Blind Justice wm-19

by Anne Perry

  Brancaster wasted no time in niceties.

  “Tell me about the Jericho Phillips case, and how Ballinger was involved in the whole mess,” he said, nodding toward Hester out of courtesy but directing his attention to Monk. “Briefly, but don’t leave out anything important.”

  He did not interrupt while Monk spoke, but he did look at Hester once or twice, and with a new respect.

  “And where are these photographs now?” he said finally.

  “Henry Rathbone has them. I left them in his keeping. Yesterday we studied them, to see whom we recognized-for obvious reasons.”

  Brancaster looked anxious. “And you’re sure he still has them?”

  “Yes. He promised me he would not store them in his home, or anywhere else where they could be destroyed. He also swore no one else would have access to them. But I don’t know exactly where he put them.”

  “Good. Did looking at the prints tell you anything of value?”

  “Yes,” Monk said with a grim smile. “You’re not in them.”

  The pen Brancaster had been holding slid out of his hands. “God in heaven!” he gasped. “Did you bloody well think I was?” He did not even think to apologize to Hester for his language.

  It was she who replied to him. “No. But thinking is not enough. And it is not only a question of if you were in them, it’s whether you might care about, or owe some favor to, someone who was.” She smiled very slightly.

  “I was going to tell you how bad it is,” Brancaster said bleakly, this time to Hester, “but it seems you know already, maybe even better than I do. We are going to have to dig in for a long battle, and I can’t promise that we’ll win. We would need a great deal of goodwill for that. Technically Sir Oliver crossed the line. He did go behind the defense’s back and give seriously prejudicial information to the defense only, when in fact he should have recused himself. It would be absurd to say that he didn’t foresee how Warne would use it, or even that he didn’t intend it. Clearly he did. And while most decent men would say he did the right thing morally, legally they could punish him quite severely. And after you’ve told me what I already feared about the photographs, it’s clear a lot of people will be nervous and probably overreact.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Hester asked him without hesitation.

  Although Brancaster’s smile was rueful, even twisted, it gave a new life to his face, a vitality and softness that had not been there before.

  “I’m glad you didn’t ask me if I was looking for a way to back out of the case,” he said with a slight gesture of his hands. “I’m going to ask you for a list of the names of those in the photographs, so I also know whom not to trust. Are there any acting judges?”

  “Yes,” Monk said immediately. “And whether you are prepared to or not, I am perfectly willing to use that information should one of them be called to preside in Rathbone’s trial.” He smiled bleakly, more of a grimace. “In a legal manner, and well before the trial, of course.”

  Brancaster bit his lip. “I believe you. But that won’t alter the fact that many members of the judiciary will be against Sir Oliver, in spite of the fact that they won’t take much to Drew, I’m sure.”

  He pulled a very slight grimace. “If you turn over a very large, very wet stone, you are going to find a lot of slugs underneath it, plus a few creeping things with too many legs, that you weren’t prepared for. Are you ready for that?”

  Hester answered him. “Of course not. But if you mean would we prefer to let it go, then, no, we wouldn’t. If we try, at least we have a chance of success.”

  “I dare say they’ll attempt to have him imprisoned, simply to seize his property and try to find the original plates of the pictures,” Brancaster warned.

  “If they’re bent on appearing to remain within the law,” Monk agreed with a bitter smile. “If not, they’ll simply burn the house down. I dare say Rathbone himself thought of that. If not, I’ll make sure his father does.”

  “Would he preserve them?” Brancaster asked dubiously. He knew Henry Rathbone.

  “At least for the time being,” Monk said wryly. “It’s too good a weapon to throw away just yet.”

  “You’d use it?” Brancaster said curiously. “Even after what you’ve seen it do to others?”

  “I don’t know,” Monk admitted. Without Hester or Scuff to think of, if he were still the man he had been before, he would not have hesitated. He had often been ruthless, and it was not easy to admit it now. How much of that man was still left in him, if pushed far enough?

  Brancaster was thinking. From his face it appeared he was anxious. “It isn’t wise for other people to find out that anyone else has access to the photos, or the motive to use them, aside from Oliver,” he warned. “He is tucked behind bars, but if they realize you are equally capable of making those images public, it might drive him into a kind of panic, drive him to something dangerous, badly misjudged. Fear has different effects on people. For the moment, be careful to say nothing.”

  “I will,” Monk agreed grimly. “It is ironic that these men resent Rathbone for going outside the bounds of gentlemanly conduct, when they have done things that are far outside human decency. Why the hell do they think Rathbone should guard their secrets, at the price of other people’s lives?”

  “Because they have no empathy,” Brancaster replied. “No conception at all of how other people feel. They don’t see any further than their own appetites. As I said, we are in for a long battle.”

  “We have to face it,” Hester said quietly. “We can’t let Oliver lose. And”-her whole body tightened-“we can’t let them win either. That would be a step into the darkness.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Prison was appalling. Every night Rathbone sank into sleep as an escape from the noise, the discomfort, the stale smell of the blanket, and, in his imagination, the fidgeting, scurrying, and scratching of whatever skittered across the stone floor.

