by Anne Perry
Wystan’s eyes blazed with anger, but he knew better than to argue. He said nothing but walked stiffly back to his seat.
Brancaster stood up and went slowly to the center of the floor. His head was lowered in a moment’s contemplation before he looked up at Warne.
“Thank you for your candor, Mr. Warne. I do not imagine you are here willingly. You have no choice but to testify, is that right?”
“None,” Warne replied.
“Did you hesitate to use this particular photograph?”
“Yes …”
Wystan stood up. “My lord, we have been over this. Mr. Warne may have hesitated all night, for all we know. The fact is, he did use it.”
York nodded. “Please move on, Mr. Brancaster. Mr. Warne may well have sat up all night looking at this miserable thing. It may have revolted him until he was ill. The fact remains that he used it, and, more to the point, he does not deny that it was Sir Oliver Rathbone, the judge in the case, there to see that all the rules of the law were obeyed and justice served impartially, who gave it to him. We expect counsels from the prosecution and the defense to be partisan; it is their job! We expect the judge to be utterly without allegiance or loyalty to anything but the law. If he is not, then he has betrayed both the Crown and the people, not to mention his God-given calling. Now if you have anything helpful to say, please say it. Otherwise, we are adjourned for the day.”
“I have!” Brancaster said a shade too loudly. Without waiting for York to add anything, he turned again to Warne. “Mr. Warne, did Sir Oliver leave it to you as to whether you used this photograph or not?”
“Absolutely,” Warne said firmly.
“Why did you choose to? You must have been aware of the risks.”
“I was,” Warne agreed gravely. “I chose to use it because if I did not a great injustice would have been done. I believe the guilty should be punished but more importantly that the innocent should be vindicated. The witness in the photograph, a dishonorable man by all rights, had ruined the reputation of several decent men. He had publicly made them appear stupid, weak-minded, and devious when they were the victims of the crime. He had betrayed their goodwill, and been complicit in stealing from them. If he were found not guilty, he would have been free to continue on in the same manner.”
“Do you believe that to have been Sir Oliver’s motive also, Mr. Warne?”
Wystan stood up.
“Yes, yes,” York said brusquely. “Mr. Brancaster, the witness cannot know the accused’s motives, good or ill. What he assumed they were is of no value. Had they been despicable, he would hardly have told Mr. Warne so. The jurors must make up their own minds on the subject. Have you anything more to ask? If not, you may go, Mr. Warne, unless Mr. Wystan wishes to pursue anything else in reexamination?”
Brancaster could get no further, and he knew it. He retired with as much grace as he could, and Wystan declined to reexamine.
York adjourned the court until the next day, and Rathbone stood up, his whole body aching, and walked between his guards down the steps and back to the prison to wait for tomorrow. He had never in his life felt so utterly alone and helpless.
CHAPTER
14
SCUFF SAT AT THE breakfast table and ate his two boiled eggs and three slices of toast. He was too worried to be properly hungry, but he did not want Hester to know it. Yesterday, instead of going to school he had gone to the Old Bailey law court and wormed his way into the gallery, standing the whole time, as if he were some kind of messenger. No one had turned him away.
He had gone in part because he actually liked Oliver Rathbone, but mostly because he knew how much both Monk and Hester cared about him. He knew that the trial was not going well. It was horrible seeing Sir Oliver sitting up in the dock between two jailers and unable to say anything, even when people talked about him as if he were not there, and accused him of very bad things. When was he going to get a turn to speak?
Scuff supposed it must be a fair process, but it did not seem like that. Yet maybe he was being really childish in expecting it was going to be fair. Most of the world wasn’t. Was he just dreaming of fairness because his own life was so good now?
He would have liked to have ask Hester a few questions about it all, but then she would know that he hadn’t been at school, and she would be angry. She and Monk were very worried about Sir Oliver, frightened that he would be sent to prison, but they didn’t want Scuff to know that. They didn’t even tell him what was going on anymore. It was as if he were a little child who needed protecting from the truth. That was stupid! He was thirteen—probably. Near enough, anyway. He was practically grown up.
He had finished his tea, and Hester poured him some more. He thanked her for it. She got upset about please and thank you if he forgot them.
“I been thinking about Sir Oliver,” he said tentatively.
Hester looked up at him, waiting for him to continue.
“I don’t understand why everyone’s so upset that ’e let them know about the photograph o’ Mr. Drew. You said as Sir Oliver’s there to see that everyone plays by the rules, so no one gets to win by cheating.”
“More or less,” Hester agreed cautiously.
“But if you lose the game, they get to ’ang you?”
“Only if you’ve done something terribly serious, like killing people,” she explained. She was looking at him more closely now, listening with attention. “What made you think about this?”
There it was, the question he did not want to answer. Now he either had to lie or plunge straight in. He chose the latter. “I went to the court to listen.” He said the words quickly, as if speed might make her miss the meaning of them. “I gotta do something to help,” he added. “A different judge were up there, keeping the rules. ’e ’ad a face like one o’ them bad-tempered little dogs, all white whiskers an’ sharp eyes.”
