Blind Justice

CHAPTER 7

Rathbone did not sleep well but was at last resting dreamlessly when his valet woke him. He was startled to see the warm sunlight through the gap in the curtains. He sat up slowly, his head heavy.

“Damn!” he said miserably. “What time is it, Dover? Am I late?”

“No, sir.” Dover’s face was very grave. “It is still quite early.”

Rathbone heard the seriousness in his voice. “What is it?” he asked a little sharply. “You sound as if someone had died.” He meant it with sarcasm.

“Yes, sir, I’m very much afraid so,” Dover replied.

Rathbone blinked, straightening up. Then suddenly he was ice cold. His father! His chest tightened and he could not breathe. The room seemed to disappear, and all he could see was Dover’s white face. He tried to speak and no sound came.

“The case you were presiding over, sir.” Dover’s voice came from far away. “The man accused … a Mr. Abel Taft, I believe …” He went on speaking but Rathbone did not hear him.

The room steadied itself, and the warmth flooded back into his body, which was tingling with life. Dover was still talking and Rathbone had not heard a word of it.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

Dover swallowed and began again. “Mr. Taft, sir. The police left a message for you. I’m afraid he has taken his own life. Shot himself. But before doing so it appears that he suffocated his wife and his two daughters. I’m very sorry, sir. It is most distressing. I thought you should know immediately. It is bound to be in at least some of the daily newspapers. I do not know what is the correct procedure in court, but no doubt there will have to be an alteration in the arrangements.”

Rathbone swung his legs out of bed and stood up slowly, swaying for a moment before regaining his balance. “I shall shave and dress,” he said. “And consider what would be best to do. The only part of the trial remaining was the summations. His suicide would make them appear redundant … as indeed a verdict would be. Society will make its own judgment now.” He took a shaky breath. “But in God’s name, why kill his poor family?”

“I have no idea, sir,” Dover said quietly. “It seems a very terrible thing to do. I assume the verdict would have been against him?”

“Yes. But it was only for fraud, not murder. He could have faced prison, but that is survivable. Difficult, unpleasant, but far from a death sentence.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like kippers for breakfast, sir, or eggs?”

Rathbone felt his stomach clench.

“Just toast, thank you,” he replied.

“It may be a difficult day, sir. It is better not to face it on an empty stomach.”

Rathbone looked at him and saw the concern in his face. He was doing his job.

“You are quite right. Scrambled eggs, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Half an hour later Rathbone sat at the dining-room table. The scrambled eggs had been excellent, the tea was hot and fresh and the toast crisp, the marmalade just as sharp as he liked it. But all he could think of was Abel Taft shooting himself. Why? Was the disgrace really more than he could bear? Could he not face his wife and daughters’ disillusionment in him?

Or was it his own disillusion in Robertson Drew? Had he really trusted him and had no idea of the man’s secret indulgences? Could he have known of them, and perhaps believed that Drew had repented and changed? Did something of his own value depend on his ability to bring others to redemption?

No, that was a foolish thought. Taft was charged with fraud, with taking money given for a specific purpose and diverting it to his own use. Squeaky Robinson had found ample proof of his guilt. This had nothing to do with Drew’s proclivities.

Maybe his death had been an act of momentary despair, perhaps after a heavy night of drinking, an indulgence he might well not be used to. But to kill his wife and children as well!

Had Rathbone driven him to that? Was this his fault?

No! He had driven himself to it, first by fraud, then by believing in a man like Drew, and either using him, or trusting him without any care or responsibility.

It would have to be declared a mistrial. The police would be left to clear up the tragic deaths of his family.

Dover was standing in the dining-room doorway, his face still as grave and shocked as before.

“Yes?” Rathbone asked. Had time slipped by so it was already half past eight and he should be going?

“The police are here, sir. They wish to speak with you,” Dover said.

That was a trifle prompt. Of course, they would be here to inform him officially of Taft’s death. They would hardly rely on his servants to tell him. Rathbone folded his napkin and stood up.

The police were waiting in the hall. There were two of them, the younger one in uniform. That seemed more than was necessary to pass on a fairly simple message, even a tragic one.

“Oliver Rathbone?” the elder of the two asked grimly.

Rathbone noticed the omission of his title and thought it a trifle rude, but it would be petty and self-important to correct the man.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“Inspector Haverstock. I’m afraid I must arrest you, sir, for perverting the course of justice in the case against Abel Taft. I don’t want to handcuff you, but if you offer any resistance I will be obliged to. It would be best for us all if you were to make no resistance. I’m sure you don’t want to be seen struggling with the police in front of your household staff.” His voice was polite but there was no mistaking the threat in his words.

Rathbone froze. This was preposterous. It made no sense at all. Arrest him? They couldn’t. It …

“Sir!” Haverstock said warningly.

The other man, a constable, came a step closer, his young face flushed with embarrassment.

Rathbone drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting to compose himself.

“I have no intention of making a fuss,” he said more tartly than he had intended to. “I have not perverted the course of justice. On the contrary, I have done all I can to see that justice prevails.”

Haverstock did not yield an inch.

