Blind Justice

CHAPTER 16

In 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.

The next day Rathbone 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.

A couple of the jurors stirred to attention. Several of the others looked embarrassed, as if decency required that the end be swifter than this.

York sighed.

The usher repeated the call, and after a few more seconds a tall, lean man with receding hair emerged from the doors into the hall, walked across the floor, and climbed to the witness stand. He was duly sworn, and he faced Brancaster.

The man had a thin, intelligent face, deeply lined but good humored. Rathbone tried to place him, and failed.

Brancaster walked out onto the floor and looked up at Athlone with a slight smile.

“You are a professor of law, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Athlone agreed.

“And as well as the law itself, you have made a speciality of studying most of the more famous cases that are recent-shall we say, within the last thirty years?”

“Yes, sir,” Athlone replied.

York shifted his position and glanced at Wystan.

Wystan rose to his feet. “My lord, the prosecution is happy to stipulate that Sir Oliver has been an outstanding lawyer and won remarkably many cases. Indeed, we would state it positively. It is part of our own case that his extraordinary success has led to his arrogance, and is at the very least a witness to his supreme ambition. He must win at all costs, even the cost of loyalty to his wife and her family and, beyond that, to honor and to the principles of the law. That is the heart of the case against him.”

“If you believe the law is as important as you say,” Brancaster retorted instantly, “then you will allow that the accused is entitled to the best defense he is able to find.”

Wystan rolled his eyes, unusually expressively for him. “If this is the best defense you can find, then by all means, make it, sir!”

Brancaster bowed. “Thank you.” He turned back to Athlone.

“Professor, perhaps we might pick two or three of Sir Oliver’s most remarkable cases and mention, very briefly indeed, some of the truths that he uncovered in court, so that justice was done where it had previously appeared that the truth was the exact opposite of what had actually transpired. Shall we say one for the defense, one for the prosecution? And so that we do not exhaust the patience of the court, let us keep it to not more than five minutes each?”

“By all means,” Athlone agreed. Then he proceeded to tell the story of how Rathbone had defended a man who appeared to be unquestionably guilty but, by brilliant questioning, Rathbone had left no doubt at all, either with the jury or with the public in general, that another completely different person was in fact to blame.

Athlone recounted it with wit and a considerable flair for drama. Not a single member of the jury moved his eyes from him while he spoke. The people in the gallery sat motionless, silently staring at the witness box.

Athlone started with the second account, this time a case where Rathbone had appeared for the prosecution. The crime was particularly unpleasant and the proof slight. The defense was brilliant, and it seemed inevitable that, at least legally, there was reasonable doubt. This time Rathbone had found a witness who was able to discredit the accused totally, and within the space of minutes the entire trial turned the other way. The man was convicted.

At the end of his account several people in the gallery actually cheered. Even the jury looked impressed.

“That is an excellent example, Professor Athlone, but I rather expected you to cite the case of Mr. Wilton Jones.”

Athlone looked slightly puzzled. “Wilton Jones? Remind me, sir.”

“A man of great skill, and villainy,” Brancaster replied. “But his violence was always well concealed. Frequently he corrupted others to do his worst work. He presented himself as a gentleman, but he was greedy, cruel, and totally ruthless. That case was one of Sir Oliver’s greatest victories.”

“Ah. Yes.” Athlone smiled. “I believe I recall the case now. Was that not the one where another gentleman of excellent family, and rather a lot of influence, swore to Wilton Jones’s innocence, how he was misunderstood, misrepresented by lesser men envious of him …?”

Brancaster nodded and smiled.

“Yes, indeed,” Athlone picked up the thread. “Sir Oliver turned this witness against Wilton Jones. As I recall, he tripped him on a statement as to where he was at a particular time, and suddenly the witness changed his entire testimony. Instead of defending the accused, he condemned him. I believe Jones was found guilty and must still be in prison.” Athlone smiled, as though he were pleased to have been of use. “A brilliant piece of work,” he added.

“Justice was served.” Brancaster apparently could not resist adding the point. Then he turned to offer the witness to Wystan.

Wystan rose to his feet and all but swaggered out onto the floor before looking up at Athlone.

“I don’t recall the case myself, Professor, but you have described it particularly well-with a little prompting from my learned friend. You say that this witness-rather like Mr. Drew, come to think of it-suddenly changed his testimony. Was there any reason for it that you are aware of?”