Hester hid a smile almost completely. He saw only the briefest light of it, but he felt the warmth. “So why don’t they make different rules?” he hurried on. “Instead o’ making it a game so the cleverest one wins, why don’t they make it like a treasure hunt—whoever finds the truth wins? Or maybe everybody does. Then as long as it were truth, you wouldn’t get in trouble ’cos o’ the rules. Sir Oliver wouldn’t be in trouble then, would ’e?”
“No, I don’t think he would,” she agreed. She put out her hand and placed it gently on his cuff, just over his wrist. “It might be a very good idea, but unfortunately we can’t get anybody to change the rules fast enough for us.”
“But we are going to do something, aren’t we?” he asked a little shakily. At what point did you get so bad that people stopped loving you? Even thinking about the word “love” pained him like a knife cut. It was a dangerous word, too big, too precious. He shouldn’t even think it. He was asking for trouble.
He was waiting for her to answer. What would she say? Hester never lied.
“We’re trying desperately to think of something,” she said at last.
“You still like him, don’t you?” He ignored the tea. “I mean … you’re still friends … you’ll still be friends, even after this?”
“Of course,” Hester said fiercely. “We all do wrong things now and then. There aren’t any perfect people, and if there were, they probably wouldn’t be very nice. It’s only by making mistakes yourself and learning how much it hurts, and how sorry you are, that you get to understand other people and really forgive them. And you hope people will offer you the same forgiveness. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay for your mistakes.”
“Does that mean we let Sir Oliver pay?” he asked.
She smiled, a really warm, sweet smile, as if she were laughing at herself inside. “Not if we can help it,” she said. “He’s already had almost as much of a fright as he can take. And he’ll never do anything like this again. Besides, I’m not sure how really wrong it was—though it’s not up to me to judge, in court anyway.”
He felt a lot better. Perhaps i
f he did something really wrong, she wouldn’t stop loving him either? She might get angry, but she wouldn’t send him away. And he would make a mistake one day; he was bound to. “Maybe he didn’t mean to do wrong,” he said softly.
“You’re quite right,” she agreed, pushing the butter across the table toward him. “I don’t think he did. And to be honest, I’m not sure what I would have done in his place. Taft and Drew had to be stopped.”
“Why’d Mr. Taft do that?” Scuff asked. “I mean, why’d he kill ’is wife an’ ’is girls too?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, frowning at the thought. “Have some more toast. You haven’t eaten enough. You won’t get anything more until lunchtime.”
He buttered his toast and put marmalade on it, but he didn’t bite into it yet. “And Mr. Drew’s going to get away with it, isn’t ’e, even with the photo?” he pressed. “That in’t right.”
“Maybe,” Hester admitted. “But it isn’t over yet.”
Monk had been standing outside the kitchen door for several moments, not wanting to interrupt the conversation and deny Scuff the chance to say what he clearly needed to. He was taken aback by the weight of Scuff’s feelings. He realized that for the last two or three days he had been so absorbed in the desperation of Rathbone’s situation that he had succeeded in making Scuff feel excluded. He heard in his questions that continuing, underlying fear that loyalty was subject to keeping up a certain standard, and failure to do that could mean that love ended. He was talking of Rathbone, but, deeper than that, he was thinking of himself.
Monk was consumed by the need to reassure him.
He walked in casually, as if he had caught only the last couple of words of their conversation.
“I am going to go to Mr. Taft’s house to take a long and very careful look at all his belongings,” he said, to no one in particular.
“When?” Hester asked instantly. “This afternoon? Sooner?”
Monk smiled. “The police have already been there and searched thoroughly. I’m looking for something they missed,” he told them both. “It’s the scene of three murders and a suicide. They won’t have treated it lightly, but it’s possible they saw something without realizing its significance. I’ll have to get permission first, but I can do that.”
“I’ll come with you,” Hester responded. “I might notice something you don’t.” She turned to Scuff, who was waiting hopefully. “And you are going to school. If we find anything that matters, we’ll tell you. Do you hear me?”
Scuff nodded reluctantly. “Yes.” He meant “yes, I hear you,” not “yes, I will.” He hoped she would appreciate the difference.
“I’ll come home and tell you when I have permission,” Monk promised Hester.
Scuff looked from Hester to Monk, then back again. “ ’Ow did they know that Sir Oliver gave the lawyer the photograph?” he asked. “Did somebody tell on ’im?” His expression of contempt showed very clearly his opinion of those who told tales. That was a sin it was almost impossible to forgive. It wasn’t a mistake; it was a betrayal.
“Yes, somebody did,” Hester replied. “We don’t know who.”
“Don’t you ’ave ter find out?” Scuff asked. “ ’E’s a real enemy, whoever ’e is. It in’t safe not to know who ’ates you that much.”
“You’re quite right,” Monk nodded. “But we’ll have to do that after we’ve done all we can to save Sir Oliver from prison. Telling tales is pretty mean-spirited, mostly, but it isn’t a crime.”
“Isn’t it? It ought ter be.”