“Nevertheless, sir, I am arresting you on that charge as I have been instructed, and you will come with us to the police station. You will be formally arraigned later in the day. Is there anyone you would like to inform? Perhaps you would like to give instruction to your own counsel, whoever he is.”

“No, thank you,” Rathbone snapped. “I think that this will be cleared up and apologized for within a very short while. I am due to preside over the unfortunate end of what will inevitably be a mistrial at the Old Bailey this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Haverstock agreed without the slightest change of expression. “I imagine they will call on someone else to do that. Now, if you will come with us, sir …” It was a command, and Rathbone had no choice but to obey, one police officer on either side of him, like any other prisoner.

Later that afternoon, shocked and still in a daze, Rathbone rode through the streets toward the magistrate’s court, thank heaven in an ordinary cab, but sitting with Haverstock to one side of him and the younger man on the other, all of them squashed together uncomfortably. It was like a bad dream, full of confusion. What exactly had happened? They could only be referring to the photograph. There was nothing else. But how did they know Rathbone had had anything to do with it? At least in theory, it could have come from anywhere.

Warne could not have told anyone where he got it. He had received it under privilege. Rathbone had done that as much to protect Warne as to safeguard himself.

Who else knew Rathbone had them? Only Monk, Hester, and Henry Rathbone. None of them would have told anyone. What had happened? He could hear the rattle of the wheels over the cobbles, the clatter of the horses’ hoofs, shouts of other drivers, the general noise of the streets, and none of it seemed real. No one in the cab spoke.

When they reached the building, he was taken in through a back door. There were a few people standing around, even at this hour. A man in ragged clothes leaned against a wall, obviously much the worse for drink. As Rathbone passed close by him he could smell the stench of stale alcohol and human waste.

Inside, in the entrance hall, a woman was sitting in one of the low seats, leaning forward. Her neckline was so deep half her bosom showed. Her occupation was not difficult to guess. A youth with a pinched face was staring at her, but she did not appear to be aware of him. Perhaps she was used to being gawped at by men.

Haverstock guided Rathbone toward a constable on duty beside the door into the courtroom and spoke to him briefly. The constable nodded, avoiding Rathbone’s eyes. He was clearly embarrassed. He listened, nodded again, and went inside. He was gone several minutes and they waited in silence for him.

Rathbone felt panic well up inside him. This was real. He was not going to wake up in his own bed, covered in sweat and gasping with relief. He had no idea when he was ever going to see his own house again. Now all the things in it that reminded him of Margaret, of loneliness and failure, seemed infinitely sweet by comparison, with this bare, stifling corridor filled with the smell of dirt and sweat.

But that was ridiculous! What he had done was within the law. He had had information relevant to a case and he had handed it to the prosecution for them to use as they thought fit. He had obtained the information perfectly legally. It had been bequeathed to him. He would explain that to the magistrate. The man was probably someone he knew and would likely dismiss the charge-even apologize.

He wondered if they had arrested Warne for this also. But that seemed ridiculous; the man had obtained the photograph under privilege, and he had used it. What was he supposed to have done? Ignored it? Allow Robertson Drew to tear everyone else’s reputations apart, by implication, but preserve his own? The men he had torn down, and the woman, had done nothing illegal, but Drew had. Sodomy was a crime punishable by imprisonment, never mind the moral outrage of so using a child. Even if he was not guilty of fraud-and he may well have been-he certainly wasn’t the upstanding citizen he claimed to be.

There was no more time to think about it. The door opened in front of him again, and he was led through into the magistrates’ court. It had been years since he had had any occasion to be in one. It was very small and shabby compared with the Old Bailey. There was no open space to separate the judge from the people, no tall witness stand with curved steps up to it. The magistrate sat behind a very ordinary wooden bench.

“Oliver Rathbone,” the clerk said, reading from a piece of paper in his hand. “Charged with perverting the course of justice.”

The magistrate looked at Rathbone, then blinked and looked a good deal harder. He opened his mouth to say something and changed his mind.

Rathbone racked his memory to see if he could place the man. Did he know him? If not as a magistrate, then perhaps he knew him as a lawyer? Nothing came to him. But his mind was in chaos anyway, numb with disbelief.

“How do you plead, Mr.… Sir … Sir Oliver?” The magistrate was clearly extremely uncomfortable. He was a small man perhaps in his forties, balding early.

“Not guilty,” Rathbone replied. His voice sounded a good deal steadier than he had expected it to.

Haverstock moved his weight from one foot to the other. “We request remand in custody.”

Rathbone swiveled around to stare at him in disbelief. Custody? Jail!

The magistrate gulped, and stared at the inspector. “Are you sure? This-”

“Yes, sir.” He seemed about to add something then thought better of it.

That was it. In two or three minutes it was all over. It was embarrassing, even humiliating, yet if this nightmare went on, far worse would be to come. There was no use in Rathbone protesting his innocence. “Perverting the course of justice” was a catchall sort of charge anyway. It covered all kinds of things. That was absurd! This was just a temporary, rather ridiculous exercise in fear and public shame. It was a revenge, but not by Taft. He was dead.

