by Anne Perry
“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 perverting 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.
“Very little,” Monk replied. “What we did find dismissed everything else from thought.”
“Money?” Brancaster asked innocently.
“Paintings,” Monk answered. “Framed so as to conceal the artists’ signatures. Experts are examining them now, but there seems to be a very considerable collection of good paintings disguised as copies. Their value, if authentic, would be enough to live on, more than comfortably, for thirty or forty years if sold judiciously over time.”
“Does the value about equal the money that has not been accounted for?” Brancaster questioned.
Wystan stood up. “While this theft was well detected on Commander Monk’s part, my lord, it is a long way short of murder. Unless he is somehow suggesting that Taft killed his wife over the paintings? I don’t see any evidence whatsoever to indicate such a thing.”
“Your point is well taken,” York replied. “If that were so, it might relieve Rathbone of the moral guilt of causing the Taft family’s deaths, although even that seems to be questionable. You are not advancing your case, Mr. Brancaster.” He smiled thinly, a faint, bitter satisfaction.
Brancaster’s cheeks colored with anger. “My lord,” he said between his teeth. “If we might allow Commander Monk to complete the account of what he found …”
“Then get on with it!” York snapped. “You are trying the court’s patience.”
Without replying to him Brancaster made a small gesture with his hands, inviting Monk to continue.
“One of the larger paintings, an almost life-size portrait of a man, swung away from the wall in the upstairs study,” he said a trifle too quickly. “Behind it was a panel that, when pushed in, revealed a space containing a ladder up into the attic …”
The gallery rustled. Every juror leaned forward. Even Wystan turned in his seat to stare at Monk more intently.
Monk bit his lip to stop himself from smiling. “Naturally I went up, and my wife came with me. We found ourselves in a large space with a few of the things we would expect to see—empty boxes, a trunk or two. It was the second, smaller room that mattered. There was a door into it, and as soon as we opened that, we saw the contraption.”
There was not a sound in the entire courtroom.
“Contraption?” Brancaster asked huskily.
“A pistol on a table held steady by two weights. Tied to its trigger was a wire, which passed through a ring in the ceiling, and was attached at the other end to a tin can with a very small hole in the bottom,” Monk explained. “It is difficult to describe it so as to make its purpose clear, but the moment we saw it we understood. It was a device created so that as the water dripped out of the can, the can became lighter, slowly rising to the point where the cord went slack, thus releasing the trigger and firing the gun. The can was empty when we arrived, and we found the bullet in the far wall. The water that had dripped out had been caught by a container beneath the can, and had evaporated. And the window was wedged open.”
Brancaster affected confusion. He shook his head fractionally.
“Are you saying that Taft arranged this extraordinary piece of machinery to shoot himself?”
“No, sir. As the medical examiner would testify, it seems Mr. Taft and his entire family were already dead, possibly for a couple of hours, when this gun went off. Because the window was open the sound of it could be heard by the neighbors, whose houses were approximately fifty feet away. The purpose of the shot was to establish the time of Mr. Taft’s death—wrongly.”
“I see!” Brancaster’s face lit up. “So it was to mislead the police as to the time of Taft’s death, presumably so whoever killed him could prove that he was elsewhere at that precise moment?”
“Exactly,” Monk agreed. “The police are now considering it to be murder of all four members of the family, Taft himself included.”
There were gasps from almost everyone in the court, even several of the jurors.
Brancaster cleared his throat.
“And whom do they suspect, Commander Monk?”
Monk spoke quietly. “It all comes back to the missing money. The paintings are actually registered as owned by Robertson Drew. They have already arrested him, and I imagine they will charge him with all four murders, if they are not already doing so as we speak.”
“Ah!” Brancaster let out his breath in a sigh, as if it were now all perfectly clear. “So it is possible that Robertson Drew strangled Mrs. Taft and her daughters, shot Taft himself, and then rigged up this contraption in the attic to make it seem as if Taft’s death happened at five in the morning—a time at which Drew can fully account for his whereabouts, I imagine—when the neighbors heard the shot, rather than a couple of hours earlier?”
“Yes,” Monk agreed. “It is quite possible.”
“Just one other thing, Mr. Monk: If Drew went through all that trouble, why did he not remove the machine from the attic? If you had not found it, we would have known nothing about it at all. It seems extraordinarily dangerous, a careless piece of arrogance.”