“People have to tell, sometimes,” Monk pointed out. “You might need to, to see that justice is done, or even to save someone’s life.”
“ ’Who’s life did this save?” Scuff’s disbelief was sharp in his face.
“Nobody’s,” Monk conceded. “I promise we’ll find out if we can.”
Scuff nodded, clearly thinking about it deeply.
Monk would go back and explain it to him in more detail later. He must not forget. Right now there were other things that were much more urgent. He ate his breakfast, excused himself, and went outside to walk down to the ferry to Wapping.
It was a fine day as Monk went down the hill. The panorama of the river was spread before him, but he barely noticed it. Only the sun, bright on the water between the barges going up and down the river, dazzled his eyes for a moment. From this distance he could not see the barges gliding with unconscious grace as they found their way on the incoming tide.
He found a ferry almost immediately and set out into the flow. The air was cooler once they were away from the shore, and the salt and fish smell was keener. He exchanged a few words with the ferryman. He knew nearly all of them. He remembered their names and the few bits of personal information they offered. It was a good habit to cultivate, beyond his own personal interest. Long ago he used to want respect, even if it came with a measure of fear. Now he realized how much more people would do for someone they liked. Stupid that it had taken him so long. He should pass that message on to his men, especially the younger ones, save them the trouble of learning it the hard way.
He reached the north bank, paid and thanked the ferryman, then climbed up the wet stone steps to the dockside and walked across to the Thames River Police Station.
Orme was just inside, his stocky, solid figure blocking the way. He looked grim.
“What is it?” Monk said without preamble. He had learned to trust Orme as he had few other men in his life.
“Assistant Commissioner Byrne’s here, sir,” Orme replied. “Waiting to see you.” He did not need to say more; the warning was in his face and in the fact that he was here at all rather than out on the river, standing in for Monk during his too frequent absences.
“Thank you.” Monk walked into his office where Byrne was sitting waiting with ill-concealed impatience. Byrne was good-looking enough. He had strong features and retained a fine head of hair, but he was both shorter and stockier than Monk; he would never have Monk’s natural elegance.
“Good morning, Monk,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Good morning, sir,” Monk replied. He knew an apology was expected. It riled him, but he imagined it would be an unwise start to evade it. “I’m sorry to have kept you.”
The commissioner did not acknowledge it. “This business with Oliver Rathbone,” he said instead. “We cannot afford to be seen as partial, Monk. We talked about this before, but it’s only getting worse. I know you consider him a friend, but you cannot be seen to stand by him now; it looks bad for the entire force. If you are called to testify, be discreet. Do you understand me?”
Monk hesitated. He wanted to say that he heard and understood, but he would not obey an order he considered to be contemptible. He took several deep breaths to give himself time to think. It was a time to be clever, not bold.
“I believe so, sir,” he answered carefully. “You do not wish me to speak in any way that suggests that the police force has any interest in the matter other than to uphold the law and see justice served. I had not intended to do so, sir. And so far, I have not been called to testify, but of course that could change.”
The commissioner looked at him with a degree of disfavor. They stood perhaps a couple of yards apart, the sun shining through the window, casting rainbows on the wall as it passed through the glass paperweight on Monk’s desk.
The commissioner chewed his lip. “I don’t know whether to believe you, Monk. Your history suggests that loyalty to a friend runs deeper than obedience to orders. How can I make this crystal clear? Rathbone has made a mockery of the law by giving the prosecution this obscene photograph, while keeping it from the defense. It is inexcusable. Give me your word as an officer of the Crown that you did not give him the damn thing in the first place. You were on both the Phillips case and the Ballinger one.”
Monk felt a wave of relief, and then the next instant warned himself that he was far from in the clear yet.
“
I give you my word, sir, I have never had the photographs in my possession to give to anyone.”
“And if you did, you’d have damned well given it to the prosecution too, wouldn’t you?” the commissioner said drily. “It was your wife who got that disreputable bookkeeper of hers on to the Taft case in the first place, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. He was robbing his congregation.”
The commissioner sighed. “I know. None of that excuses Rathbone abusing his position as a judge to get the verdict he wanted.”
“No, sir,” Monk agreed, knowing as he said it that he could not—would not—let Rathbone suffer if there were any way he could prevent it.
The commissioner glared at Monk. “Keep your distance from Rathbone, do you hear me?” he ordered.
“Yes, sir, I hear you.” And he did. But he knew he would not listen. One did not abandon friends because they made mistakes. That was what he had promised Scuff, and obliquely, Hester as well.
If he lost his job in the police over this, that would be a blow. He had no idea where he would find another, or how he would support himself and his family. He loved the work. It was the only job he had ever done, as far as he knew. But Hester was certainly the only woman he had ever loved, the only person, really, apart from Scuff. To lose them was a price he was not prepared to pay, not for any job on earth.
If Monk had to abandon Rathbone, his friend would understand why, but Hester and Scuff wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t be able to live with that.
He watched Byrne leave. Then he found Orme and told him that he had to go and investigate the scene of a murder.
“Need my help, sir?” Orme said without a flicker in his smooth, windburned face.