Athlone looked slightly puzzled.

Rathbone could see what was coming. His mind was completely numbed. He couldn’t remember the case. Even the name Wilton Jones meant nothing to him. It seemed as if his mind was paralyzed.

“Professor?” Wystan prompted.

“He did change his mind absolutely, as I recall,” Athlone agreed. “Because Rathbone caught him out during his testimony. If I have the right case, of course?” He made it a question.

“Oh, I expect you do,” Wystan said, his tone lofty. To Rathbone, it seemed as if satisfaction oozed out of him. “You see, Sir Oliver did exactly the same thing recently, as a judge presiding over a case-he managed to change the sworn testimony of a witness, turning the verdict toward the side he personally had concluded to be right.” Wystan swung away from the witness stand, took a few steps, and then spun around again. “Professor, as the law is the subject upon which you are an expert-is it a judge’s task to decide whether the accused is guilty or innocent?”

“Of course not,” Athlone replied with just the slightest edge to his voice. “That is the duty of the gentlemen of the jury. The judge’s task is to preside over the proceedings and make certain that all is conducted fairly and according to the law.”

“Thank you, Professor. Now, if you please, tell us, how would counsel, or anyone else, make a witness suddenly recant his entire testimony-given under oath and therefore making him liable to charges of perjury-and then swear to the exact opposite?”

Athlone shrugged. “Catching him in a lie, making him see an error, making him fear reprisal, bribery … there are several possibilities.”

“Threat of ruin?” Wystan asked.

Athlone sighed. “Of course.”

Wystan smiled for the first time, so widely that he showed a flash of white teeth. “Thank you, Professor. You have been a perfect witness yourself.” He swiveled a little to Brancaster on a gesture of invitation.

Oddly enough, in that moment Rathbone felt most deeply for his father, who had chosen Brancaster with such faith. The pain of it was almost unbearable; it was like a stone weighing hard and heavy inside him.

Brancaster rose to his feet and looked up at Athlone. He took only a couple of steps out into the wide space of the floor. His body was rigid with tension.

“Professor, you agree that threat of ruin is a possible motive for changing testimony, even if it might result in charges of perjury, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Athlone agreed. “I imagine if the threat is serious enough, most of us would risk perjury.”

“As, for example, if an outwardly respectable man, possibly a man with power, feared the exposure of his proclivity for performing obscene and criminal sexual acts with small children?”

Athlone winced. “Of course. That would be extremely effective. And the more power the man in question possessed, the more effective such a threat of exposure would be.”

“He would be likely to testify however you wished him to?” Brancaster pursued.

Rathbone felt as if he were facing a firing squad. Whose pay was Brancaster in that he was doing this?

“Certainly,” Athlone agreed.

York looked satisfied, even pleased.

Wystan resembled the cat who had eaten the canary.

Brancaster shook his head. “What a terrifying thought. And of course the man who is the subject of such a photograph, who can be twisted this way and that, could be anyone, couldn’t he? What I mean is we do not know such people by sight; they would look exactly like any other respected and powerful man on the surface, wouldn’t they?”

“Of course,” Athlone agreed. “Your banker, your lawyer, your physician, your member of Parliament, for that matter. Even your judge in court, your minister in government, the senior officers of the police whose word might well be taken ahead of your own. Your bishop. Anyone at all.” He looked pale as he said it, and his voice was now hoarse with emotion. “The thought is a nightmare. A living hell of corruption.”

“I think you are frightening us, Professor,” Brancaster said grimly.

“I am frightening myself,” Athlone agreed. “It presents a terrifying image. I wish I could say it is a hideous dream and we shall awaken from it. But Mr. Wystan has made it clear that it is all too real.”

Suddenly Wystan looked puzzled. A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face.

Brancaster was still rigid.

“I think perhaps, Professor, we need to know what you mean. Of what specifically are you afraid, sir?”

Athlone was very grave. “I gather from what I have overheard while in the hall waiting to come in, and from the questions that both you and Mr. Wystan have asked me, that there is a serious question as to whether photographs of both obscenity and crime have been used to sway the testimony of witnesses in criminal trials. Mr. Wystan said that such a photograph is what Sir Oliver Rathbone is accused of having used and that it is a very reasonable suggestion, far too serious to be ignored, that another such photograph may have been used in another trial, again to oblige someone to change their testimony. It could not have been done unless he, or someone extremely close to him, was the subject of the photograph.” He looked harassed with anxiety.

