograph of Drew. Do you think I should use it?”

“How could you use it?”

“Show it to Warne, of course! Allow him to decide whether he will expose Drew for what he is. Or alternatively blackmail Drew into changing his evidence.”

“Change it to what?”

“To the truth.”

He could see the expression on Monk’s face.

“Which is? Are you sure you know? Are you sure it isn’t exactly what he testified to?”

“I believe Squeaky Robinson. Don’t you?” he would counter.

“Doesn’t matter what I believe. Are you sure it matters what you
believe? You are there to see fair play, to impose the rules of the law, not to decide yourself what is true and what is not.”

“I know.”

And he did know. But that was not a sufficient answer, as Monk would tell him. He was dealing with human beings, emotional, erratic, desperately vulnerable. The law was there to punish the offender, but even more than that, to protect the weak, those unable to protect themselves.

That was what the photographs could achieve: give the weak, the helpless in this case, a weapon they could use. Which would he regret the more, the broken promise not to use the photographs again, or the safe cowardice of doing nothing, just watching these people broken, humiliated, losing yet again?

He stood by the window in the withdrawing room and watched the dusk falling. The shadows crept across the grass. The purple asters would be out soon, another month or so. Early this year. No leaves were turning yet, but it would not be long. After that the first plums would be ripe …

But he must answer his own question tonight: a broken promise, or the cowardice of not intervening when the power to do so was in his hands? Would he forgive himself for that, when Taft and Drew were found “not guilty,” free to walk away, smirking, and begin again?

He had deliberately chosen to stand here rather than in his study. He no longer found pleasure in this room, for all its beauty, and yet in his inner turmoil it seemed the right place to be.

If Ballinger had never been discovered in his violence or obscenity, would Rathbone’s marriage to Margaret have grown richer and deeper? Would they even have loved each other with the passion and tenderness, the depth of friendship, that he believed Hester and Monk did? What is love worth if the first cold wind shrivels it up?

Who was he now, with no ties, no considerations to limit him or spur him on? He must decide whether to use the photograph of Drew to condemn him and thus prevent him from destroying the witnesses against Taft; whether to ruin Taft so he could not go on, stronger and
more powerful, richer in his confidence to deceive and defraud others—to take advantage of their faith and then destroy it. At this moment, as the light faded from the evening sky, it was that destruction of faith Rathbone found to be the greatest sin.

Yes, he would use the photograph. He would send it to Warne. It might bring either good or evil. Warne might use it or he might not. But if Rathbone did not give him the chance, then Taft would win, and whatever he did from then on, Rathbone would always know that he could have prevented it.

He must take it to Warne himself, tonight.

He went into his study and closed and locked the door. Then he got the key out and opened the safe. His hands trembled as he set the box on the floor and tried to open it. Twice he missed the keyhole. The third time the key slid in easily, and he opened the lid.

It did not take him long to slip the picture into an unmarked envelope. It was extraordinary that such important consequences could spring from such a small action.

He closed the box, locked it, and replaced it in the safe. It was as if nothing had ever happened. Except—he could feel the envelope acutely, resting in his inside pocket.

It was a strange journey. He sat in the cab, which rolled smoothly along the quiet street, as if he were going to visit a friend. The trees were in full leaf. Flowers filled the gardens, and he could imagine their perfume. He saw an elderly couple walking together. The man turned to the woman and laughed. He put an arm around her. Rathbone noticed that she wore a pink dress.

He alighted and paid the driver when he reached the corner of the street in which Warne lived. He dismissed the cab. He would walk back to the main road when he was ready.

It was late, and he was quite aware that he would be disturbing Warne, but having made the decision he would carry it through. Inconvenience was trivial compared with the issues at stake.

Of course, he would retain Warne’s professional services so that the information was at least privileged, and Warne would not be obliged to
tell anyone where he obtained the photograph. That was an obvious precaution. He had brought money for that purpose.

A startled footman appeared at the door. Rathbone already had his card in his hand.

“My name is Oliver Rathbone. I am the judge presiding in the case Mr. Warne is currently presenting in court. I’m sorry to intrude at this hour, but I am afraid I need to speak to Mr. Warne tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.”

The footman took the card and backed away slightly, pulling the door wider open.

