by Anne Perry
“I don’t know whether you find that easy to say,” Byrne observed, “but you may find it harder to live up to. It’s inconvenient now; I promise you it is going to get a great deal more so.” He shook his head. “Be careful, Monk. I admire your loyalty, but not everyone will. Oliver Rathbone has made a great many enemies, and most of them would be very well pleased to see him brought down.”
Monk looked straight at him. “I dare say you and I have also made a few enemies, sir. I would like to believe that my friends would stand by me, were I in his place. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that that decision would define who was a friend and who was not.”
Byrne waved his hand in a gesture so small it was barely there at all. “I thought you would say something like that. Don’t complain that I didn’t warn you.”
“No, sir. Is that all?”
Byrne shook his head and turned away, but there was a brief smile on his face, there and then gone again. He had fulfilled his duty.
MONK WENT HOME A little earlier than usual that evening. He knew Hester would be waiting anxiously to learn how Rathbone was and if Monk had consulted Rathbone’s lawyer, or thought of any plan as to how they might be of help.
She was waiting for him in the kitchen. Scuff was there also. They both looked at him as he came in, eyes troubled and expectant. Hester put down the knife she had been using to carve the cold saddle of mutton and came over, kissing him briefly and gently, then stepping back while he touched Scuff casually on the shoulder. Monk felt the boy relax a little. He knew the question they both wanted to ask. Only good manners allowed them to let him sit down first. Hester did not even inquire whether he would like tea.
“The prison’s a pretty awful place,” Monk said, wondering how much truth he should tell Hester in front of Scuff. “But he looks well enough and he’s determined to fight. I’m not sure if he’s realized yet just how many enemies he has who’d be delighted to see him topple.”
Scuff was regarding him gravely. “Why’s ’e got enemies?” he asked. “I thought ’e were a beak now.” He turned to Hester.
“A judge,” she corrected automatically. “A beak is only a magistrate. A judge is much more important.”
Scuff turned to Monk. “So why’s ’e got enemies? Did ’e ’ang people as ’e shouldn’t ’ave?”
Monk was startled by Scuff’s casual attitude coupled with a startlingly clear perception of the ends of the law. He was uncertain how to answer.
Hester did it for him. “Everybody thinks that in their own case they don’t deserve to be hanged,” she pointed out. “Haven’t you realized that people who keep on doing the wrong things nearly always blame somebody else? Perhaps that’s a lot of what crime is—losing your sense of fairness.”
Scuff frowned. “What did ’e do? I mean, what did ’e really do?”
“He bent the rules,” Monk replied.
Scuff turned to Hester. “If yer bend ’em, don’t they break?”
She smiled at Monk, laughter flashing for a moment between them before she became serious again. “Yes, they do. Bending the rules is like being a little bit dishonest.”
“So ’e done it, then?” Scuff said. His voice was still reasonable, but clearly it was not the answer he had wanted. Rathbone was their friend, so he was Scuff’s as well. One never wanted harm to friends. Scuff was fiercely loyal. “What’re we going ter do?”
Monk had already decided not to tell Hester about the police commissioner’s warning, but it left him with a flavor of deceit. If he went too far over the line, as he might well do, then he would lose his job. He could not afford that. People you loved, who trusted you and whom it was your duty to look after, were one of the greatest joys of life. They were also hostages of fortune and limited your choices to take risks that on your own you might not even have weighed.
“Yer not goin’ ter let ’im ’ang, are yer?” Scuff said seriously. His body was tense, his smooth hands knotted together on top of the wooden table.
Monk could only guess what fears were racing through Scuff’s mind. This was as much about belonging and loyalty as it was about right and wrong. It was about the kind of safety of the heart that made all other safeties sweet but so small by comparison.
Hester was watching him, waiting for an answer. This time she could not step in. Monk must reply.
“There is no question of his hanging,” Monk said clearly.
“The man’s dead,” Scuff screwed up his face. “An’ ’is wife, an’ ’is daughters. They wasn’t much older’n me.”
Monk remembered with a jolt that Scuff had met Taft and his family in church. They were real people to him, not just names. And now that he could read, the newspapers were mines of information, true and false.
“I know, but Sir Oliver didn’t have anything to do with that,” he tried to explain. “It looks as if Mr. Taft killed them and then killed himself because he knew he was going to be found guilty, and he couldn’t face it.”
“Would they ’ave ’anged ’im?”
“No. He didn’t kill anyone; he just cheated them out of money. They’d have sent him to prison.”
Scuff blinked. “And Sir Oliver?”
“If they find him guilty they might well send him to prison too.”
Scuff looked deeply unhappy. “ ’E’ll never make it. ’E’s a toff. They’d ’ave ’im fer breakfast. Yer gotta ’elp ’im!” It was not a question, it was a demand.
“We will,” Monk said rashly. He would never have made such a wild promise to Hester, and it would have mattered less if he had. She would have placed less weight on it, and certainly forgiven him had he done his best and failed. He saw the shadow in her face now, wondering how they would pick up the pieces if they could not save Rathbone.
“What are we going ter do?” Scuff repeated.