  He slept badly, unable to relax, most of the time half awake, drifting in and out of dreams. Often he was finally oblivious of his surroundings only just before the sound of boots on the stone jerked him back into reality. There was a moment when he was still mercifully confused, then opening his eyes brought it all back to him: the physical discomfort, the aching in his body, the scratching on his skin, then the memory that there would be no hot shave, just a scraping of his cheeks with soap and cold water from a bucket. There would be no fresh toast, sharp marmalade, hot fragrant tea. There would be porridge and then tea, dark and stewed, acrid. Still, it was better than hunger or thirst.

  Would he have to get used to this? Might it be like this for years? As far ahead as he could see? As a judge he had sentenced men to that. As a lawyer he had pleaded for it, and against it, as he was hired to do, taking whichever side he was offered.

  Did that mean he was without conviction, doing anything he was paid for? Or that he believed in the system? And did this adversarial-almost gladiatorial-system produce justice? The system did not look the same from here. It was frightening, offering no certainty of good to come.

  He sat in the miserable cell with the noise of other men living around him; he was turning the case over in his mind for the thousandth time to no end, when the chief jailer came. He had the keys in his hands.

  “Someone’s paid bail for you, Mr. Rathbone,” he said, his voice expressionless, except to emphasize the “Mr.,” but his eyes were bright and sharp. “I suppose you’ll be going home for a while now. Good lawyer you must have. All stick together, I expect. You being a larnt-up man, like, I suppose you’ll know your Shakespeare …”

  “ ‘First … kill all the lawyers,’ ” Rathbone said for him. He picked up his jacket, which was the only garment he had with him, apart from the clothes he stood in.

  The jailer grunted, annoyed at being robbed of his quote.

  “Actors, the lot of you,” he said irritably. “Strutting around and thinking everyone’s listening to yer.”

  “ ‘That str
uts and frets his hour upon the stage’ is meant for all of us,” Rathbone countered, coming to the door and waiting a step back while the man turned the heavy key.

  The jailer glared at him, knowing it was another quote but not able to place it.

  “Macbeth,” Rathbone supplied.

  “You tell ’im, Fancypants,” a voice called out from the cell opposite and along a bit. “Gonna miss you, I am. Till yer come back again!” He roared with laughter at his own humor.

  Rathbone smiled as he walked through the barred door and out into the stone-floored space. He looked across at the cell the voice had come from. Inside there was a gaunt, stringy-haired man; his clothes were filthy, but they had once been good. Rathbone wondered what had happened to him. Maybe the clothes were stolen, or had been thrown out. Or, on the other hand, perhaps the accent and the aggressive manner were borrowed plumage, for self-protection.

  Rathbone lifted his hand in a small salute. “Keep it warm for me,” he replied. “I regret to say, I might well be needing it.”

  “Arrogant bastard,” the jailer said under his breath.

  Rathbone affected not to have heard him.

  He had his belongings restored to him and took a hansom back to his home. Only an hour later, as he went in through the front door to the familiar hallway, did he remember that everything else in the world had changed, for him. To the staff he had to be a different person. There would be no more awe, and perhaps even their respectful behavior toward him would now be superficial-merely good manners. He would have no idea what they really thought of him. Did he want to know?

  Not yet. There was too much else to think of. For right this moment he could come and go as he pleased. He could wash, have a decent cup of tea, eat what he wanted, and tonight sleep in his own bed, in the softness, enjoying the clean smell and the silence. He could get up when he wanted.

  That was reality now: he could stay in bed if he wanted because there was no work to do, no one to talk to, to care for, no challenge except to find something to occupy his mind, to keep himself from sinking into anger and despair.

  Early in the afternoon Henry Rathbone came to visit him.

  “Thank you,” Rathbone said immediately, choking a little on the words, his voice thick with emotion. He had not meant to lose his grip this way, but his father’s familiar face and the sound of his voice overwhelmed him.

  Henry turned away and looked for a place to sit while the butler, who had let him in, went away to fetch a fresh pot of tea and some hot, crumbly, buttery scones.

  “I paid it as soon as they let me. Would you like to come and stay a few days at Primrose Hill?” Henry asked, regarding Rathbone with extraordinary gentleness. He would say nothing of love, or of anxiety, or fear, certainly not of disappointment, but it was all there in his eyes. He found it embarrassing to speak of such emotions, and unnecessary. A lifetime of companionship, guidance, encouragement, and shared dreams and jokes had made such declarations of feeling redundant.

  An immediate refusal rose to Rathbone’s lips, then he bit it back. It would seem so callous, like a rejection. What he really felt was that it would add to his own guilt, already weighing him down, if his father were harassed by journalists or prodded with unintentionally cruel questions by his friends. People might hold him in some way responsible, by association. Henry would then be placed in the situation of having to defend Rathbone, to explain.

  Friends calling by might find Rathbone’s presence awkward. Perhaps they would remain away for that reason. It might place Henry in a position where he would have to refuse invitations, or ask that Rathbone be included. That would be excruciating for his father.

