by Anne Perry
“All that is necessary for the court to understand is the nature of the photographs, and how it is that you possess them,” Brancaster instructed.
There was no escape. The truth must be told publicly. Rathbone could see Margaret in the gallery, well toward the front. She was here to watch his humiliation, the end of the career she thought he had placed before honor or loyalty. He could not protect her from the facts anymore.
When he began, his voice was surprisingly steady.
“There was a club created by a man of very comfortable means,” he said. “So far as I know he did not indulge in obscene pastimes himself, but he understood the excitement some men feel when they deliberately expose themselves to intense danger. The photographs I have mentioned were the initiation rite to this particular club. It was in a way a safeguard to each member; a way to ensure no one spoke about the obscenities being practiced by all of them.”
No one moved. No one even attempted to interrupt him.
He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. Then he continued. “They were also a perfect tool for blackmail. The man who created the club told me that the photographs were never used merely to extort money, and I believed him. It was always about power. He said that the first time he used one, it was to oblige a senior judge to rule on a case in such a way that a factory owner would be forced to stop the effluent from his works polluting the drinking water of a large number of poor people who were becoming diseased, even dying, as a result.” Again he took a deep breath. He felt as if his pounding heart was shaking his whole body. “At first I was repulsed by the idea of such blackmail, no matter the ultimate outcome. Then I thought of the children dying of the poison in the water, and the factory owner’s refusal to sacrifice some of his profit to clean it up.” His voice was growing stronger, the pain inside him easing. “I wondered-if I had the same power, would I refuse to use it and let the children die? Would it be better to cost many innocent people their health, merely to keep my hands clean of such methods?”
There seemed to be not even a breath drawn in the room.
“He chose to use the weapon he had,” Rathbone said. “I do not blame him for that.”
There were murmurs now, voices in the gallery.
“That was the only specific example he gave me, but he said there were others like it,” Rathbone continued. “I did look up that case, and the judgment. He was speaking the truth. The industrialist he mentioned had steadily refused to yield until the judgment went against him. I also know the photograph existed because I have seen it.”
“That is very frightening indeed,” Brancaster said grimly. “But it does not explain how you come to have these photographs now.”
“I was still horrified,” Rathbone went on. He knew there was no escape now. It was far too late. “I participated in the closure of the two different clubs involved. The whole situation included the murder of a man who ran one of them, a man named Mickey Parfitt. It was investigated by the police. The man was of the dregs of humanity, but murder is still a crime, no matter who the victim or who the offender.”
He looked at last at Margaret, and saw her staring back at him. Her face was twisted in anger and so white she seemed bloodless. There was no going back now.
“Sir Oliver …” Brancaster prompted him again.
“The man accused of the murder was prosecuted,” Rathbone resumed. He was finding it difficult to speak. His mouth was so dry it was blurring his words. “I was asked to defend him, and to begin with I believed him innocent. Then another person was also murdered, a young woman who was no more than a witness. It soon became clear that her death was planned by this man, in order to keep her from testifying. But I still did all I could to defend him, because that was my duty before the law, no matter what my own feelings. I tried everything I could think of, but I failed. He was found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.”
Brancaster did not move or speak. No one in the entire court seemed to do more than breathe.
“He asked me after the sentence was handed down to visit him,” Rathbone went on. His voice suddenly sounded loud in his own ears. “I did so. That was when he told me of the existence of scores more photographs. He said that if I did not find a way to save him from the rope they would fall into the hands of someone he trusted, and the blackmail would go on. I would have no power to stop it, and the foundations of everything we value would be undermined. He told me there were judges; government ministers; bishops; leaders of industry, science, and the army and navy; even distant members of the royal family involved, if not captured in the pictures themselves.”
Rathbone felt again the desperation with which he, Hester, and Monk had searched everywhere they could think of for those damned photographs.
“And you found them?” Brancaster asked in the total silence that followed.
“No,” Rathbone replied. “I went back to plead with him, and … and I found him murdered in prison.” The horror of that scene crept over his skin again like an infestation of lice. “It … it made me realize just how wide and how deep this circle of corruption went. The police never found out who killed him.”
“But you did not find the photographs?” Brancaster’s voice cracked as he spoke.
“No,” Rathbone answered. “That was the bitter irony. They found me. The man had left them with his solicitor, left them to me in his will, to be delivered to me as a final punishment for not having saved him.”
Brancaster smiled bitterly. “And this man you refer to-that would be your father-in-law, Arthur Ballinger?”
“Yes,” Rathbone said huskily. “It would.”
In her seat in the second row, Margaret sat like stone, as if she would never move again.
Rathbone would have spared her that. But there was nothing he could do. The reality was there in the courtroom like something alive, unstoppable.
“Thank you, Sir Oliver,” Brancaster said with a sigh. He turned to Wystan.
Wystan rose to his feet stiffly.
“It paints a very clear picture, my lord. I imagine Mr. Brancaster will be calling other witnesses to verify your story. For the sake of many people who may be implicated, I would like to reserve my questions until that has been done.”