Again Rathbone wondered why on earth the man had killed himself. A verdict of guilty would have been the end of his ministry, but not of his life. And why in God’s name would he harm his wife and children? Had he gone completely insane?

Clearly the answer to that was that yes, he had, tragically so. But was his suicide an admission of guilt? Or was it only defeat, despair, the conviction that there was no justice? Did a man kill himself for that? Yes, possibly. But to first murder his wife and children? Perhaps he believed he was so vital to them that they would not survive without him and saw it as a favor.

Was he in some way responsible for that? No; most criminals had some innocent person who depended on them. That wasn’t reason enough to let them go. And what of those who were dependent upon the victim?

Haverstock cleared his throat, and Rathbone realized it had all been finished, decided. He was ushered outside and walked between the two policemen the short distance along the pavement and into the waiting cab.

The jail where he was to be held until trial was a continuation of the nightmare, which was growing stronger as the numbing effect of shock wore off. Once inside the doors his manacles were removed and he stood dazed, rubbing his wrists while he was very briefly informed of what would happen to him. He heard only half of it: it amounted to little more than indistinguishable sounds washing around him. He was more aware of the smell, thick and stale, filling his nostrils. It grew so powerful it churned his stomach, closing in on him even more than the walls.

He was searched, and his personal belongings were taken away except for his handkerchief. The items were all recorded carefully by a constable with copperplate handwriting: fountain pen, card case, notebook, small comb, wallet containing money. His money had been meticulously counted and came to a lot: four pounds, eight shillings, and seven pence halfpenny, as much as some people earned in a month. They searched again to make sure that was all he had. Some people carried more things in their pockets, he supposed. He thought better of telling them that gentlemen did not; it spoiled the line of a well-tailored jacket.

Then he was put in a barred cell. Perhaps he should count himself fortunate that he was alone, even though he was clearly visible to the inmates of the cells opposite him. There was no privacy. Perhaps even this much safety might not last if the prison became busy and they had to put someone else in with him.

The other men were staring at him now, curious, interested. He was different from them; everything about him said so, from his carefully barber-cut hair to his white shirt with its starched collar, from his Savile Row suit to his well-polished fine kid boots. Even his hands betrayed him: clean and soft compared to those of a laborer, with no ingrained dirt around his nails.

Even without these features, as soon as he spoke his pronunciation and his choice of words would give him away. He wondered how long it would be before he was recognized as a judge, a natural enemy-in fact the worst one: the man who actually sentenced the convicted to prison or to death.

In truth he had never sentenced a man to death. He had been a judge for only a short time, less than a year. He had been a lawyer all his adult life, both prosecuting and defending. He had won far more of his cases than he had lost. Perhaps he would soon find himself pleading his own defense in front of other prisoners hungry for the only revenge they could see against the relentless machinery of the law, which was usually beyond their reach.

Of course he had been inside prison before. He had visited lots of men, and women, accused of all sorts of crimes. Latterly they had been largely serious crimes: rape, treason, murder. Everyone had known that one did not hire Oliver Rathbone for a mere robbery.

How long would it be before someone knew, and then everyone did? He realized for the first time that he was not only humiliated, he was physically afraid of being alone among the other prisoners. Surely it would not be long before he was able to get help and this ridiculous situation would be over.

But what if the situation was never over and he was here for years? What could he have missed that had landed him here? The photographs were his. Goddamn Ballinger, he had left them to Rathbone in his will, there was proof of that at least. Ballinger had not stolen them from anyone, so his possession of them was also aboveboard, however disgraceful his intentions had been.

Of course they might have been considered seriously pornographic, if sold, or even publicly displayed. But he had not been accused of possessing pornography. Was that yet to come? The thought made his whole body flush with heat, followed by a chill that left the sweat on his skin like ice. He would be more ashamed of that than of an accusation such as theft or even physical violence. It was obscene, unbearably shameful.

Perhaps if it had been Drew who had taken his own life, Rathbone could have understood his actions. Or might Taft be in one of the photographs as well, and Rathbone had simply not remembered it? He had looked at them only once when he first received them. The sight revolted him to nausea. What if that was why Taft had taken his own life? He might’ve thought that if Warne had the pictures of Drew he might have others. Even so, why kill his wife and daughters? With him dead no one would have reason to expose the picture.

Could someone see his actions as coercion? He had given the picture to Warne without telling him what to do with it. He had left it up to him what to decide. Or had Warne felt the pressure implicit? Rathbone was a judge, and as such, a man of unique power and responsibility. Is that how the police would see it? Could it be Warne who had spoken to them?

Hardly. Warne had received the photograph under privilege, and he had used it. That made him as guilty as Rathbone, morally if not legally.

But it was the law they were concerned with.

Gavinton? It made the most sense-except he could not know that it was Rathbone who had given the picture to Warne. Deduction! From the story Hester had told, it was not a great leap of reasoning. It was no secret that Rathbone had not only been the lawyer to represent Ballinger when he came to trial, he had been his son-in-law. Yes, that made sense.

