by Anne Perry
“Only in that you look after everything here,” Monk answered, also not betraying the slightest emotion. They understood each other too well for an explanation to be necessary.
“Right, sir,” Orme agreed.
Monk hesitated. “Thank you,” he said with more feeling than perhaps Orme appreciated. “Thank you very much.”
SCUFF LEFT HOME AND waited until he saw Monk take the ferry across to the Wapping Police Station; then he found another ferry and paid the extra fare to be taken to Gun Wharf, two stops along, so there was no chance of his being seen by Monk, should he still be standing on the dock, or possibly by Mr. Orme, who also would recognize him.
Next he took a public omnibus, changed, and took another, until more than half an hour later, passing as an errand boy with an urgent message, he found his way into the Old Bailey and seized his chance to follow a rather self-important-looking journalist into the courtroom where the trial of Oliver Rathbone had just resumed.
Scuff was uncomfortable, but he continued to stand where he could still look like a messenger waiting for someone. He hoped nobody would actually give him any notes to carry. He knew the riverbank as if it were his own backyard, but this part of the city was a foreign land to him. He would just have to find a way to refuse to accept any errands without getting thrown out. He hoped he had not lost any of the quickness in the invention of lies that he used to have before he met Monk. All the reading and history and school-learning of facts might have pushed it out of his head.
The prosecutor, who was called Wystan, was just getting into his stride. He was a fuzzy, pepper-and-salt-looking man with a self-satisfied face. Scuff did not like him.
The present witness was an old woman. The stand was some height above the floor, up its own curling set of narrow little steps, and Scuff watched her climb up with some awkwardness. Or perhaps she wasn’t so old, just a bit too heavy, and sort of faded-looking, as though it were a long time since she had been happy.
Wystan addressed her as Mrs. Ballinger, and after a moment or two Scuff realized who she must be. It was her husband who had been accused of murdering the prostitute Monk had promised to keep safe. Monk had been terribly upset about that; he had given his word and her death had really hurt him.
Ballinger had been murdered himself, in prison, when he was waiting to be hanged. No wonder this woman looked so miserable. She had an awful lot to be miserable about.
And another thing he was sure of, she would be no friend to Sir Oliver. That would be why Wystan had gotten her here, to say what she could that would make him look even worse.
But if she was Mrs. Ballinger, that meant that she was Sir Oliver’s wife’s mother. Was she here too, his wife? Had she come to be a friend to him, the one face he would look at that would make him feel he wasn’t alone?
Scuff was standing against the wall, to the side of the court, so he could see only the backs of people’s heads for the most part. If Sir Oliver’s wife was here, she would be nearer the front of the gallery than he was, wouldn’t she?
Scuff was still not all that tall. He hoped he would grow a lot more, maybe as tall as Monk, one day. He was a lot less skinny than he used to be, but he was thin enough to squeeze between people if he tried. Maybe if he was careful and didn’t tread on anyone’s feet, didn’t push too much, he could work his way around nearer the front so he could see people’s faces.
When he was another ten feet farther forward, it still took him several minutes of searching before he saw her. He had been to the clinic with Hester a few times, and had met Lady Rathbone. He remembered because she was the first “lady” he had ever seen, and he had expected her to look different. She had looked different from Hester, but then everybody did. As far as Scuff could see she was much like anyone else that you might see in the street, clean and well dressed. But he remembered her. She had had a nice face.
Except that right now she looked angry, sort of pinched and bitter. But then, she must feel awful, with Sir Oliver sitting up there in the dock.
Wystan was asking Mrs. Ballinger about Sir Oliver. He was being very gentle with her.
“I know this must be difficult for you, Mrs. Ballinger,” he said quietly. “The whole court will sympathize with you, being placed in a situation where you have to testify as to the character—as you have witnessed it—of a man who is married to your daughter. However, it is necessary, in the service of justice. I’m sorry.”
“I will do my duty,” she said without change of expression. “But thank you for your courtesy.”
“I will keep it as brief as I can,” Wystan promised. He began slowly. Scuff thought he was pompous. “Did you come to know the accused well when he was courting your daughter?” Wystan asked. “I mean by that, did you entertain him at your home, for example? Did he dine with you? Did you learn his tastes and opinions? Did you become aware of his education, his income, his prospects, his ambitions?”
“Of course.” There was still very little compassion in her face. Whatever memory she had of those times, it brought no light to her eyes, no flashes of past pleasure remembered. He couldn’t even detect any sorrow for broken dreams. It was as if all feeling had been crushed out of her.
Scuff was sorry for her, but he found such coldness oddly frightening.
“We would hardly have allowed our daughter to marry a man we knew nothing about,” she said stiffly, as if Wystan had insulted her. “Love can so …” Now at least there was grief. “Love can so easily be mistaken.”
“Indeed.” Wystan acknowledged the truth of that with an inclination of his head. “And your opinion at that time?”
Her face was tight, as though she were barely keeping control.
“That he was a gentleman, a brilliant lawyer of excellent means, and that great success lay ahead of him,” she replied. “He seemed to care for Margaret, and she certainly cared for him. We thought it a most fortunate match.”