“He tried to,” Monk said with a bleak smile. “He had to be careful not to seem too eager to get into the house, or he might have aroused suspicion, but he did ask the police several times. In fact, it was his eagerness to gain access to the house that made us decide to look there as well.”
“I see. But there is still one piece that puzzles me.�
� Brancaster knew that every man and woman in the courtroom was listening to him, and he made the most of it. It was a superb performance. “If he had to ask for police permission to get into the house to remove this contraption, how did he get in, in the middle of the night, to murder the entire family?”
Monk had been waiting for that. “On the night he killed them all, we suspect he entered through a loosely fitted larder window, at the back of the house where in the dark no one would have seen him climb in. After the deaths were discovered, and the police knew it was the scene of a crime, even if they did not understand the full nature of it, they secured all the windows and locked the inside doors. The house was then their responsibility, and there was a great deal that was of value still inside—silver, crystal, paintings, and such. So they kept a careful eye on it, as, I might add, did the neighbors, which prevented Drew from breaking in again.”
“I see.” Brancaster nodded. “Yes, that makes excellent sense. A very terrible crime. Thank you for your diligence, Commander Monk. Without it, poor Taft would have gone down in history as a murderer and a suicide, when in truth he was no more than a thief and an exploiter of the humble and the generous. In the end he was a victim himself. Justice owes you a great deal.” He bowed to Monk, then before anyone could intervene, bowed very slightly to the jury also.
“But of course your task, gentlemen, is to weigh the justice of a far less violent but more evil and dangerous crime, one that has already eaten deeply into the fabric of our nation—that of the torture and abuse of children for the obscene entertainment of men without honor or decency. It has been exposed, at great risk to himself, by Oliver Rathbone. Do we ignore it, and thus allow it to go on corrupting the soul of our nation? Indeed, do we punish the man who has forced us to face this terrible truth? Or do we thank him—and begin to root its poison out of our society?”
“Mr. Brancaster!” snapped York. “If you have finished questioning this witness, then allow counsel for the prosecution the right to do so. I will tell the jury when it is time to consider their verdict—not you! I will also correct your somewhat loose interpretation of the law!”
Wystan stood up. “Thank you, my lord. I don’t believe I have any questions for Commander Monk. The issue seems tragically clear to me. I wish there had been some other way to expose this mighty evil, but I fear if there had been, then we did not avail ourselves of it.”
Brancaster stood as if afraid to move, staring at Wystan. Wystan swallowed. Monk could see the movement of his throat even from the height of the witness stand.
When Wystan spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “My lord, the prosecution is aware that Sir Oliver made grave judicial errors. He took the law into his own hands, and that cannot be permitted. However, we do not ask for a custodial sentence in this instance. We trust that the professional discipline the Lords Justice wish to exercise will be adequate for the offense relating to how the evidence of Robertson Drew’s character was presented to the court.”
York stared at him.
“Thank you,” Brancaster said breathlessly. “Thank you, Mr. Wystan.” He turned slowly to Monk. “Thank you, Commander. It seems you are excused.”
“Silence! I will have silence in the court,” York yelled as the noise of the astonished onlookers rose to a pitch.
Slowly the buzz ebbed away. Every eye was on York.
“Gentlemen of the jury, the accused has presented excuses for his behavior, but he has not attempted to deny it, therefore it is not open to you to bring in a verdict of not guilty. The court thanks you for your service.”
The foreman of the jury glanced at his fellows then rose slowly to his feet.
“My lord?”
York looked at him grimly. “Have I not made myself clear, sir?”
The foreman swallowed. “Yes, my lord. We wish to know if it is open to us to agree with the prosecution, and ask that Sir Oliver just serve the time he already has done in prison, and then the Lords Justice discipline him whatever way they have to? Can we do that?”
York’s face was pale. “You may recommend whatever you wish,” he said somewhat ungraciously. “Thank you for your consideration.”
The foreman sat down again, apparently satisfied.