But what else could he have done once he remembered that he had seen Robertson Drew in the photograph? Silence was unacceptable. Should he have recused himself?

Of course he should’ve. As soon as he recognized Drew. But that would have taken from him the power to … what? The power to make certain that justice was done?

How monstrously arrogant! As if he thought nobody else was capable enough, or honorable enough, to do that. Hundreds of people were! It was terrible, and ridiculous to suggest otherwise.

Legally, he should have recused himself. He was caught-guilty.

“Eh! Mr. Fancypants!” one of the prisoners in a cell opposite yelled out. “Wot are you doin’ in ’ere wi’ the likes of us, then? Pick someone’s pocket, did yer?”

There was laughter from beside the taunter, although Rathbone could not see the other occupants of the cell.

Rathbone smiled bitterly. “Sir Fancypants to you,” he corrected with a twisted smile.

There was another guffaw of laughter.

“We got a right comic ’ere!” the prisoner opposite told his fellows. He made an elaborate bow, sweeping his arm up in the air before bending low. “We’re goin’ ter ’ave some proper entertainment, fellers. Something ter keep us from dyin’ o’ boredom in the long days. Eh! Fancypants! Can yer dance, then? Or sing, mebbe?”

“No,” Rathbone told him. “Can you?”

“We can teach yer,” the man replied. “Can’t we, fellers? Teach yer ter sing real ’igh. And mebbe dance real fast too, an’ light on yer feet, if yer try.”

This was met by an even more raucous bellow of laughter.

Rathbone wanted to reply with something witty and brave, but his mouth was suddenly dry as dust. He knew what they meant by “sing” and “dance.” He had not realized before how afraid he was of physical pain. Would he even survive this?

But it wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. At worst he was guilty of misjudgment, not a crime. He would pay whatever fine was necessary, sell the house. It was no real asset to him now, without Margaret, and there wouldn’t be any family to need it.

If he were found guilty of this, his career was finished anyway. That was a new thought. Even if he survived prison and came out alive and whole-no broken arms or legs, no knives in the back or other injuries of prison violence, no disease-his life would be irrevocably different.

“Hey! Fancypants! Gone deaf, ’ave yer? Too good ter speak to the likes of us, then?” The voice was jeering now, on the edge of anger.

“Sorry. Did you speak to me?” Rathbone kept his voice almost steady, his tone neither afraid nor aggressive. It was not easy.

“I said-can yer dance?” came the reply.

“Oh, yes, moderately. But I like a space a little larger than this. Cramped, don’t you think?” There was a ring of bravado in his words. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

“Yer know, Fancypants, yer might be worth keepin’ alive. I like you.”

“Thank you,” Rathbone answered, not at all sure if the idea was good or bad.

At that point the jailer came back and walked over to Rathbone’s cell, but he did not open the door. Instead he spoke to him through the bars.

“Anyone as we should tell you’re ’ere?” he asked. “If yer go missin’ I expect it’ll take ’em a while ter look for yer, like.”

Rathbone had deliberately put off facing that decision. He refused to think what his father would feel when the news reached him. It was too painful to acknowledge. It paralyzed all thought.

Who would he ask? Who would help-or would even try? There could be only one answer-Monk.

“Yes,” he said, meeting the guard’s eyes. “Mr. William Monk. He is commander of the Thames River Police at Wapping. If you would be good enough to tell him what has happened, and that I am here …”

The guard shrugged heavy shoulders. “Yer’d be a lot better off wi’ a lawyer, but if that’s wot yer want, I’ll send a message,” he agreed. “See where it gets yer.” And he wrote it down carefully on a piece of paper, then disappeared, leaving Rathbone to sit down on the straw-filled mattress and wait.

Hester was troubled as she worked in the kitchen. It was a beautiful afternoon, warm and bright, but she was unaware even of the sunlight streaming in through the window and making patterns on the floor. Oliver Rathbone had been arrested and charged with obstructing justice. Squeaky Robinson had heard and sent her a message in the middle of the morning. Rathbone was in prison and might be there until he was tried.

It seemed inconceivable. Yesterday he was presiding in court over the end, in all but formality, of the trial of Abel Taft. Now Taft and his whole family were dead and Rathbone was in prison.

She was unaware of Scuff standing in the doorway until she turned and bumped into him. She jumped back and nearly dropped the jug she was carrying.

Usually he would have apologized. Today he stood his ground, his face clouded with worry.

“Is it true?” he asked.

She eased the jug down on the nearest bench awkwardly. She had known this was going to happen and been trying to prepare what she would tell him. Now she must come up with an answer that was honest and yet did not frighten him. He was getting tall, growing out of his clothes every few months, but he was still a child in so many ways. It would be easy to frighten him, on the one hand, by letting him see how fragile his precious world really was, and yet to patronize him with lies he could see through would be worse. It would make it difficult for him to trust her, and with Scuff trust was a delicate matter.

“Yes, it’s true Sir Oliver is in prison,” she said, walking back toward the stove to pull the kettle onto the hob. This sort of thing was best discussed at the table, over tea. It was not something to talk about when half your mind was on something else.