York, his face full of anger, adjourned the court.
CHAPTER 17
The next person to testify was Monk. He walked across the floor and climbed up the steps, trying to look grave but unconcerned. He certainly did not feel that way. Brancaster was taking an extraordinary gamble, but it was perhaps the only move they had. He had a strong idea of what Brancaster was going to do, but Brancaster had deliberately not prepared him. He said he wanted it to sound unrehearsed, almost as if Monk, too, had been taken by surprise.
The one thing he hoped would not come out in any way was the fact that they suspected Margaret had been the one to turn Rathbone in. Scuff had told him what had happened the second time he snuck into the courtroom. Monk, for better or worse, had decided that it was not relevant to the murder of Taft. Margaret had been blighted by what had happened with her father; she had sought revenge, and she had been in the right place at the right time to get what she had wanted. Rathbone, already so hurt, would be wounded even more deeply to learn how she had betrayed him. Maybe there would be a time to tell him, but it wasn’t now.
Monk swore as to his name, occupation, and rank in the Thames River Police, and of course to tell the truth. Then he faced Brancaster.
“Commander Monk,” Brancaster began, “were you in charge of the investigation into the murder of Mickey Parfitt, whose body was found in the Thames?”
“Yes, I was.”
Brancaster nodded.
“I will be as brief as possible in establishing your connection with this present case, so forgive me if I appear to leap over great areas of your earlier involvement. What was Mr. Parfitt’s occupation, Commander?”
“He ran a club for wealthy men with a taste for child prostitution and pornography,” Monk
replied. “He based it on a barge moored on the river, which is how it fell under my jurisdiction. He also blackmailed several of his clients, vulnerable because exposure would ruin them.”
“How did he do that? What evidence did he have of their involvement?” Brancaster managed to sound as if he did not already know.
“Photographs,” Monk replied.
“Why would a vulnerable man allow himself to be photographed in such a situation? Forgive me, but does a photograph not require you to maintain a motionless position for some time while the photographer performs his art?” Brancaster looked puzzled.
“Yes, it does,” Monk agreed. “But having a compromising photograph taken was part of the initiation into the club. You could not be a member without agreeing to it.”
“I see. And did Mr. Parfitt own this … club?”
“No, he just managed it.”
“Did you discover who owned it?” Brancaster inquired.
Again the court was breathless; every member of the jury was staring at Monk.
“Yes-Arthur Ballinger,” Monk answered.
Brancaster also looked only at Monk. “The same Arthur Ballinger who was father-in-law to Oliver Rathbone?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“Is there any doubt about this whatever?” Brancaster persisted.
Monk shook his head. “No. Quite apart from the detailed proof he provided, in the end, when he was facing the hangman’s noose, he did not bother to deny it. In fact, he deliberately bequeathed the collection of pictures to Oliver Rathbone.”
“I see. And what was Rathbone’s reaction to this … bequest?”
York finally lost his composure. “Mr. Wystan! Do you not wish to object to this? Are you asleep, sir? Mr. Brancaster is asking for the witness to give an opinion, to state facts he cannot possibly know.”
Wystan rose to his feet. He looked very pale.
“I apologize, my lord, if I seemed inattentive. I assumed that Mr. Brancaster was asking Commander Monk if he observed any reaction in Sir Oliver, not what he imagined Sir Oliver’s feelings to be.”
A dull flush spread up York’s face, but the answer was perfectly reasonable.
Monk noted that Wystan had made an enemy for himself, but he felt a certain respect for the man. He was following his own judgment, regardless of the favor or disfavor it earned him. As it was a complete about-face from his previous position, it must have been hard to do.
Brancaster acknowledged it with the slightest inclination of his head.
Monk glanced at the jury. Every single one of them was watching Brancaster, waiting.
“Do you know of anything Sir Oliver said or did as a result of having inherited this terrible legacy?” Brancaster clarified his question to Monk.
“He told me about it. He was horrified,” Monk replied. “I am also aware that he used a photo to force someone to act honorably in circumstances where they refused to do it of their own volition. It is one of the worst choices a person can have, when no matter what course you take, it is going to cause pain to someone.” He knew this was not an answer to the question, but he guessed it was what Brancaster was giving him the opportunity to say. “If it were my friend or my brother who had joined such a club, I would want to protect him, let him keep his hideous mistake private. If he continued to practice such abuse of children, I might feel less like protecting him.”
There was a murmur around the room, a rumble to which it was difficult to put a meaning, but it sounded more like agreement than anger.
“But I have no doubt,” he went on, “that if it were my wife or my friends who needed help, and some man in one of these photographs refused to give it though he was quite able, I would wish that whoever had the power to force him to act would use it, no matter how high the price. Wouldn’t any man?”
“Yes, I think so,” Brancaster agreed. “I certainly would. I could not see anyone I loved punished, tortured, perhaps killed if I could exert a pressure that would save him. Tell me, did Sir Oliver expose the man in the photograph that you speak of, and ruin him?”
