Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (21 page)

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.

H
ESTER 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.”