“What did ’e do?” Scuff asked, following her into the kitchen. There was an edge of fear in his voice.

The kettle was not going to boil for a few minutes; there was no need to reach for cups and the tea caddy yet.

“They are saying that he tried to twist the course of justice,” Hester answered.

“But ’e’s a judge! Did ’e make a mistake?” Scuff was confused. He stood in the middle of the floor, the sunlight around his feet. He was growing out of those boots again, already!

Should loyalty win out over honesty? That was a balance she must get exactly right. He was watching her intently.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But they are saying he did something on purpose.”

“What?”

There it was-the question she could either answer or deliberately evade. He would know if she lied. He had watched her face, listened to her for more than two years now. He had survived on London’s dockside by never trusting people he shouldn’t, by always getting it right. He was not like a usual child.

She drew in a deep breath. Where to begin in this terrible story? Scuff probably knew more than she did about perversion and the abuse of children along the waterfront. He had once been among Jericho Phillips’s prisoners himself. How close he had come to being in one of the terrible photographs she did not know. She had never wanted to, and it was possibly a lot easier for Scuff’s dignity if he believed she had no idea. If he did ever want to speak of it, it would likely be to Monk, someone of his own gender. As he grew up there would be parts of his life Hester must be excluded from. It was inevitable.

“What are they saying?” he asked again, more urgently, afraid she was going to close him out. Then his imagination would run to all the darkest and most painful places.

“It’s quite a long story,” she answered at last. “I’ll make the tea and tell you as much as I know. Will you pass the milk jug back to the table, please?”

A few moments later, when the tea had been poured but was too hot to drink, and the cake was on the table, Hester had collected her thoughts to a degree she began.

“You know we gathered quite a lot of information about Mr. Taft and the way he asked people for money?”

“Yeah …”

“Well, Mr. Drew-remember him?”

“Yeah, pompous git wi’ a face like a burst boot-expensive boot-”

She stifled a smile. “Exactly. Well, Mr. Drew was a witness in Mr. Taft’s defense, and he tried very hard to make all the witnesses against him look either stupid or weak, even dishonest, so the jury didn’t believe them. It’s quite a usual thing to do in court. A lot of testimony is just what one person says, rather than another.”

He was losing the thread and she could see it. He was too young even to have been in high court, especially one like the Old Bailey.

“Mr. Drew made them all look like liars,” she said more directly. “So the prosecution asked Mr. Taft if he trusted Mr. Drew completely and believed all he said. Mr. Taft said Mr. Drew was an upstanding man, so of course he did. Then the prosecution called me to the witness stand and very clearly asked me about Jericho Phillips.” She stopped and watched his face.

The shadow of fear was there in his eyes, sharp and painful. He was watching her, waiting for her to hurt him with it, wondering if she would lie to him because she thought he couldn’t take it.

“He made me tell him quite a lot,” she continued, “because I was one of the witnesses Drew had made look stupid, so the lawyer was trying to show that I wasn’t. That way he made an opening, a legal one, to show me one of Jericho Phillips’s disgusting photographs.”

He blinked. “Why? Mr. Taft didn’t ’ave nothing ter do with that.”

“That’s just the point, Scuff-Mr. Drew did. The picture he showed me was of Mr. Drew, and a small boy.” She stopped, hoping he was not going to ask her for any other details. Several of those boys had been his friends.

He bit his lip, blushing. Suddenly she saw the child he had been then, thin-shouldered, slender-necked, his skin still smooth, unblemished by even the slightest beginning of fuzz. At that moment she could have killed Phillips herself. She might have repented of it-but only long after.

Suddenly Scuff’s eyes widened. “Where’d ’e get one o’ them pictures?” he said incredulously.

“That is the difficulty,” she confessed. “When Mr. Ballinger died he left them in his will to Sir Oliver.”

“Oh Gawd!” Scuff covered his mouth. “Sorry …” But his eyes were wide with horror and understanding. “Is ’e allowed ter do that?”

“Well, I think that’s the whole question. You see how that might change the jury’s minds?”

He nodded slowly. “Not ’alf. ’Ow are we going ter ’elp ’im, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“But we are going ter?” The edge of fear was back in his voice, and in his eyes.

“Yes, we are,” she said without hesitation. “But we have to deal with the truth, and we don’t know yet what that is.” That was something of an understatement.

Scuff stared into his cup.

“What is it?” Hester asked when the silence became too long.

“But Drew is bad, in’t ’e? Why is it wrong to show the jury wot ’e is?” Scuff asked seriously.

How on earth could she answer that? What concept did Scuff have of the law, and the role of a judge? He had grown up with the only laws being those of survival and loyalty to your own. What did he understand of impartiality, of playing by certain rules, even if it meant you lost? Why hadn’t she even thought of all this before, brought it up earlier somehow, so she wouldn’t have to stand here trying to explain it all at once? She was going to sound pedantic, and it would seem as if she were making excuses rather than fighting. Then he would think her a coward. And if he thought that, then when he needed her he would not be able to trust her to come forward and fight for him.