There was not a whisper of breath in the court. Every juror stared at Athlone as if he had risen out of the ground like an apparition.

Brancaster was as motionless as a statue.

“Which forces us,” Athlone continued, “to ask how many of these photographs there are, and of whom? Perhaps the most terrifying thing of all is that, if we do not know, then we must suspect and fear everyone. And yet if we are not even aware of this horror, then it will continue unseen among us. Justice, the government, the police, the Church, medicine, every aspect of our lives may be poisoned by it, and we shall not know or understand why things go terribly wrong, or who is to blame.”

Wystan shot to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

“My lord! This is preposterous. Mr. Brancaster is blowing this completely out of proportion. He is attempting to frighten us out of all sense and judgment. It is perfectly reasonable to draw the conclusion that Rathbone used one of these vile photographs to cause Robertson Drew to change his testimony and thus condemn Abel Taft.” His face was ashen white. “Which, we may draw the unspeakable conclusion, caused the poor man to take not only his own life but also the lives of his wife and daughters …” He shook his head. “And though unproven, it is possible he has done this one other time in the past, judging from the facts Professor Athlone brought up. But implying this … this further web of terror is unnecessary and unfounded.”

“I agree,” York said a little hoarsely. He too was pale. “Mr. Brancaster, please restrict yourself to the matter in hand.”

Brancaster smiled, but there was no humility in it.

“My lord, Mr. Wystan opened the door by suggesting to Professor Athlone that Sir Oliver may have used obscene photographs in more than one trial. That necessarily implies that there are other photographs. How are we to know how many more?” His dark eyes were wide. “Or who possesses them? Is it a subject we can leave hanging in the air? The jury knows of them. The gallery knows of them.” He waved his hand airily in the direction of the gallery. “And no doubt when the newspapers are printed tomorrow morning, all London will know of them. Can we possibly put a lid on such a matter and hope it will stay closed? Indeed, the question is-should we?”

There was a terrible silence. Suspense crackled in the room like the air before a great storm. Not a juror moved.

Rathbone looked at York, whose face was pale, eyes like hollows and so dark as to seem lightless.

Then Rathbone looked at Wystan, and for the first time saw a shadow of unmistakable doubt in his face.

Was this the edge of the final disaster, or was it the beginning of hope? His heart pounded; the weight inside his chest was painful.

Very slowly Wystan rose to his feet. “My lord, I withdraw my objection. Mr. Brancaster is quite right. This prospect is too appalling to leave it in the air, unresolved. It would cause a public panic.”

York looked at Brancaster with loathing.

“You have raised a demon, sir. You will now deal with it.”

Brancaster inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I cannot do it alone, my lord, but I will seek such help as I need. Tomorrow morning I will call the accused to the stand.”

Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his body. It was a terrible gamble Brancaster was taking, but he was playing for the highest stakes of all-the complete exposure of the photographs with all the ruin they would bring. Was it a defense? It was certainly an attack. Could they win? Or was he prepared to sacrifice Rathbone if he had to, to end it once and for all?

If he were honest, Rathbone had to admit that, unwittingly, he had sacrificed himself.

It was the longest night Rathbone could recall. He tossed from one side of the wretched mattress to the other, hot one minute, cold the next. Did soldiers feel like this waiting to go into battle the next day? Victory and honor-or death? He had no escape. He was locked in, as he might be for years. However unrealistic it was, this was the last night he could cling to hope. He was torn between wanting to savor every minute of it and wishing it were over.

The morning began as the one before had, a breakfast of bread he could barely swallow and tea that was revolting. He took it all, to steady himself. He could not allow his nerves to betray him now.

Even so, he was sure his legs were shaking as he walked across the open floor to climb up the steps to the witness stand. Certainly he had to grip the railing to keep his balance. How ridiculous he would look if he fell down the stairway. Worse than that, he might injure himself, break an ankle. He would be vulnerable enough in prison without having broken bones.

But the humiliation of being carried off, unable even to testify, would be the worst. Was Beata York here today? He did not want to know. Would he look for Henry Rathbone’s face in the gallery? He was not even certain about that.

