Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (27 page)

“I don’t know whether I would have destroyed them,” Hester surprised
them by interrupting. “If I had something with which I could save the lives of an untold number of people, I think I would keep on meaning to get rid of it but always stop short of doing it, just in case the next patient was one I could have saved. I wouldn’t be prepared to watch them die, knowing it might’ve been avoided. It’s one of those tasks, the kind you’re always going to do tomorrow, until tomorrow comes.”

Monk looked at her with surprise. He had expected the opposite from her, the gentle, the conservative perspective. But she had taken the unexpected, braver stand, perhaps the more foolish, definitely the more honest.

Henry was looking at her too, and there was a startling affection in his eyes. Monk realized how much Henry would have preferred that Rathbone marry Hester rather than Margaret. Poor Margaret. Had she ever known that, even if perhaps not putting it so bluntly to herself?

Monk recalled the discussion back to the practical. “One of us has to look at those pictures and see who is in them that might be in the judiciary or in any other position of power regarding this case. Otherwise we are simply moving around blindly and possibly playing right into their hands.”

“Agreed,” Henry said grimly. “I shall ask Oliver where these damned things are, and then, with your assistance, identify as many people as possible. We must not only find out if Brancaster himself is there—which I profoundly doubt—but also if there is anyone else who might have an influence on him, or on the nature of Oliver’s trial.” He was looking intently at Monk. “But how do we ascertain that?”

“I’ll find out,” Monk said rashly. “Perhaps we should also consider who might have influence on Warne, or Gavinton, or anybody else concerned. What a bloody mess.” He looked at Hester with a twisted smile. “Still so sure you’d keep them?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t say it would be wise, or right, or that I wouldn’t regret it. I just said I think I probably would’ve.”

Henry shot her a look of gratitude, then rose to his feet. “I’ll fetch
you Rufus Brancaster’s address. As soon as I have visited Oliver to ask where to find these photographs and if you identify the people in them, perhaps we can begin to understand who is with us, and who against.”

Monk drew in his breath to say something then changed his mind. It was Hester who, with brutal honesty, gave words to his thought.

“Even once we look at the photographs, there is the problem, as we said, of photographs that were not in Ballinger’s possession. There may be people who were members of the club that we have no way of identifying as such.”

“I know,” he said quietly, “but there is no value in considering problems we cannot address. You are right, though; we should not allow ourselves a false sense of safety. It is rather sad to think that so many men’s lives are so bereft of purpose and their values so diseased as to look for excitement in such places. I’m afraid when it comes to the use of children I have little understanding or mercy for them.”

Had he spoken more angrily Monk would have been less moved by his words. He had no memory of his own father and wondered with a rush of nostalgia, even grief, if he had been a man anything like Henry Rathbone. If he had, and Monk could remember it, would he himself be a better man?

Hester was standing also, regarding Henry with the same emotion in her eyes as Monk felt. She was a gift Monk had been given and Oliver Rathbone had not. One makes oneself a better man, in part by the example of those you love, and in part by the act of loving them. He was well aware of how lucky he was.

“We will have no mercy for them at all if they enter into this case,” he said. “We have adopted one of those boys, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he has adopted us. One day, when this is over, I would like to bring him to meet you, if you would agree?”

Henry’s face lit with a smile that made him momentarily almost beautiful.

“I should be delighted. Please don’t forget to do that.”

Monk had not even looked at Hester to see if she approved. He did now, and saw her eyes bright with tears.

———

T
HE FOLLOWING EVENING THEY
visited Henry Rathbone again. He had the photographs, and they spent a grim hour going through them. It was a sick and wretched exercise, but they were able to identify all the men in them, mostly from the coded notes on the back written in Ballinger’s hand.

Henry made a note of the names. They did not include Rufus Brancaster, or anyone who might reasonably be assumed to be connected with him. Monk had made inquiries and now knew the names of most of Brancaster’s associates, including, as much as possible, anyone to whom he might owe a favor or who might be related to him.

They celebrated the relief with a bottle of red wine, a plate of oatmeal biscuits, and very fine Brie, following it with plum pie and thick cream.

T
HE MORNING AFTER THAT
they went to see Rufus Brancaster. Because of the importance of the case, and although he was busy, he did not keep them waiting for more than fifteen minutes.

Monk was surprised. He had expected a much older man, and for the first few moments he was worried that Henry’s choice was not a good one. But then it was possible that older and more established lawyers might have declined the case. It would take a degree of courage, even recklessness, to defend Rathbone. As this thought was in his mind, Monk realized that although he could understand Rathbone’s actions, and might even have done the same thing himself, he most certainly believed Rathbone was at least legally guilty. It settled inside him with an ugly coldness.

Brancaster wasted no time in niceties.

“Tell me about the Jericho Phillips case, and how Ballinger was involved in the whole mess,” he said, nodding toward Hester out of courtesy but directing his attention to Monk. “Briefly, but don’t leave out anything important.”

He did not interrupt while Monk spoke, but he did look at Hester once or twice, and with a new respect.

“And where are these photographs now?” he said finally.

“Henry Rathbone has them. I left them in his keeping. Yesterday we studied them, to see whom we recognized—for obvious reasons.”

Brancaster looked anxious. “And you’re sure he still has them?”

“Yes. He promised me he would not store them in his home, or anywhere else where they could be destroyed. He also swore no one else would have access to them. But I don’t know exactly where he put them.”

“Good. Did looking at the prints tell you anything of value?”

“Yes,” Monk said with a grim smile. “You’re not in them.”