“No. Of course not. He kept his word.”
Brancaster gave a slight shrug, still frowning a little. “Did he ever say anything that led you to understand why he wished to keep this power in his hands? Or for that matter, why did you, as a policeman, not expose the men in the photographs anyway? The acts depicted are not only revolting-they are criminal. It was within your right.”
The air in the room crackled. No one moved even a cramped limb.
Monk gave a small, tight smile. “Because as I think we have already established, the men involved are in all walks of life, almost all highly placed. There was no purpose in seducing or photographing men without money or influence or a great deal to lose if the pictures were made public. To expose them all would, at the very least, rock the foundations of our government, possibly the Church, the army, and the navy. I have no wish to do that. Apart from anything else, it would expose the nation to ridicule and contempt. Which of our ministers would be able to sit at the international tables of negotiation without embarrassment?”
Brancaster bit his lip. “Perhaps I had not appreciated just how wide and how deep this is. It … it is very frightening.” He took a deep breath. “I begin to grasp just what Sir Oliver was struggling with, and so perhaps why he took the irrevocable step of bringing it into the open in this particular way-we do not know who is involved, and yet we cannot possibly legally or morally turn our backs on the problem and pretend it is not real, dangerous, and terrible.”
York leaned forward. “Mr. Brancaster, before you elevate the accused to sainthood, perhaps you should remind the jury that Abel Taft, a man who was yet to be convicted of anything at all and was charged with fraud, not violence, not obscenity, is dead! As are his poor wife and his two young daughters-as a direct result of this act of Rathbone’s that you are attempting to paint so nobly!”
“Thank you, my lord,” Brancaster said with a sudden appearance of humility. Then he turned back to Monk. “Commander Monk, I believe you have been reinvestigating that tragic event, to which his lordship refers, specifically the issue of where the large amount of money that was embezzled-still unaccounted for-went. Is that correct?”
Wystan looked puzzled. He made as if to rise, then eased back into his seat again but paid even closer attention.
“Yes, that is correct,” Monk answered quickly, before York could intervene, or Wystan changed his mind. “I went back to Taft’s house. The matter is now being looked at by experts called in by the local police-”
“How is this your concern?” York interrupted angrily. “Are you not Thames River Police? Since when did your jurisdiction run to an embezzlement investigation, miles from the river, over a case that was already closed?”
That was the question Monk had been hoping to avoid.
“It does not, my lord,” he said as deferentially as he could force himself to. “Which is why, when I found the evidence, I turned it over to the local police. I went in there with their permission,” he added, before York could challenge him on that also. He did not want to get the officer who had granted the help into trouble. “We cooperate with each other, my lord,” he added, seeing the irritation in York’s face. He already disliked York, for Rathbone’s sake, but he knew the man had a point.
York hesitated.
Brancaster quickly broke in. “Evidence, Commander? Evidence of what?”
“Murder,” Monk replied. He was leaping far ahead of the way he had intended to tell the story, but he dared not risk being blocked now.
There were gasps around the court. In the gallery there was a buzz of amazement. In the jury box every man stared at Monk as if he had only this moment appeared there by magic.
York was furious.
“If you are deliberately trying to create a sensation, Commander,” he snapped, “in the hope of making us forget why we are here, then you are making a profound mistake. This is the trial of Oliver Rathbone for perve
rting the course of justice and abusing his office as judge.”
Monk hesitated. Dare he defy York, or might it only bring down further disaster, on all their heads? Suddenly the issue of the photographs had been obscured and the defense was losing clarity. He must think of an answer to York.
He took a bold risk. It was all he had left.
“I think Sir Oliver may unintentionally have caused the murder to happen,” he said, his breath almost choking him.
There was utter silence.
“I beg your pardon?” York said at last. Then, as Monk drew in his breath to repeat his words, York held up his hand. “No-no, that is not necessary. I heard you. I just failed for a moment to believe my ears. If this is some elaborate trick, Mr. Monk”-he dropped the courtesy of using his rank-“then I shall hold you in contempt of court.”
At last Brancaster stepped in. “Perhaps, my lord, it would be best if Commander Monk were to tell us, as briefly as possible, exactly what the evidence was, so the jurors may interpret it for themselves?”
York had no possible course but to agree. He did so reluctantly.
“Proceed. But if you stray off the point I shall stop you and rule you out of order. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Monk swallowed his dislike and turned back to face Brancaster. He must recount this in exactly the right sequence, or York would stop him before he reached the end. He considered for a moment leaving Hester out of the account, because he could not give any good reason why she should have been there, but being caught in any kind of evasion would be dangerous.
“I took my wife with me when I went to Abel Taft’s home,” he said straightaway. “I knew the search would be faster with two people, and her medical skill might prove useful if we discovered anything unusual. Also a woman can read the meaning in certain domestic arrangements that a man might miss.”
“And did you discover such things?” Brancaster said swiftly, to forestall any interruption from York, or even Wystan, although Wystan seemed as interested as the jurors, who were grasping every word.
