Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (14 page)

“Indeed I can, my lord,” Gavinton said, his voice soft, his composure regained. He had pricked Rathbone and he knew it.

In that moment Rathbone felt fear, not of Gavinton, but of failing his own responsibility. He must not allow himself to be provoked again.

It was difficult. Gavinton led Robertson Drew carefully, question after question into destroying Gethen Sawley. It was always to do with the papers, however obliquely. Warne objected that it was irrelevant, and Rathbone was obliged to overrule him. The thread of connection was thin at times, but it existed.

Gavinton asked about the history of Sawley’s relationships with members of the congregation, always finding the weak spot, the conversation that could be misinterpreted. He savored the tales of times Sawley took offense where it was not intended and afterward apologized too much, appearing to be emotionally erratic, too eager to please. Drew very subtly held him up to ridicule, questioning his judgment, even his honesty in small things.

Warne objected again.

Rathbone upheld him, but the damage had been done.

“But his religious views were the same as your own, and those of Mr. Taft?” Gavinton persisted.

Warne was on his feet again. “My lord, Mr. Sawley’s religious beliefs are his own concern. He is not required to explain them to us, or to anyone.”

“They are relevant to his persecution of Mr. Taft, my lord,” Gavinton replied with elaborate patience. “If they had been the same as those of Mr. Taft and Mr. Drew, then he would have rejoiced in the opportunity to give to the desperately poor. He would have seen it as Christ’s work on earth.”

Warne was furious. “My lord, a man has the right to interpret Christ’s work on earth in any way he pleases! And he should be free to give help as he pleases—or not! And as his own means allow. To suggest otherwise is preposterous!”

“Of course,” Gavinton said with a shrug and that flashing smile with too many teeth. “And Mr. Bicknor was free to give or not. He chose to give, and when he had misjudged his own finances and got himself into debt, he blamed not his own inaccuracies, but Mr. Taft, and set about trying to stir up a wave of accusation against him. I am seeking only to show that Mr. Bicknor—and Mr. Sawley—are unreliable
men, motivated by their own embarrassment and inadequacies, not by a love of truth, or a pity for the unfortunate. This whole farrago of lies that this creature Robinson dug up is a pathetic man’s revenge, no more than that. In Mr. Taft’s defense, I must be allowed to demonstrate that this is the case.”

Rathbone was seething, but he could not stop him. Morally and legally Gavinton was right.

Gavinton continued, very carefully, always just within the rules of evidence, always relevant to the accounting proof Squeaky Robinson had given. But piece by piece he also dismantled Bicknor’s reputation, creating the impression that Bicknor was weak and indecisive, someone who had acted foolishly and then, when caught out, had descended into spite.

It was an agonizing spectacle to watch and Rathbone longed to intervene, but Gavinton was far too careful to give him grounds to do so.

The case against Taft was slipping away, and Rathbone felt it go. He could see it in the jurors’ faces. He looked at Warne, hoping for some retaliation, but nothing came. He looked at Robertson Drew and read the satisfaction in his eyes, his smile, the victory that glowed in his very presence. And as he did so, Rathbone became more and more convinced that it was victory. It was not just defense of a man he was closely associated with, very possibly a long-standing friend, but something more.

A memory flashed across his mind as he watched Drew. He had seen him somewhere else. He tried to recall where it had been. For Drew this was a very personal issue, Rathbone was now sure of it, although he could not have said why he thought so.

But why? Rathbone racked his memory but he still could not recall having met Drew in any other circumstance. Yet, it was clear the man disliked him. What cause could there be for a grudge? He doubted they would’ve crossed paths socially; perhaps he had encountered him in the courtroom, on a different case?

He looked at Drew on the stand as he continued to tear apart and denigrate one prosecution witness after another. Rathbone could not
recall seeing him there before. He tried picturing him differently dressed and couldn’t.

His search was drawing his attention from the proceedings, but they were droning on. The heat in the room was oppressive. People in the gallery fidgeted. The jury sat glassy-eyed and uncomfortable. This was Drew’s second day on the stand. He was not saying anything different; Gavinton was simply moving to the next witness. The jury believed him. Rathbone could see it in their faces. He could also see that Warne had nothing in reserve. His expression was a mask carefully maintained to conceal his defeat. Rathbone had worn the same expression often enough himself to recognize it in another.

Where
had he seen Drew before? It could not be merely that his name was involved with a case in which Rathbone had either prosecuted or defended. He must have been present in court because Rathbone remembered his face. They had been looking at each other. They must have been introduced in some way.

Then all at once it came to him. He had seen Robertson Drew in one of Ballinger’s photographs—fornicating with a small boy on Jericho Phillips’s boat. That explained where the hatred came from: it had been Rathbone, with Monk’s help, and Hester’s, who had finally brought about Phillips’s death and the end of that particular part of the trade in children. That was why Drew was so pleased to blacken Hester’s name, make her appear foolish, overemotional, a meddling woman with more pity than sense.

Of course he had posed for the photograph. That was the piece of wild, unnecessary risk-taking that was the price of admission to the club. Drew must’ve known that Ballinger had possessed it, especially if he had been one of those Ballinger had blackmailed. But he could not know that Ballinger had bequeathed the photos to Rathbone, or indeed that Rathbone had ever even seen them.

Rathbone looked at Drew again and was certain—almost.

It was not yet half past three in the afternoon. Too early to adjourn. He could think of no excuse to halt the proceedings until tomorrow. Nevertheless, as soon as Drew had finished his long and rather rambling
answer to Gavinton’s last question, without excuse or giving any reason, Rathbone adjourned the court until the following morning.