“If you will come this way, sir, I shall inform Mr. Warne that you are here.”

Rathbone thanked him and waited in the morning room as requested. It was very pleasant, full of bookcases and one or two glazed cupboards with various ornaments, but he was too restless to take any notice of them. He paced the floor, acutely aware that even now he could change his mind. He could apologize to Warne for disturbing him and say that he had reconsidered his action. He would go home again, looking like a fool, but nothing irrevocable would have been done.

Except that that was not true. He would not be able to live with himself if he did nothing. And this was his doing—to say that he was passing the final judgment over to Warne was a coward’s lie.

He heard footsteps across the hallway, and the door opened. Warne came in. He looked weary and confused. His dark hair was tousled, as if he had repeatedly run his fingers through it; his face was gaunt. Now he looked anxiously at Rathbone.

“Has something happened?” he asked, closing the door behind him. He searched Rathbone’s eyes and clearly found no comfort in them.

Rathbone had tried to decide how to approach the subject, had searched for any way at all to make it less repellent and found none. For a moment his mouth was dry, and he had to swallow and clear his throat.

“I have been struggling with a choice,” he said, hearing the awkwardness
in his voice. “I had a strong feeling that I had seen Robertson Drew somewhere before. I have now remembered where, and the circumstances. It is not that I saw him in the flesh, but in a photograph.” He was speaking too quickly, but he could not help it. “I would prefer not to tell you how I came into possession of the photograph, but I will if you judge it necessary. It was to do with a particularly repulsive case, one that I wish I could forget, but for various reasons I cannot.”

Warne looked unhappy and completely at a loss to understand.

They stood facing each other in the quiet room, no sound but a faint whisper of wind in the leaves outside and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

Rathbone felt ridiculous. He was making this even more unpleasant than it had to be by being less than honest.

“I’m sorry,” Rathbone said. “The photograph is for you to do with as you think fit. You may need some time to decide, which is why I felt it necessary to disturb you with it tonight. I’m sorry. I debated whether to come to you at all, or if I should take the decision out of your hands by not showing it to you, but it has a strong bearing on the value of the evidence in the case against Taft, and I believe the decision must be yours.”

“I don’t understand.” Warne looked deeply unhappy. “What decision? What is this photograph? Is it of Taft? Who took it?”

Rathbone was bitterly aware that he was about to increase Warne’s unhappiness a hundredfold.

“Before I pass it to you I would like to retain your services as my legal counsel,” Rathbone said. How ridiculous the words sounded, in the circumstances, and yet it was critical that he pursue this course of action. “It is to protect you, as well as me,” he added.

Warne stared at him, uncomprehending.

Rathbone reached into his pocket and pulled out five guinea coins. “Please?”

Warne nodded, his eyes never leaving Rathbone’s face, but he took the coins and set them on the table.

“I now represent you legally.”

Rathbone held out the brown envelope.

Warne took it and after a moment’s hesitation, opened the flap and picked out the stiff paper of the photograph. He stared at it, blinked, then his face reflected vividly the wave of revulsion that must’ve welled up inside him. His paramount emotion seemed to be acute distress.

Rathbone wished he had not made this choice. He had done the wrong thing, and it was too late to take it back. Now he was as chilled as if his heart had stopped pumping blood around his body.

Warne looked up at him, his eyes unreadable.

“Where in God’s name did you get this? Did someone send it to you?”

There was no possible way out of this. He must plunge through it—with the truth.

“My father-in-law owned these photographs, about fifty of them. He was convicted of murder and sentenced to hang. I defended him, partly because of family obligation, partly because anyone at all is worthy of a defense, as Gavinton has been at pains to remind me. And in the beginning I believed he was innocent. Only too late did I discover that he was not.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He always blamed me for not having defended him adequately. As a bitter irony he bequeathed me these damnable pictures.”

Warne stared at him, blinking.

Rathbone knew he should not go on, making bad even worse, but he heard his own voice as if it belonged to someone else and he had no control over it.

“He told me that to begin with he used one of them to force a corrupt judge to make an industrialist clean up his factory’s waste, which was spreading cholera in a poor area of the city. It saved the lives of hundreds of people. And cholera is a vile way to die.”