He had reached the top of the steps and held onto the rail, taking the Bible in his other hand and swearing on it to tell the truth.

What was the point of that? Didn’t accused men usually lie? Wasn’t that somewhat taken for granted? He could tell the truth as exactly and honorably as he wished, and most of the people here would still think him a liar.

He must look at Brancaster and concentrate. This was his only chance. The rest of his life depended on what he said now.

Brancaster was standing in front of him, looking up, his face intensely serious.

“Sir Oliver,” Brancaster began. “You have heard Mr. Wystan suggest that there might be a number of obscene photographs similar to the one of a witness in the trial of Abel Taft, a trial over which you presided. Do you know if indeed there are other such photographs?”

Rathbone cleared his throat. It was so tight he gulped before he could find his voice.

“Yes. There are nearly three score that I know of.”

“Really? So many. How do you know of them?”

“I … I have them.” How bold and ugly that sounded.

There was a rustle of movement in the gallery, gusts of breath let out, murmurs of disgust.

“I see,” Brancaster pursed his lips. “Do you know who is in them?”

“Not all of them. Of course, the one I gave Mr. Warne in the Taft trial, and one or two others.”

“How is it that you don’t know who is in all of them, if you own them?” Brancaster tried to look curious and succeeded only in looking wretched.

No one objected or interrupted, though York was drumming his fingers on the bench.

“I looked at them once,” Rathbone replied, remembering the incident with revulsion. “I should have destroyed them then, but I did not.”

“Why not?” Brancaster asked.

Rathbone thought back. “I recognized some of the faces. I was … stunned, horrified. As Mr. Wystan suggested, there are among the abusers men of great power and privilege. The man who possessed them before I did used them-at first to force those men into doing the right thing, saving lives rather than destroying them. I thought I might do the same. That was a mistake. Such power corrupts more than I realized. And-” He stopped abruptly. Was he telling the whole truth? Did he really wish he had destroyed them all? After all, he had done some good with them. Exactly as Arthur Ballinger had done, in the beginning. It was Ballinger’s final revenge: to make Rathbone into what he himself had become. Exquisite. If he were somewhere in a hell of his own and could see this, he would be savoring it. There was a perfect irony to it.

“You were going to say …?” Brancaster pressed him.

“And I am not immune,” Rathbone said bitterly.

“You spoke of a previous owner,” Brancaster observed. “Who was it? And how did you come to own them?”

York looked sharply at Wystan, but Wystan did not move.

Rathbone realized with a flood of amazement that Wystan intended Brancaster to uncover this story. He had perceived a greater purpose than merely convicting Rathbone of having transgressed the law in the trial of Taft. There was a greater issue at stake. Had that been Brancaster’s game all along? If so, it was dangerous, but perhaps brilliant.

“Sir Oliver?” Brancaster prompted. “However unpleasant the truth, and whoever it implicates, this matter is too grave to remain secret any longer. It is not your own innocence you are protecting, or that of any other individual. The honor and integrity of all our institutions is at stake. Perhaps it would not be too extreme to say it is the core of justice itself, for which you have fought all your professional life, at no matter what cost to yourself. Over and over again you have risked your reputation to defend those whom others had condemned or abandoned.”

Wystan stirred in his seat.

Brancaster knew he would be allowed no more latitude.

Rathbone knew it also.

“I don’t know how much detail you wish me to tell,” he began, then had to stop and clear his throat.

“All that is necessary for the court to understand is the nature of the photographs, and how it is that you possess them,” Brancaster instructed.

There was no escape. The truth must be told publicly. Rathbone could see Margaret in the gallery, well toward the front. She was here to watch his humiliation, the end of the career she thought he had placed before honor or loyalty. He could not protect her from the facts anymore.

When he began, his voice was surprisingly steady.

“There was a club created by a man of very comfortable means,” he said. “So far as I know he did not indulge in obscene pastimes himself, but he understood the excitement some men feel when they deliberately expose themselves to intense danger. The photographs I have mentioned were the initiation rite to this particular club. It was in a way a safeguard to each member; a way to ensure no one spoke about the obscenities being practiced by all of them.”

No one moved. No one even attempted to interrupt him.