The pen Brancaster had been holding slid out of his hands. “God in heaven!” he gasped. “Did you bloody well think I was?” He did not even think to apologize to Hester for his language.

It was she who replied to him. “No. But thinking is not enough. And it is not only a question of if you were in them, it’s whether you might care about, or owe some favor to, someone who was.” She smiled very slightly.

“I was going to tell you how bad it is,” Brancaster said bleakly, this time to Hester, “but it seems you know already, maybe even better than I do. We are going to have to dig in for a long battle, and I can’t promise that we’ll win. We would need a great deal of goodwill for that. Technically Sir Oliver crossed the line. He did go behind the defense’s back and give seriously prejudicial information to the defense only, when in fact he should have recused himself. It would be absurd to say that he didn’t foresee how Warne would use it, or even that he didn’t intend it. Clearly he did. And while most decent men would say he did the right thing morally, legally they could punish him quite severely. And after you’ve told me what I already feared about the photographs, it’s clear a lot of people will be nervous and probably overreact.”

“So what are we going to do?” Hester asked him without hesitation.

Although Brancaster’s smile was rueful, even twisted, it gave a new life to his face, a vitality and softness that had not been there before.

“I’m glad you didn’t ask me if I was looking for a way to back out of
the case,” he said with a slight gesture of his hands. “I’m going to ask you for a list of the names of those in the photographs, so I also know whom not to trust. Are there any acting judges?”

“Yes,” Monk said immediately. “And whether you are prepared to or not, I am perfectly willing to use that information should one of them be called to preside in Rathbone’s trial.” He smiled bleakly, more of a grimace. “In a legal manner, and well before the trial, of course.”

Brancaster bit his lip. “I believe you. But that won’t alter the fact that many members of the judiciary will be against Sir Oliver, in spite of the fact that they won’t take much to Drew, I’m sure.”

He pulled a very slight grimace. “If you turn over a very large, very wet stone, you are going to find a lot of slugs underneath it, plus a few creeping things with too many legs, that you weren’t prepared for. Are you ready for that?”

Hester answered him. “Of course not. But if you mean would we prefer to let it go, then, no, we wouldn’t. If we try, at least we have a chance of success.”

“I dare say they’ll attempt to have him imprisoned, simply to seize his property and try to find the original plates of the pictures,” Brancaster warned.

“If they’re bent on appearing to remain within the law,” Monk agreed with a bitter smile. “If not, they’ll simply burn the house down. I dare say Rathbone himself thought of that. If not, I’ll make sure his father does.”

“Would he preserve them?” Brancaster asked dubiously. He knew Henry Rathbone.

“At least for the time being,” Monk said wryly. “It’s too good a weapon to throw away just yet.”

“You’d use it?” Brancaster said curiously. “Even after what you’ve seen it do to others?”

“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. Without Hester or Scuff to think of, if he were still the man he had been before, he would not have hesitated. He had often been ruthless, and it was not easy to admit it now. How much of that man was still left in him, if pushed far enough?

Brancaster was thinking. From his face it appeared he was anxious. “It isn’t wise for other people to find out that anyone else has access to the photos, or the motive to use them, aside from Oliver,” he warned. “He is tucked behind bars, but if they realize you are equally capable of making those images public, it might drive him into a kind of panic, drive him to something dangerous, badly misjudged. Fear has different effects on people. For the moment, be careful to say nothing.”

“I will,” Monk agreed grimly. “It is ironic that these men resent Rathbone for going outside the bounds of gentlemanly conduct, when they have done things that are far outside human decency. Why the hell do they think Rathbone should guard their secrets, at the price of other people’s lives?”

“Because they have no empathy,” Brancaster replied. “No conception at all of how other people feel. They don’t see any further than their own appetites. As I said, we are in for a long battle.”

“We have to face it,” Hester said quietly. “We can’t let Oliver lose. And”—her whole body tightened—“we can’t let them win either. That would be a step into the darkness.”

10

P
RISON WAS APPALLING
. E
VERY
night Rathbone sank into sleep as an escape from the noise, the discomfort, the stale smell of the blanket, and, in his imagination, the fidgeting, scurrying, and scratching of whatever skittered across the stone floor.

He slept badly, unable to relax, most of the time half awake, drifting in and out of dreams. Often he was finally oblivious of his surroundings only just before the sound of boots on the stone jerked him back into reality. There was a moment when he was still mercifully confused, then opening his eyes brought it all back to him: the physical discomfort, the aching in his body, the scratching on his skin, then the memory that there would be no hot shave, just a scraping of his cheeks with soap and cold water from a bucket. There would be no fresh toast, sharp marmalade, hot fragrant tea. There would be porridge and then tea, dark and stewed, acrid. Still, it was better than hunger or thirst.

Would he have to get used to this? Might it be like this for years? As far ahead as he could see? As a judge he had sentenced men to that. As a lawyer he had pleaded for it, and against it, as he was hired to do, taking whichever side he was offered.

Did that mean he was without conviction, doing anything he was paid for? Or that he believed in the system? And did this adversarial—almost gladiatorial—system produce justice? The system did not look the same from here. It was frightening, offering no certainty of good to come.

He sat in the miserable cell with the noise of other men living around him; he was turning the case over in his mind for the thousandth time to no end, when the chief jailer came. He had the keys in his hands.

“Someone’s paid bail for you, Mr. Rathbone,” he said, his voice expressionless, except to emphasize the “Mr.,” but his eyes were bright and sharp. “I suppose you’ll be going home for a while now. Good lawyer you must have. All stick together, I expect. You being a larnt-up man, like, I suppose you’ll know your Shakespeare …”