“Well, the whole idea of a trial is so that the police-or whoever has made an accusation-has a lawyer to fight on his side, and the person who has been accused has someone to fight on his. The judge is supposed not to take sides at all, just be there to make sure everyone gets a fair chance to tell their side of it. Sometimes the police get it wrong, and the people they accuse are not guilty. Or there’s a reason that makes it not as bad as it looks.”

Scuff was thinking about it. He had not even taken a second piece of cake.

“It’s like games,” she tried again. “You have to obey the rules.”

“But what if you’re right?” he argued. “What if the other person’s going ter win ’cos they’re cheating. Can’t you break the rules then-if they are? It in’t fair!”

“Most people think they’re right, even when they aren’t,” Hester pointed out. “And some people don’t care whether they’re right or not. They just want to win.”

“But Sir Oliver in’t like that!” he protested. “We know ’im. ’E really likes you. I seen ’im look at you.”

Hester felt the warmth flush up her cheeks. Trust Scuff to have noticed that.

“Even the people we care about make mistakes sometimes,” she said, picking her words carefully.

“Does that mean if they get it wrong you don’t like ’em anymore?” Deliberately he did not avert his eyes from hers. He was going to take the blow, if it came.

That was the question she had been dreading. What if Rathbone had done something seriously wrong? A mistake, even an error of hubris, was not impossible. She needed to explain to Scuff that however much you loved someone, you still didn’t cover for him when he made a grave mistake. Would he understand the morality of a greater good being more important than individual love?

He was waiting for her answer, his eyes grave.

“No, it doesn’t mean that at all,” she replied. “But you may not always like what they do. You … you can’t say a thing is right just because it’s done by someone you like, and wrong because it’s done by someone you don’t. It hurts desperately if you have to find fault with someone you love, even worse if it’s someone who is part of your life. But right and wrong don’t change just because of the way you feel about the people involved.”

“Is it always right and wrong? In’t there anything in the middle?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, many times there is,” she agreed. “That’s when it gets really difficult.”

He frowned. “ ’Ow do yer know if it’s right or wrong or something in the middle?”

“You don’t always,” she admitted. “As you get older you begin to realize sometimes just how difficult it can be and how easy it is to make a mistake, even though you’re trying not to. When you’ve made a few yourself, you get slower to judge other people.”

He looked at her very carefully, his eyes wide and clear.

“You’ve never made mistakes, though, ’ave yer?” There was an innocence in his face, a faith in her. She realized with a jolt how deeply he loved her.

Hester found herself blushing. “I wish I hadn’t, except I suppose if that were true maybe I wouldn’t understand just how easy it is for mistakes to happen, even when we’re really trying to avoid them. That would make me very hard on others. It isn’t making mistakes that matters so much as whether you learn from them, whether you admit you were wrong or try to blame somebody else. And I suppose what matters most is that you get up again and try not to keep on making the same mistake.”

“ ’Ow many different ones are there?” he asked.

She gave a twisted little smile. “I don’t know. I’m still counting.”

“An’ yer gotter pay for ’em?” he said carefully. “You ’ave, ’aven’t yer?”

“Usually. Sometimes not. Sometimes there’s a kind of grace where you get forgiven without paying. You don’t really deserve it, so you really truly need to make yourself worthy afterward by being grateful and making an effort to change.”

“Is that what yer going to make ’appen for Sir Oliver?” He sounded as if he grasped on to that hope tightly.

“I’ll try,” she responded. “If he did make a mistake, that is. Maybe he didn’t, and we can help him prove that.”

Scuff relaxed a little. “That’s good. Can I ’elp?”

“Probably. I’ll certainly ask you, if I can think of anything.”

He gave her a sudden, dazzling smile, and then when he was sure she understood, he drank his tea and reached for the other piece of cake. She always put out two, but it was understood between them that both were for him.

It was even more difficult for Hester when it came time that evening to discuss the subject with Monk.

Scuff had already gone to bed when Monk came in, tired and wet after a long day on the river dealing with the discovery of a body and the tedious investigation that had proved the death accidental. Of course, he had heard about Rathbone’s arrest very soon after it had happened. The jailer’s note had reached him, and he had gone to the prison immediately. He had been permitted to see Rathbone, but only for a matter of minutes.

“How is he?” Hester had asked, almost before Monk was through the door. “Is he all right? What did they say he did?”

“He’s all right for the moment,” Monk had replied. “The charge is rather complicated. Officially it is perversion of the course of justice-”

“What? But he’s the judge!” she had exclaimed.

“Exactly. That makes it all the more serious. It has to do with the use of one of Ballinger’s photographs. Technically he should have stepped aside and let someone else take his place.”

“As judge?”

“Yes. Which would mean abandoning the whole trial and starting again.”

“But they might not even have prosecuted a second time!” she had protested.

“I know. That’s probably why Rathbone didn’t do it, knowing him.”

“What will happen to him?”

“I expect they’ll try him. I didn’t get the chance to ask much more than that. I asked what he needed-”

“He needs a lawyer! Someone to help …”

“He said he wanted a clean shirt and personal linen,” Monk then replied grimly.

