Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (6 page)

Rathbone’s instinct was to defend the police, but he bit the words back. Instead it was Beata who spoke.

“There is no point in catching people who commit fraud if they can’t be successfully prosecuted,” she observed. “As Sir Oliver says, it is the certainty that stops people, not the weight of the punishment. Surely no one commits a crime if they know they will have to pay for it.”

Mary Allan turned to her. “I don’t see your meaning,” she said, her brow furrowed. “If the police find sufficient proof then is that not all we need?”

Beata looked at her husband with a slight warning in her expression, then at Mary Allan. “With the right prosecution and the right judge, yes of course it is.” She lifted her wineglass so the others noticed it. “Let us drink to success.”

“To success,” they echoed obediently.

The subject changed to other matters. Beata asked if anyone else had been to the theater lately.

Bertrand Allan surprised Rathbone by saying that he had been to the music hall a short while ago, in order to see Mr. John “Jolly” Nash perform. Catching sight of York’s raised eyebrows he hastened to explain that he had done so because he had heard that Nash was a favorite of the Prince of Wales, who particularly, it was said, enjoyed his rendition of “Rackety Jack.”

“Really?” Beata responded with interest. “I hadn’t heard.” Mary Allan looked blank.

Rathbone glanced at Beata, who instantly concealed a smile. He looked away.

“I believe Mr. Nash is somewhat …” Beata hesitated, looking for the right word.

“It was for gentlemen only,” Allan assured her.

“Then uncensored it would be, I imagine, to the prince’s taste,” Beata observed. “How entertaining.”

Rathbone was happy to watch and listen. He went to the theater very seldom these days. He realized with a sudden dismay that he and Margaret had gone on only a few occasions and had rarely cared for the same work. How often had he pretended to agree with her when he had not? Her opinions had seemed predictable to him; they provoked no new questions in his mind, stirred no questions he had not considered before, stirring no new depth of emotion.

It had not occurred to him until now to wonder how often she had
feigned an interest in something he had chosen, probably hiding her boredom more skillfully, and perhaps more kindly, than he had done.

The subject had moved to another play now, something a little more decorous. Beata was guiding the conversation into more comfortable areas.

“Did you like it?” Rathbone asked her a trifle abruptly, and then felt ashamed of his clumsiness. He wanted to add something to make it seem less demanding but did not know what.

She seemed amused, far more so than Allan, who had been about to speak and was now at a loss.

York looked from one to the other of them, his expression unreadable.

Beata gave an elegant little shrug. “You have caught me out, Sir Oliver. I’m not certain that I did. People are talking about it, but I fear it is more for the performance than any content of the drama itself. I would have found it more interesting if it had concluded less satisfactorily. An awkward ending would have given one something to think about.”

“People don’t like confused endings,” Mary Allan pointed out.

“A thing should be either a comedy, in which case the ending is happy, or else a tragedy, when it is not,” Allan agreed, supporting his wife.

York was amused. He watched them with undisguised satisfaction.

Beata turned her wineglass gently, watching the light glow through it. Rathbone noticed that she had beautiful hands.

“Surely life is both, even farce at times?” she asked. “A little ambiguity, even confusion, allows you to come to some of your own conclusions. I rather enjoy having to complete the thoughts myself. If the answer is easy, the question hardly seems worth asking.”

“It’s a play—entertainment,” Mary Allan frowned. “We want to enjoy ourselves, perhaps laugh a little. There are times when I find tragedies moving, but I admit it is not very often. And I prefer the ones I know, such as
Hamlet
. At least I am prepared to see everyone dead at
the end.” She said it with a slight, rueful gesture, robbing the remark of any offense.

Beata accepted it without demur. “There is so much in
Hamlet
one may see it dozens of times and never grow tired of it. Of course, that needs to be over several years!”

Rathbone laughed in spite of himself, and reluctantly Allan joined in.

“Did it make you think?” York asked, looking pointedly at Rathbone.

“It certainly made me wonder how on earth an actor can remember all those lines and have energy and attention left to pour emotion into them as well, while still managing not to fall over the furniture,” he answered.