“Have supper,” Hester replied, turning back to the stove. “We’re tired and hungry. Nobody thinks well on an empty stomach. Scuff, go and wash your hands.”
He opened his mouth to argue that they were perfectly clean, then changed his mind and went out. He knew a hint now when he heard one.
“I know,” Monk said as soon as the door closed behind Scuff and they heard his footsteps along the corridor.
“How is he really?” she asked.
“Scared stiff, I think.”
“Good. Then he’s facing reality. We’ve got to save him, William. What he did might legally be a bit questionable—”
“A bit questionable!” he said incredulously.
“But morally it was the right thing, just not the right way,” she went on, ignoring his interruption. “Betraying people’s faith is a terrible sin.”
“I know,” he agreed. “But all most people are seeing is that Taft killed himself because of what happened in the courtroom and, far worse than that, killed his wife and his two daughters, who were little more than children. The law is blaming Rathbone for doing something wrong, and they see that as being the cause of three senseless deaths, even if indirectly. Nobody else knows what was actually in the photographs. They might assume it was Taft himself and that the fear of Rathbone revealing him drove him insane.”
“If he was in one of them, he could have killed his family because he couldn’t bear them knowing, possibly even seeing it. It would be understandable, in a twisted, terrible way.”
“If a man would do something he’d rather die over than have people know, or kill his family over rather than have them know about it, how the hell is that the judge’s fault?” Monk demanded. “I presume Rathbone’s father will get him the best lawyer he can find. Rathbone must be able to afford anyone he wants.”
“As long as the best he can find isn’t in one of those photographs,” she said grimly. “I wonder if he looked at all of them. Has he? Did you ask?”
At that moment Scuff came noisily down the passage and opened the door. Monk caught Hester’s twisted smile just as Scuff inquired if it was hot bubble and squeak they were having for dinner with the mutton,
and if there were onions in it.
THEY RESUMED THEIR DISCUSSION a couple of hours later when Scuff had gone to bed and they were alone in the sitting room. Monk leaned forward to speak, just as Hester began. She stopped immediately.
He gave a slight shrug. “It is bad, Hester,” he said gravely. “We don’t know for sure who Rathbone’s enemies are, or what power they hold.”
“So are we going to have to look at the rest of the pictures and see who we can name?” Her features were puckered with distaste. “William, we have to know who is against him. It’s too late to be delicate about it.”
He regarded her with the amazement that every now and then washed over him. Seeing her every day, hearing her laughter, and knowing the deep wounds where she was still vulnerable, the things she lay awake and feared, worried about, sometimes made him forget the depth of the strength inside her. He forgot the courage that never backed down or gave in.
She misunderstood. “It’s much too late for delicacy,” she repeated. “If we don’t do something, Oliver could end up on trial before a judge who hates him, or even, without knowing it, have a lawyer who’s connected to someone in that wretched collection. I’d hate to look at them, but I will—”
“You won’t!” he said before she could finish her sentence.
She smiled for a moment with genuine amusement, almost laughter, and he thought at least in part that it was his leap to protect her that caused it. He felt a very faint warmth creeping up his cheeks, but he refused to acknowledge it.
She changed the subject. “William, someone lodged this complaint against Oliver. It might be Gavinton, because he lost, but I don’t think so. Even if Oliver were convicted, that wouldn’t win any vindication for Drew, or for Taft. Taft took his own life, maybe because he was sure he was going to be found guilty—but he was guilty; nothing that happened to Oliver was going to change that. And whether Taft cheated people or not, he actually killed his wife and daughters. That’s a triple murder and suicide. It makes defrauding a handful of parishioners rather pale in comparison.”
Monk knew Hester cared about saving Rathbone, possibly even more than he did. Rathbone had been in love with her once and had perhaps never completely gotten over it, in spite of loving Margaret in a safer, gentler way. That was a tragedy that was only going to get worse, since Margaret’s love had changed to something close to hatred. Hester felt a desire to protect Rathbone because she had not been able to give him the kind of love he wished from her. The knowledge of that sometimes twisted inside Monk, yet had she been able to remain unmoved, he would not have loved her as completely as he did.
“All right, not Gavinton,” he conceded. “Too ambitious to do something so self-destructive. That brings us back to Warne, who we know now hasn’t been arrested along with Rathbone.”
“I expect he’ll be censured, won’t he?” she asked.
“Probably. Even if they don’t particularly want to, they’ll have to, since they are charging Rathbone,” he agreed. “But it might be more nominal than actual.”
“Do you really think it could be Warne who told them Oliver gave him the photograph?” she persisted. There was a look of intense distaste in her face, and an unhappiness, as if she had liked Warne and this possibility hurt her.
“Rathbone said he’d taken precautions against that,” Monk told her. “He retained Warne as his counsel, just for that purpose, whether to protect himself or to protect Warne, I don’t know. Maybe both.”
She changed the subject, as they were getting nowhere. “Has Oliver seen his father yet?”
“Yes. And so should we.”
She winced. “He’s so hurt,” she said quietly.