  It would be wonderful to be there in the familiar house, to walk down the long lawn in the evening, watch the light fade on the glittering leaves of the elms, smell the honeysuckle, see the flights of starlings swirl against the last of the sunlight. The thought of it suffocated him with emotion, even sitting here in this very formal, very elegant sitting room of Margaret’s.

  He needed a clear mind if he was to find any way at all out of this mess, which was largely of his own making.

  “Not yet,” he said gently. “I need to learn a great deal more about this …” He saw Henry’s face darken. “I’m not going to try to solve it myself,” he assured him quickly. “I’m impressed with Brancaster.”

  A very faint smile crossed Henry’s face.

  “I know,” Rathbone said. “I had the very stupid idea that he was going to be some rather stuffy academic who hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom in years. I apologize for that. But even as good as Brancaster is, he can’t work without ammunition, and I haven’t given him much.”

  “Monk will help you,” Henry assured him.

  “I know,” Rathbone agreed. “There has to be a lot more that I haven’t considered, especially about Taft. Why in God’s name did he kill his wife and daughters? What sort of a man could even think of such a thing? There has to be some major secret that we don’t know yet, to make sense of that.”

  “Why have they not prosecuted Warne?” Henry asked.

  “I’m afraid I’ve made a few enemies who will be only too delighted to ruin me, but who don’t necessarily have anything against Warne. Anyway, his error was slight. He should have told Gavinton about the picture straightaway, before the court sitting began. I should have shown the evidence to both of them and recused myself. Those are offences of a very different magnitude.”

  Henry frowned, a heavy crease forming between his brows. “Oliver, do you know who laid the complaint yet? Was it Drew?”

  Rathbone had thought about this again and again. He had decided it could not have been Drew, as much as the man disliked him, unless he was so bent on revenge that self-destruction was a price he was willing to pay.

  “I don’t know who it was,” he said, a little vaguely. He felt as if he were entering a dark room that contained a trap that would hurt him, perhaps very badly, a trap he could not see.

  “Oliver, we cannot avoid this,” Henry said, his voice quiet but controlled.

  Rathbone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know. And I have thought about it. It doesn’t make much sense for it to have been any of the men involved in this case, unless one of them has a profound secret. And of course that is a possibility. Perhaps at my age it’s ridiculous to have delusions about people, especially considering my profession. But life would be unbearable without hope, and at least a degree of blindness regarding those you love.”

  Henry started to protest, and then changed his mind and remained silent.

  “The only other people who knew, apart from you, are Hester and Monk,” Rathbone went on. “And about them there isn’t even a question.”

  Henry was thinking. “What about Ballinger’s lawyer who brought the photographs to you in the first place? Did he know what they were?”

  Rathbone was startled. That idea had not occurred to him. “Possibly. If he were Ballinger’s lawyer in any respect apart from in the execution of his will, then I suppose he might well have. He would know they were photographs by the size and weight of the case, even if he didn’t know of what nature. But it would be a gross breach of his trust if he were to tell anyone else …” He realized even as he said it that the remark was idealistic and, in this present situation, naïve. It was a whole line of inquiry he had not even thought of. The morass of fear and degradation, and the many-tentacled creatures that lived and fed in it, was far more monstrous than he had yet grasped. He longed to be clear from it. And yet he could blame no one but himself. He had tasted its power and been unable to put it down. Now it was too late. Perhaps he was more like Ballinger than he would ever have been willing to acknowledge.

  Henry was looking at him, his eyes sad and anxious.

  Rathbone forced himself to smother his own fear. He, of all people, had the least justification for self-pity. He had to act with courage.

  “I’ll speak to Monk,” he said, his voice perfectly level. “I know
he’s not a private agent of inquiry anymore, but he’ll know what to do. And I think Brancaster’s a good man. Thank you for finding him.”

  Henry accepted that that was the end of the conversation and deliberately he spoke of other things until it was time to leave. He did not ask again if Rathbone would like to stay at Primrose Hill.

  When Henry had gone the house seemed oppressively quiet. The servants were conspicuously keeping out of his way. Probably they were embarrassed. What did one say to a master who was out of prison on bail for a crime you did not understand?

  What should he say to them? It was his responsibility to broach the subject, and at the very least tell them what was happening and what prospects they had of remaining in his employ. He owed them that.

  If he received any jail sentence at all, he would have to sell the house. What would he need it for, anyway? On his release he would hardly come back here. It was too big, far too expensive, and he ought to admit it, he would have no use for a residence in the middle of one of the best areas of London.

  He was alone. If he could afford any servant, then one gentleman’s gentleman could do it all. Perhaps he could hire a woman to come in and do the laundry and the scrubbing of floors.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t even be able to manage that, to begin with. He could very well end up in lodgings, renting one room. Why not? Thousands of people did. That is what Monk had been doing when they first met. It was a long fall from a house like this, with half a dozen servants, to being glad to rent one room and share conveniences. But then it was a long fall from being a judge at the Old Bailey to being an unemployed ex-convict.