In the dock Rathbone was so weak with relief he felt dizzy. He was guilty. Perhaps that verdict had been inevitable. It was almost a relief to acknowledge it to himself. If you break the law, for whatever reason, then you must pay the price for it. If it had been anyone else he would have said as much. But the price was not prison. Certainly his resignation from the bench would be required, probably even his right to practice law, at least for a while. But he would be a free man, living in his own home, able to choose his path. He was overcome with gratitude for a price less than he deserved to pay. The room swam around him, wavering in his vision. He saw Monk go down the steps and across the floor to where Hester and Scuff were waiting for him. Hester abandoned decorum and hugged him, and he put his arms around her, then around the boy also. Henry Rathbone joined them, tears of gratitude gleaming for an instant on his cheeks.
Brancaster was shaking hands with Wystan. The jurors were turning to one another, smiling, happy, relieved that they had served justice well, but had also acted with honor.
In the third row from the front of the gallery seats, Margaret sat motionless, her face white and stricken, as if she were mourning a death all over again.
Rathbone felt a wave of pity for her. He had no joy at all in seeing her so bitterly forced to stare into the reality of her father’s corruption. It was a tragedy, not a victory. Ballinger had yielded to the same power that Rathbone had. The only difference was that it was Ballinger who had created that particular monster, and he had had no friends with the courage, the skill, and the loyalty to rescue him, such as had rescued Rathbone.
Rathbone could never go back to her. That door was closed forever, for both of them. But he could wish her well, wish her healing and one day even happiness. And he found he did.
They were ushering him out of the dock. It was all over. At least as far as this trial was concerned, he was free. He would have tonight’s supper in his own home. He would walk around and touch things, gaze at them, treasure them—before one day soon selling the house and getting rooms elsewhere. Not too far—his friends were here; but he needed a new start.
He walked a little shakily down the steps toward the ground floor. He would have to find something else to do for as long as he was banned from practicing law, however long that was. But he had learned something about law that few other lawyers would ever know. He might not have any greater legal skills than they, but now he would have other gifts, gifts of empathy, of humanity. He had paid dearly for them. A chance to use them again, in the future, was a grace far greater than he had once dreamed was possible.
A WEEK LATER THE INITIAL relief had passed and Rathbone faced a different kind of reality. The verdict and sentence of the judiciary had been passed on him. His resignation from the bench, and the crown of his career he had so long worked for, was a thing of the past. He was also banned from the practice of law for an indefinite period. He could appeal to be reinstated in a year. That might, or might not, be granted.
He considered what else he had lost, what of himself, and the inner things he valued more dearly than position or career. Monk’s friendship he did not question. Monk himself had traveled some of the darkest halls of guilt and self-doubt. Rathbone appreciated that now with a sharper and far keener edge than he had before. Much of his own certainty in all manner of things had eroded away in these last months. Some of the old safeties were shown to be far more fragile than he had believed. Now he was aware of his own deep flaws of judgment, and the fact that he too could face the censure of his fellows and fall short in the eyes of those he loved. Forgiveness was suddenly a far sweeter, more tender thing than he had ever known it to be.
It was past time he stopped telling himself that one day he would take his father to Italy, spend time with him, list
en a great deal more. He could do it now, this autumn, as soon as he could sell the house and would have the funds to do it. He would make it the trip of a lifetime, to be savored in all the years ahead. It was one thing that would hold no regrets. In time it would crowd out all the sorrows and perhaps leave behind only the lessons learned.
THE NEXT MORNING DAWN rose over the Thames, spilling light across the water, as Rathbone sat with Monk in a police boat. They were on a lonely, deep stretch, where the bottom mud was thick. Nothing lost here would ever be found again.
Monk shipped the oars and rested them. He was here as a witness, but even more as a friend.
Rathbone picked up the heavy box of photographic plates that Arthur Ballinger had bequeathed him. Inside it was everything that was left of them. He stood up, balancing carefully, and dropped it over the side. It went down like a stone, leaving barely a ripple on the water.
“Thank you,” Rathbone said quietly, tears stinging his eyes in the cool morning breeze.
Monk smiled, his face serene in the widening light.
To Susanna Porter
By Anne Perry
FEATURING WILLIAM MONK
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain His Brother
Weighed in the Balance
The Silent Cry
A Breach of Promise
The Twisted Root
Slaves of Obsession
Funeral in Blue
Death of a Stranger
The Shifting Tide
Dark Assassin
Execution Dock
Acceptable Loss
A Sunless Sea
Blind Justice
FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT
The Cater Street Hangman
Callander Square
Paragon Walk
Resurrection Row
Bluegate Fields