There was a slight murmur around the gallery. Next to Scuff a man shook his head and sighed. A rather large woman in black, sitting on the end of the row, looked at the man beside her and said, “I told you so.” The man ignored her, his eyes never leaving Mrs. Ballinger on the witness stand.
“I am sorry to raise this, Mrs. Ballinger,” Wystan went on, “but when your late husband fell into difficulty, you had sufficient trust in your son-in-law to ask him to represent your husband? That is to say, you trusted both his professional ability and his personal loyalty?”
Her mouth flattened into a thin line. “We did,” she agreed hoarsely. “To our great grief.”
“Why was that?”
Her voice wobbled a bit as she tried to control it. “That was when we learned the extent of his personal ambition, his … his ruthlessness.” She stopped and gulped for air. Her face lost its bitterness and merely looked wounded, vulnerable.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Ballinger,” Wystan said, with apparent sincerity. “I deeply regret the necessity for obliging you to relive such tragedy. I assure you it is necessary for justice to be done. Oliver Rathbone stands accused of misusing his position as judge, for personal reasons, for power, causing the ruin of another man for purposes of his own—”
Brancaster rose to his feet. “My lord, nowhere is such a wild statement set out in the charge.”
York pursed his lips. “I think you are splitting hairs, Mr. Brancaster. Nonetheless, Mr. Wystan, perhaps you would be wiser to allow the jury to draw their own conclusions as to the motives of the accused. People pervert the course of justice for many reasons, some of them more understandable than others. Please proceed.”
Brancaster’s face flushed with anger. “Sir Oliver has been accused, my lord. He has not yet been found guilty of anything at all. I would remind the jury of that.”
“You may remind the jury of what you please, in your summation,” York said tartly. “Until then you will refrain from interrupting unless you have some point of law to make.”
“Innocence is a point of law,” Brancaster r
etorted instantly. “Until proven otherwise, beyond reasonable doubt, it is the whole point of the law.”
“Are you presuming to direct me in the law, Mr. Brancaster?” York said with dangerous calm.
Brancaster controlled his temper with an effort so obvious even Scuff could see it from the side of the court where he stood squashed against the wall.
“No, my lord,” Brancaster said, his voice choking.
York smiled bleakly. “Good. I would not like the jury to be in doubt as to who is the judge here. Please continue, Mr. Wystan.”
Wystan inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord. Mrs. Ballinger, just to remind you, you said Oliver Rathbone was profoundly ambitious, far more than you had previously realized. What did he do, or fail to do, that brought you to this unhappy conclusion?”
Mrs. Ballinger had regained her composure. She was now quite eager to answer.
Scuff looked to where Margaret was sitting and saw the expectancy in her also. Her shoulders were stiff. She sat so upright he could imagine the ache in his own back simply from looking at her. But it was the expression now filling her face that he did not understand. She seemed to be both afraid and excited at the same time.
“Mrs. Ballinger?” Wystan prompted.
“When he was defending my husband, we believed at first that he was doing everything he could to prove his innocence. But gradually he became less devoted to it, less … positive,” she answered.
“Really? Did he give you a reason for this?” Wystan looked puzzled.
The bitterness returned to her face, anger overtaking grief again.
“The tide of feeling turned against my husband, and Oliver went with it. It seemed he did not wish to become unpopular, or even worse, appear in a case he might lose. He had no loyalty at all, except to his own career.” She took a deep breath. “It broke my daughter’s heart. She admired her father and was convinced of his innocence. She could hardly believe that her own husband would not use every skill at his command—and his skills were great—to defend one of his own family. It made me realize that his ambition was everything to him. Nothing else mattered.”
Again Brancaster rose to his feet.
“Is this a matter of law, Mr. Brancaster?” York snapped.
Brancaster must have known that he was not going to win. Scuff saw his face tighten, and he would have told him not to bother, but of course he was much too far away, and the lawyer wouldn’t have listened to him anyway.
“Yes, my lord. Most of what the witness says is hearsay, not fact.”
Wystan smiled. “If my learned friend prefers, and your lordship feels that we have time, I can take Mrs. Ballinger through each step of the trial to see what the accused did and did not do. I am trying to spare a bereaved woman the extra grief and humiliation of having to go into detail. But should you so direct me, my lord, reluctantly, then of course I will.”
“I do not so direct you,” York replied. “If you wish to pursue it further, perhaps you will be a little more specific. It would allow the jury to make up their own minds.”
It was the worst possible answer for Brancaster. He sat down, beaten.
Wystan turned to Mrs. Ballinger and began again, picking specific points in the trial of Arthur Ballinger but never reaching the verdict, as if his guilt were still a matter to be decided.
Scuff stopped watching Mrs. Ballinger and turned to look at Margaret again. He couldn’t really see Sir Oliver very well from where he was, and he didn’t want to look at him anyway. In a situation like this, where someone had to be suffering horribly and feeling as if everybody hated him, it felt like a terrible intrusion to look at him, a bit like bursting into the bathroom when somebody was in there privately.