Once he had put on dry, clean clothes himself and was seated in the warmth of the sitting room, Monk felt a great deal more comfortable, but only marginally happier. Hester had just told him about her conversation with Scuff.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. “Surely all Oliver did was to nudge justice back into the right path? After all, if Drew was in one of these photographs, then he was hardly the upstanding churchman he pretended. The jury needs to know that!”

She saw the flash of humor across Monk’s face, lighting his eyes for a moment out of their somber mood. “I don’t think the law sees a difference between perversion and a nudge into the right path … as you perceive it,” he observed.

She was stung, for all the gentleness in his voice. “You mean you think he’s guilty?” she challenged. This was going to be even worse than she expected.

“I don’t know. And if you’re honest, neither do you.” He smiled, but there was pain in it. “I might have done the same thing myself. I don’t know. We never do until we’re tested. But that doesn’t make it right, either morally or legally. I’ve tripped over my own pride before now.”

She ignored the mention of pride. She knew what he meant about Rathbone, and about himself. “But Drew was in that picture!” she protested. “And if Taft isn’t guilty, why did he kill himself? Actually, whether he was guilty or not, why kill his family? Do you suppose he’s in one of the photographs as well? Was he afraid Warne would produce that one too?”

Monk leaned forward a little, his dark gray eyes steady on hers. “That’s a more interesting question-why did they arrest Rathbone at all? How did they even know he had anything to do with it? Rathbone said he retained Warne as his own lawyer, so Warne would be protected by privilege from telling anyone who gave him the photographs.”

Hester felt a little chill, as if there were a draft in the room. “Is it possible it was Warne who told them, anyway?” she asked. “But that doesn’t make sense. Surely if he were going to do anything it would have to have been before he used the picture, not afterward-wouldn’t it? Otherwise, wouldn’t he be equally guilty, of violating the privilege?”

“I don’t know,” Monk confessed. “Perhaps they offered him the chance to escape prosecution if he testified against Rathbone? Or they went for him in the first place, and he gave up Rathbone to save himself?”

“That’s vile!” she said with sudden fury. “What kind of a man is he if he would do that? What kind of a lawyer? Lawyers have a duty of confidentiality! They can’t just betray anyone and pretend it’s all right.” She was so angry she could barely get the words out.

“No,” he replied, but there was hesitation in his voice. “Apart from anything else, Warne would know such an act would ruin his reputation. No one who had any secrets worth a damn would employ him.”

“Everyone facing trial has secrets,” she responded. “Even if they’re innocent of the particular charge they’re facing.”

“Exactly. I can’t imagine he would risk his entire livelihood to betray Rathbone.”

“Then who was it?” she demanded. “If it wasn’t Warne, then who could it be?”

He settled a little deeper in his seat, relaxing weary muscles.

“We don’t know for certain it wasn’t Warne. But Rathbone has enemies, Hester. He’s prosecuted some very important people, people who have friends and influence. And he’s defended a few people that others would rather see executed. He’s stirred up a lot of dirt, one way or another. He’s gone where his cases led him and has not been afraid whose toes he trod on. Some of them are going to be only too happy to come out of the woodwork now and kick him while he’s down.”

Another, darker thought occurred to her. “Worse than that, William, what about the other people in the photographs? We don’t know who they are, and maybe Oliver doesn’t either, but they know. And who is to say Ballinger even had all the photographs. There may be people who think Oliver has their picture, but who don’t know for sure-I bet they’d rather see him destroyed and put away so there’s not even a chance that he’s a risk to them. London could be seething with enemies he doesn’t even know he has.”

Monk was frowning. “But that would be stupid. Put his back against the wall and he’ll come out fighting. He would have nothing to lose. Even if he goes to prison he could have all the pictures published, just to get back at his enemies. That seems even riskier.”

She stared at him intensely, her heart racing. She felt as if her throat were so tight she could hardly breathe. “William … where are the photographs?”

He caught her fear instantly. “In his house, I suppose. I don’t know. Perhaps we’d better ask him and make sure they’re put somewhere else. Otherwise someone desperate enough could set fire to it. They could burn the servants alive, and Oliver, too, if they wait till he gets bail and goes back there.”

“Yes. They should be in a bank vault or something. Just don’t bring them here!”

He said nothing, his expression bleak.

She looked at his face and saw no light in it. “I’m sorry. But, please …” She trailed off, more frightened than she wanted to admit. What had begun as a shadow was spreading far wider than she had foreseen. Was the trial of one man guilty of fraud worth all this?

She had thought so at the time when she had listened to Josephine Raleigh and seen herself so clearly in Josephine’s distress. It was a chance to put right what she had failed signally to do for her own father. Taft was vicious, destructive … seeing now what he had been capable of, with his actions against his own wife and children, it was clear the extent of his disease of the soul was far greater than she had imagined.

But if she had not meddled, then Taft and his family would still be alive, and Rathbone would be safe at home.

And John Raleigh might be dead like her father.

When do you walk away? How can you know?