“I know, but it’ll be worse if we don’t,” he answered. “Perhaps we should go now.”
“It’s late,” she protested. “We can’t leave Scuff alone.”
“Hester, he’s thirteen. He’s lived alone on the dockside, sleeping in crates and under boxes and old newspapers. Nothing’s going to happen to him if we’re gone for a few hours while he’s in his own bed.”
She stood up. “I’ll go and tell him we’ll be back when we’ve seen Henry Rathbone.”
“You’d better add that you’ll have his hide if he goes into the pantry!” he called after her.
THEY FOUND HENRY RATHBONE alone and deep in thought. He was delighted to see them and welcomed them in. Of course, he had already seen Hester once, when she told him of the situation and Oliver’s arrest.
“You are probably the only people I am actually pleased to see,” he said ruefully, after he had taken them into the sitting room. “Would you like tea?” It was an automatic gesture, something one did for any guest. “No doubt you have come about Oliver. I have engaged a lawyer to represent him. Rufus Brancaster. I don’t know if you are familiar with his name?”
“No,” Monk said. Then he hesitated. “But if you have confidence in him, and he is willing to take the case, then that’s a good start.”
Hester winced and looked down but could not hide the pain in her face.
“What is it you know and are finding so difficult to say to me? Is Oliver guilty?” Henry asked gently.
“No, that isn’t it,” Hester said quietly.
“My dear, there are times when it is kinder to avoid the unpleasant truths, or err on the side of more generous judgments. This is not one of them.”
He turned to Monk. “If this is not about Oliver, then is it something about Brancaster that troubles you?”
Monk had intended to approach things less abruptly, but looking into Henry Rathbone’s clear blue eyes the prevarication died on his tongue.
“I’m—we’re—afraid he might be one of the men in the collection of photographs Oliver still has,” he admitted. “Or who might fear he is. We have realized that plenty of people may be candidates; they might be unsure if their photograph is actually in Oliver’s possession, and be driven mad by the doubt. If Brancaster is among them, then—”
“I see,” Henry interrupted him. “I think it is highly unlikely, but I presume that if such men were obvious when one meets them, there would be little secret and little point in blackmail. Perhaps we had better find out for certain. Where are these pictures?”
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “I thought you might.”
“Oliver would not have wished to involve me,” Henry told him. He gave a very slight shrug. “And I dare say he was not overly proud of possessing them, even though he came to do so by means beyond control. Still, he chose not to destroy them.”
“It is hard to lay aside that much power,” Monk said ruefully. “It could be used for great good. That is apparently how Ballinger started out.”
“I don’t know whether I would have destroyed them,” Hester surprised them by interrupting. “If I had something with which I could save the lives of an untold number of people, I think I would keep on meaning to get rid of it but always stop short of doing it, just in case the next patient was one I could have saved. I wouldn’t be prepared to watch them die, knowing it might’ve been avoided. It’s one of those tasks, the kind you’re always going to do tomorrow, until tomorrow comes.”
Monk looked at her with surprise. He had expected the opposite from her, the gentle, the conservative perspective. But she had taken the unexpected, braver stand, perhaps the more foolish, definitely the more honest.
Henry was looking at her too, and there was a startling affection in his eyes. Monk realized how much Henry would have preferred that Rathbone marry Hester rather than Margaret. Poor Margaret. Had she ever known that, even if perhaps not putting it so bluntly to herself?
Monk recalled the discussion back to the practical. “One of us has to look at those pictures and see who is in them that might be in the judiciary or in any other position of power regarding this case. Otherwise we are simply moving around blindly and possibly playing right into their hands.”
“Agreed,” Henry said grimly. “I shall ask Oliver where these damned things are, an
d then, with your assistance, identify as many people as possible. We must not only find out if Brancaster himself is there—which I profoundly doubt—but also if there is anyone else who might have an influence on him, or on the nature of Oliver’s trial.” He was looking intently at Monk. “But how do we ascertain that?”
“I’ll find out,” Monk said rashly. “Perhaps we should also consider who might have influence on Warne, or Gavinton, or anybody else concerned. What a bloody mess.” He looked at Hester with a twisted smile. “Still so sure you’d keep them?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t say it would be wise, or right, or that I wouldn’t regret it. I just said I think I probably would’ve.”
Henry shot her a look of gratitude, then rose to his feet. “I’ll fetch you Rufus Brancaster’s address. As soon as I have visited Oliver to ask where to find these photographs and if you identify the people in them, perhaps we can begin to understand who is with us, and who against.”
Monk drew in his breath to say something then changed his mind. It was Hester who, with brutal honesty, gave words to his thought.
“Even once we look at the photographs, there is the problem, as we said, of photographs that were not in Ballinger’s possession. There may be people who were members of the club that we have no way of identifying as such.”
“I know,” he said quietly, “but there is no value in considering problems we cannot address. You are right, though; we should not allow ourselves a false sense of safety. It is rather sad to think that so many men’s lives are so bereft of purpose and their values so diseased as to look for excitement in such places. I’m afraid when it comes to the use of children I have little understanding or mercy for them.”