He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. Then he continued. “They were also a perfect tool for blackmail. The man who created the club told me that the photographs were never used merely to extort money, and I believed him. It was always about power. He said that the first time he used one, it was to oblige a senior judge to rule on a case in such a way that a factory owner would be forced to stop the effluent from his works polluting the drinking water of a large number of poor people who were becoming diseased, even dying, as a result.” Again he took a deep breath. He felt as if his pounding heart was shaking his whole body. “At first I was repulsed by the idea of such blackmail, no matter the ultimate outcome. Then I thought of the children dying of the poison in the water, and the factory owner’s refusal to sacrifice some of his profit to clean it up.” His voice was growing stronger, the pain inside him easing. “I wondered-if I had the same power, would I refuse to use it and let the children die? Would it be better to cost many innocent people their health, merely to keep my hands clean of such methods?”

There seemed to be not even a breath drawn in the room.

“He chose to use the weapon he had,” Rathbone said. “I do not blame him for that.”

There were murmurs now, voices in the gallery.

“That was the only specific example he gave me, but he said there were others like it,” Rathbone continued. “I did look up that case, and the judgment. He was speaking the truth. The industrialist he mentioned had steadily refused to yield until the judgment went against him. I also know the photograph existed because I have seen it.”

“That is very frightening indeed,” Brancaster said grimly. “But it does not explain how you come to have these photographs now.”

“I was still horrified,” Rathbone went on. He knew there was no escape now. It was far too late. “I participated in the closure of the two different clubs involved. The whole situation included the murder of a man who ran one of them, a man named Mickey Parfitt. It was investigated by the police. The man was of the dregs of humanity, but murder is still a crime, no matter who the victim or who the offender.”

He looked at last at Margaret, and saw her staring back at him. Her face was twisted in anger and so white she seemed bloodless. There was no going back now.

“Sir Oliver …” Brancaster prompted him again.

“The man accused of the murder was prosecuted,” Rathbone resumed. He was finding it difficult to speak. His mouth was so dry it was blurring his words. “I was asked to defend him, and to begin with I believed him innocent. Then another person was also murdered, a young woman who was no more than a witness. It soon became clear that her death was planned by this man, in order to keep her from testifying. But I still did all I could to defend him, because that was my duty before the law, no matter what my own feelings. I tried everything I could think of, but I failed. He was found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.”

Brancaster did not move or speak. No one in the entire court seemed to do more than breathe.

“He asked me after the sentence was handed down to visit him,” Rathbone went on. His voice suddenly sounded loud in his own ears. “I did so. That was when he told me of the existence of scores more photographs. He said that if I did not find a way to save him from the rope they would fall into the hands of someone he trusted, and the blackmail would go on. I would have no power to stop it, and the foundations of everything we value would be undermined. He told me there were judges; government ministers; bishops; leaders of industry, science, and the army and navy; even distant members of the royal family involved, if not captured in the pictures themselves.”

Rathbone felt again the desperation with which he, Hester, and Monk had searched everywhere they could think of for those damned photographs.

“And you found them?” Brancaster asked in the total silence that followed.

“No,” Rathbone replied. “I went back to plead with him, and … and I found him murdered in prison.” The horror of that scene crept over his skin again like an infestation of lice. “It … it made me realize just how wide and how deep this circle of corruption went. The police never found out who killed him.”

“But you did not find the photographs?” Brancaster’s voice cracked as he spoke.

“No,” Rathbone answered. “That was the bitter irony. They found me. The man had left them with his solicitor, left them to me in his will, to be delivered to me as a final punishment for not having saved him.”

Brancaster smiled bitterly. “And this man you refer to-that would be your father-in-law, Arthur Ballinger?”

“Yes,” Rathbone said huskily. “It would.”

In her seat in the second row, Margaret sat like stone, as if she would never move again.

Rathbone would have spared her that. But there was nothing he could do. The reality was there in the courtroom like something alive, unstoppable.

“Thank you, Sir Oliver,” Brancaster said with a sigh. He turned to Wystan.

Wystan rose to his feet stiffly.

“It paints a very clear picture, my lord. I imagine Mr. Brancaster will be calling other witnesses to verify your story. For the sake of many people who may be implicated, I would like to reserve my questions until that has been done.”

York, his face full of anger, adjourned the court.