“We’ve got to help Oliver,” she said. “For Scuff as well as for himself.”

Monk looked puzzled. “For Scuff?”

“For heaven’s sake!” She was close to tears. She could feel them prickling in her eyes and the tightness getting worse in her throat. “Oliver is our friend, William! Scuff’s watching to see if we’re loyal to the people we care for, even if they make mistakes and everyone else turns against them.”

He looked startled. “Does he think we’d do that to him?”

“He doesn’t know!” she cried out. “He’s afraid! He’s terrified that love is conditional, that we love people only when they do the right thing, and that that applies to anyone.”

Understanding flooded his face. “He’s only a child! You don’t …” He let out his breath in a sigh.

“You were afraid,” she pointed out. “When you thought you killed Joscelyn Grey, you were afraid I’d abandon you.”

He flushed slightly. “But you didn’t think I had!”

“I didn’t think so. I didn’t know! But if you had, I wouldn’t have walked away.”

“Were you that much in love with me?” he asked very quietly. “You never said so.”

“No I wasn’t, you complacent oaf!” she cried in exasperation. “But even if you had killed him, I knew you were a good man, and I couldn’t leave you to hang for it. Even good people sometimes do stupid and ugly things. Besides, no one else believed in you. If I hadn’t fought for you, who else would have?”

“No one,” he said even more quietly. “Sergeant Evan did only because you did. Honestly, even I wouldn’t have fought for me. You know, one day you’ll have to tell Scuff about that. But not yet. I don’t think he’s ready for it-and I know I’m not. I need him to think better of me than that, for a while. But if it goes badly with Rathbone, maybe we should tell him. Then at least he’ll know you never give up, and never leave.” He breathed in and out slowly. “Perhaps we should tell him sooner, after all.”

Hester shook her head briefly, as if to dispel the idea, then started again, even more seriously. “William, do you think Oliver made the wrong decision? I mean morally wrong? How could he sit back and let Taft get away with everything, let Drew slander all those people who were only doing their best to right a wrong? They were so vulnerable and Drew destroyed them with words. And it was him in the picture, unmistakably.”

“I know,” he agreed, reaching out his hand and catching hers. He held her gently, but with too much strength for her to pull away. “But yes, I think he may have made a mistake in this. He should have destroyed those photos when he first got them.”

“But they can be used for good!” she protested. “That would have left him helpless to … William, you can’t throw away power just because it could be misused, or you might make a mistake, or maybe it’ll turn out badly. Because-maybe it won’t! Maybe it’ll help someone. Can you imagine standing over somebody with a knife in your hand-”

“And using it on him?” he interrupted. “Deciding if he had the right to live or die? No …”

“No!” she snapped. “Deciding whether you can really cut out the gangrene or the appendix before it bursts, or open the wound and stitch an artery so he doesn’t bleed to death. Deciding if you have the courage to try, or if you’d rather just watch him die and hope you don’t get blamed for it. Well, you are to blame if you just stand there with the knife instead of using it! If you could have done something and you were too cowardly to try because you were afraid for yourself, then you are responsible. Evil things happen because good people are too scared of what consequences they might bring on themselves. We thought that Oliver was wrong because he intervened. Maybe he was wrong. But what would we think of him if he could have saved someone, and he did nothing?”

“That rather depends on whether he did nothing because he knew it was wrong to do it, or because he was afraid to, for his own safety,” Monk answered.

She gave him a withering look. “And we always know the difference there, don’t we? I can think of a score of times when I hadn’t the faintest idea what was wise or how things would turn out, but acted anyway, because the alternative seemed too terrible. Maybe I wasn’t always right-maybe Oliver wasn’t. But I’m sure he thought hard about it. He didn’t back away because he wanted to be safe. And I would have wagered all I have that you wouldn’t either.”

She saw his face pale and wondered if she had gone too far. But she meant what she had said, and she would not lower her eyes.

“I have a wife and child to think of now,” he replied levelly. “I can’t be as rash, or as self-righteous, as I used to be.”

“Don’t blame me!” she accused him. “And don’t you damn well blame Scuff either! He’s looking to see if you’ll help Rathbone because he needs to know you’ll be loyal, come hell or high water.”

“He also needs to know I’ve got a modicum of sense,” Monk replied, his body stiff. “And that I love both of you enough not to take stupid risks and leave you defenseless.” He gave a twisted smile. “Although looking at you I don’t know what makes me imagine you’ve ever been defenseless.”

She took a deep, shaking breath and let it out slowly. “I need you,” she said so gently he only just heard her. “Not to defend me, but just because I couldn’t bear to be without you. But I need you to be who you are-not hobbled because of me, or Scuff. So what are we going to do to help Oliver?”

“Find out the truth,” he replied. “Or as much of it as we can. And not just about who started the prosecution against Rathbone, and why. And why the hell Taft killed his whole family, for that matter. Nothing about this case adds up.”

“Good,” Hester replied firmly. “And we must get those terrible pictures out of Oliver’s house.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But not tonight. Let me think … and sleep.”

She gave him a sudden, radiant smile and saw the relief flood back into his eyes.