“Training,” York said drily. “They only recite the words; they don’t have to invent them. And a wise stage manager keeps the furniture to a minimum.”

“Perhaps that explains why judges are allowed to remain seated,” Rathbone suggested, then wished he had not.

Mary Allan looked at him as if he were totally eccentric, York pulled a slight face, and Bertrand Allan was confused. Only Beata half hid a smile.

“I hear that the police are investigating the possibility of fraud in one of the local London churches,” York remarked, changing the subject.

“Really! I wonder if that will come to trial.” Allan looked at York, slightly turning his back toward Rathbone.

“Not certain if they can raise enough evidence to make a charge.” York smiled, taking another piece of Stilton. He ate it with relish before replying. “I am very relieved that I am extremely unlikely to get the case. It is always messy prosecuting a churchman.” He looked across at Rathbone with a gleam of amusement. “After your success with this one, perhaps you’ll get it.”

Rathbone was caught out, uncertain as to whether it was a compliment or a joke at his expense. Had he appeared to be too pleased with himself? A case of fraud against a church would not be easy at all.

Intentionally he deflected the barb. “You are quite right; anything to do with religion, money, and the possibility of fraud will make headlines. People will follow the case for all kinds of reasons, good and bad. It will be the topic of heated debates, and no matter what the verdict, it will infuriate as many people as it pleases.” He smiled very slightly. “For that reason alone, I imagine they will be very careful as to whom they give it. I have been fortunate so far, but my experience is very slight.” He turned to Allan. “If you appear in this one, would you prefer prosecution or defense?”

“I don’t think I would be likely to get a choice,” Allan replied. “But I do agree with you that it will be very high profile—if it actually comes to trial at all, that is.”

“Who could a church defraud?” Mary Allan asked of no one in particular. “They are not doing any business. Do they handle so much money that fraud would even be worth their while? Surely not.”

“We will see, if it comes to trial,” York answered her.

She looked concerned. “Do you think it will?”

York considered for a few moments, aware that they were all watching him and waiting. He gave a small smile. “I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I would say about evens.” He looked at Rathbone, then at Allan.

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “If you were a betting man, what would be your odds on getting a conviction?”

York blinked. “Ten to one against, I should think.”

“What a good thing you are not a betting man,” Beata murmured. “The temptation would be enormous.”

York opened his mouth to retort sharply, and, realizing that she was not even looking at him, closed it again with irritation.

Rathbone saw the smile on Beata’s face, sad, wry, and completely inward, not intended to communicate with anyone else. He wondered what the conversation between her and York would be when the guests were gone and they were alone—or even if there would be any.

Mary Allan gazed around the room. “I think this is so charming,” she remarked, as if everyone had been speaking of décor the moment before. “The colors are so restful, and yet have such dignity.”

“Thank you,” York replied, acknowledging the compliment without even glancing at Beata. Rathbone assumed he must’ve chosen the colors himself.

“I think if I were to do it again, I would choose something warmer,” Beata said deliberately.

York raised his eyebrows. “Warmer? How can blue be warmer, unless you go into purple, which I would dislike intensely. I cannot imagine living with purple curtains.”

She did not retreat. “I was thinking of yellow,” she replied. “I have always thought I would like yellow one day, like sunlight on the walls.”

Rathbone thought how pleasant that would be. He found himself smiling.

“A yellow room?” Mary Allan said, unimpressed.

“What would you do for curtains?” York asked. “I refuse to live in the middle of a glass bowl like a goldfish!”

“Perhaps the color of whisky?” Rathbone suggested.

Beata flashed him a sudden smile then looked down the moment before York turned to stare at her.

“It sounds very …” Mary Allan started, and then gave up.

“Like scrambled eggs on burned toast,” York responded.

Allan laughed nervously.

“Afternoon sunlight, and a good glass of single malt,” Rathbone said with a smile, meeting York’s eyes and challenging him to be rude enough to argue.

R
ATHBONE TURNED OVER THE
conversation again on the ride home. He took a hansom because he no longer kept a carriage of his own. He could easily afford it, but without Margaret to use it, it was an unnecessary luxury.