Amid whisperings, questions, looks of confusion, the assembly rose and left. Outside in the hallways little groups huddled together earnestly. As he passed one of them, Rathbone was close enough to overhear the urgent questions as to what had happened. What had suddenly changed?

He was not sure that anything had. His mind was in turmoil. He needed time alone in which to think. Did his realization make any difference? Could it?

A
S HE RODE HOME
in a hansom he felt so tense his body ached and his fingernails bit into the flesh of his palms.

The first thing was to be sure. He thought he was right, but he had mistaken people in the street before, thinking he knew them then realizing with embarrassment that he didn’t. Once he had even addressed someone, only to have the man turn full face to him, revealing himself a stranger.

As soon as he was in his own house he refused any offer of tea, or whisky, and went into his study, locking the door. No one must ever see him with this horror! He took the photographs from their hiding place.

His hands were trembling, his fingers clumsy as he unlocked the box containing the photographic plates. He opened the lid and it nearly slid out of his grasp. He clutched with the other hand and let the lid fall backward.

The heavy sheets of glass were stacked neatly next to each other but not so close as to prevent them being removed one at a time. The printed paper copies were kept separately in a heavy brown envelope. He had looked at them only once. They held images he would rather not have known about.

He slid the paper out of the envelope onto the table, glancing at the door, needing to reassure himself it was locked. He did not want even the most trusted servant to know of these. How could he explain looking
at such things to anyone? Evidence? Yes, they had been, but not in any current case. So why had he kept them? Why not destroy them as soon as they were his and he had the right to? They were obscene and dangerous, the key to blackmailing some of the most important men in the land. There were people he could destroy with these, careers, families he could ruin.

That was not how he had thought of them, though. They were revolting, but they were indelible proof of crimes against children, so repellent and so compulsively woven into the nature of most of those who committed them that they would almost certainly happen again and again.

But what he saw now was the power to humble the men who had had the bravado, the arrogance to be photographed, the power to make them repay some of the debt they owed. They could never make it up to the children themselves—too many were missing or dead—but there were other causes.

Ballinger had begun the whole hideous performance by using the photograph of a senior judge to make him command an industrialist to stop the pollution that had spread disease and death to an entire community. Usurers had been forced to forgive debt caused by exorbitant interest. Other wrongs had been redressed. Then finally the power had become its own end, and all the original passion for justice or mercy was swallowed up—the only thing that had mattered was survival.

Not that Ballinger had survived. His deeds had destroyed him.

But there was a saying that Rathbone could never forget: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

Was he going to do nothing while Robertson Drew destroyed Bicknor and Sawley? They might be weak in some ways, but wasn’t that true of every single person? And if Squeaky Robinson had said Taft was a fraudster, then Rathbone firmly believed that he was.

But he had sworn to himself that he would never use these pictures again, unless someone’s life was in jeopardy, and there was no other way out. This case was only about money.

Or was it? It was also about faith and honor, belief in a church and
a God who was both just and merciful … a God who loved his people. Taft was not only robbing them of a quality of life, he was robbing them of their faith. Surely that was a sin almost as terrible as stealing their lives?

What does a good, simple man suffer if he is betrayed by the servants of the God he trusted? Who does he turn to then?

The law. And if the law not only allows the injustice to stand but also permits him to be mocked by his peers and ridiculed by those who have robbed him, who then can he turn to?

One by one Rathbone looked through the photographs. Perhaps his memory had led him astray and Drew was not here, only someone who looked a bit like him. Then there was no dilemma.

He was halfway through and the sights in front of him were vile enough to turn his stomach. He could not imagine subjecting an animal to the pain and humiliation these children endured. It was some comfort to know that Jericho Phillips had died hideously, in terror. But that was only revenge; it did not undo what had happened.

If Drew were among these pictures, was that justification for Rathbone to punish him? No, of course it wasn’t.

Should he have handed over all the photographs as soon as he had them from Ballinger’s estate? No. Too much of society would collapse under the weight, and the horror, of what they revealed. There were pictures of prominent men in this small, heavy box—judges, members of Parliament, of the Church, high society, the army and navy. All were weak men, but perhaps some were guilty of only one drunken excursion into this cesspit of indulgence, a moment they would deeply and painfully regret for the rest of their lives. Did they deserve to be ruined?

Then there it was in his hands, a clear, completely unmistakable photograph of Robertson Drew. It was as he had remembered, Drew staring at the camera, defying it to curb his pleasure.

Rathbone could not look at the child’s face.

He separated the photograph from the others, moved it to the front of the pile and put them all away. He closed the lid of the box and locked it again. He replaced it where it had been in the safe, completely
concealed. He hid the key, also in a place he believed no one would look, in plain sight, and yet unrecognizable.

He was sweating, and yet he was cold.

He took the brandy decanter and poured himself a stiff drink, then stood by the window with the curtains undrawn and gazed at the evening breeze stirring the branches of the trees. In the last light the leaves fluttered and turned, one moment pale, the next shadowed.

He had never felt more alone.

He finished the brandy and put his glass down again. He had not tasted it; it could have been cold tea.

What was the right thing to do?

Not to act is to condone what is happening, tacitly even to become part of it. He alone had the power to act—he had the photograph.

Later, he lay awake, alone in the big bed, battling with himself. Should he intervene or not? What was the brave thing to do? What was the honorable thing?

Whatever he did it was a decision both he and others would have to live with for the rest of their lives.

By morning, tired, head aching, he had still reached no definite conclusion.

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