Was there really going to be a major fraud case brought against a church, or was York simply playing a game with Allan and Rathbone to see whose ambition was greater? He considered that quite a serious possibility. He had sensed a detachment in York, as if other people’s feelings
were of amusement to him, but of no concern. He found it disconcerting. The man was clever, but he could not like him.

Beata York was a different matter altogether. There was a grace in her that he found quite beautiful. Even sitting here in the hansom jolting over the cobble in the flickering light of street lamps, if he closed his eyes he could see her face again quite clearly in his mind’s eye. He imagined the curve of her cheek, the quick humor in her eyes, and then the loneliness he had seen in that single smile, when she disagreed with York but could do no more than hint at it because of the restrictions of company. Was it different when they were alone? Was the distance between them less disguised?

The church case he mentioned would be very difficult indeed to handle. People’s religious feelings ran deep and were often completely irrational. It would take considerable skill to disentangle the law of the land from what might be perceived to be God’s law. The trouble was everybody had a different picture of God. Opposing views were not considered interesting, but rather all too often were felt to be blasphemous, and as such to be punished. Some religions even considered it the duty of their followers to undertake the delivering of such punishment themselves.

And who were the victims of such a theft? That was a whole other complicated area.

If it came to trial, did Rathbone want that case? It would be an honor to be given it, wouldn’t it? Or would he get it simply because he was too new on the bench to have the power and the connections to pass it off to someone else?

But it would be interesting, a challenge to his skill, and if he succeeded he might build up a reputation for dealing with complicated and sensitive issues. Dangerous, perhaps. The risk of failure always carried a price, but the rewards were correspondingly high. He had no one to consider but himself. Why not? Perhaps something with high stakes to play for, whether he won or lost, was what he needed.

He sat back in the hansom and watched the dark houses slip by him. Occasionally he saw chinks of light and imagined families sitting
together, perhaps talking over the day. Where there were no lights they might already be in bed. He passed little other traffic and what there was moved briskly. Everyone had somewhere to go.

Yes, he would like the case, if he were given it. He would not look for excuses to pass it on.

A
FEW WEEKS LATER, INTO
the real warmth of the summer, Rathbone stood in the doorway of his drawing room and gazed at the immaculate beauty of the garden. Beyond the shade of the poplars the sun was hot. The first roses were in full bloom. The house next door had a rambler that had spread up into the lower branches of the trees, and its clusters of white blossoms gleamed in the sun.

His eyes took in the beauty of it, but it was curiously meaningless to him. His instinct to turn and say “Isn’t that lovely?” was so strong he had to remind himself there was nobody in the house to say it to. It was far too personal a thing to say to a servant. A maid would think it inappropriate and perhaps even be alarmed at the familiarity of it. A butler or footman would be embarrassed. To any of them it would betray his loneliness, and one did not do that. Servants knew perfectly well that masters or mistresses were flawed, made mistakes. No one was more aware of that than a lady’s maid or a valet. They knew of physical weaknesses and many emotional ones as well. But it was all unspoken.

He had lived alone quite happily before his marriage. In fact, long ago, when he had been in love with Hester and considering asking her to marry him, it has been the loss of his privacy, the thought of always having someone else in the house that had stopped him.

Could he have made her happy? Probably not the same way Monk did. He had not Monk’s fierce, brave, erratic passion. That was what Hester needed, to match her own.

But would Rathbone have tried, if he had had the courage to risk the hurt as well as the happiness? Now he would never know.

Should he have behaved differently with Margaret? He had been so certain of her, of them, in the beginning; it seemed incredible now how
that had changed. Was he deluding himself? He remembered it all so clearly with a sharpness that was like the edge of a knife on the skin. She was not beautiful, but she had had a grace that was worth far more to him. That was an inner quality. Too often beauty masked the lack of anything deeper. How long could one remain fascinated by the glow of lovely skin or the perfect curve of a cheek or a neck if there were no courage or passion beneath it, no laughter or imagination, above all, no tenderness?