He knew as soon as he saw Margaret that he was not intruding by looking at her. She wasn’t really suffering at all; in fact her face was bright as if she were enjoying herself. There was something almost like a smile on her lips. She looked up once to the place where Sir Oliver was sitting, and hesitated several moments. Then she looked away again, back at her mother, who was still talking about Sir Oliver. She was saying how cold and selfish he was. Even at family gatherings his mind always seemed to be on his work. She recalled two occasions when he had simply walked out, almost without explanation.
Scuff was angry now. Sir Oliver wouldn’t be here at all or accused of anything if somebody hadn’t told on him. It seemed he had given the prosecution that horrible photograph of one of the main defense witnesses, and as far as Scuff was concerned that was fair enough. It showed what kind of a man he was. Apparently it wasn’t the photograph that was the problem; it was that he had given it to the prosecution and not the defense. It was the way he did it that was wrong; it was seen as not being fair to both sides.
And then apparently he should have told them that he couldn’t be the judge anymore. The whole trial had to stop, and then maybe start all over again with someone else. Or on the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t bother, and the man who had stolen all that money from the congregation would get away with it, and just go on stealing. That really, really wasn’t fair!
Telltales didn’t usually have to even prove their information because for a start they usually go to a person who wants to get someone else into trouble and who will take their word and run with it. Any fool knows that! There are always snitches, and everybody hates them.
So who knew that Sir Oliver had the photographs, and wanted to get him into trouble? Mr. Ballinger, but he was dead. He couldn’t tell anybody anything. Monk and Hester, of course, because Sir Oliver had told them. But they would rather have their throats cut than be snitches.
So who else knew about the photographs? The person who brought them after Mr. Ballinger died? Did he know what was in the box? Maybe. More likely he didn’t.
But Mrs. Ballinger might have known about them, and Margaret—Lady Rathbone. Scuff would be prepared to make a bet with anyone that she had worked it out—if not before, then after the photograph turned up in court.
He watched Margaret as the testimony went on getting worse and worse for Sir Oliver. She was smiling now. She wasn’t upset for him at all. The conviction settled on Scuff that it was she who had snitched.
He watched and waited until the lunchtime adjournment, then, before the general crowd rose to their feet and made their way out, he wriggled from the spot he was in and put his head down to force his way between people, as if he were on a really urgent message, pushing forward toward the hall.
When he was there, he stood to one side, looking at every person who came out. He was angry and trembling, but at least he was too full of fury for there to be any room for fear.
Several people passed him, fat people and thin, ones in fancy clothes, ones in old clothes worn nearly to rags. Some were talking to one another; some were silent.
Then he saw her. She had that shadow of a smile around her mouth, as if she had eaten something really good and she could still taste it.
Scuff stepped out in front of her and she stopped abruptly. She had no idea who he was, but she was mildly annoyed that he was obviously not looking where he was going. Then she saw the fury in his face, and the words she had been starting to say died on her lips.
“You told on ’im, didn’t yer!” Scuff accused. “It was you as went an’ told on ’im that ’e were the one what gave the lawyer that photograph, weren’t yer?”
She drew in her breath sharply, but the color that flushed her cheeks gave her away.
“Who is it?” her mother demanded from just behind her. “What’s the matter? For heaven’s sake, give him a penny and let us leave this place.”
“It’s … it’s that little urchin that belongs to Monk,” Margaret replied. Then she turned to Scuff again. “Move out of the way, or I shall call an usher to have you put out. In fact, I will …”
Scuff smiled at her. “Yer done it. I can see it in yer face. For all yer ’igh and mighty airs, yer just a bleedin’ snitch.”
She pushed past him and
went as quickly as she could toward the wide-open doors at the far end of the hall.
Scuff stood staring after her, not sure now what to do with the piece of information he had. It would hurt Sir Oliver if he knew that, yet how safe were you if you didn’t even know who your enemies were, especially if they weren’t who you expected?
And if he told Monk or Hester, he would also have to tell them how he knew. Well, that was a bitter medicine he would just have to swallow.
He made his way to where Margaret had gone out through the big doors onto the steps, then down into the busy street. He had enough money to get an omnibus. He would probably have the best part of an hour in which to make up his mind how he was going to explain himself when he got home.
CHAPTER
15
MONK WAS BACK IN his home just before midday, sitting at the kitchen table with Hester, a pot of tea between them and a crusty loaf of bread with butter and crumbly Wensleydale cheese, and of course homemade chutney. Hester had discovered, to her surprise, that she was rather good at making it.
Monk had told Hester about the commissioner’s warning. He would much rather not have, but if she did not know, it was much more likely that she might make some slip that would eventually get back to the commissioner. Then Monk might be dismissed, or at the very least, severely reprimanded. Possibly Byrne’s warning had not so much meant “don’t do it” as “do it discreetly enough that I can pretend I don’t know about it.”
“We’ve got to find out something,” she said urgently. “Oliver doesn’t have a chance without it.”
Monk looked bleak. “I’m not sure he has a chance, even if we do,” he warned her, his face filled with unhappiness.
She knew he was trying to help soften the blow of defeat, if it came, but she did not want to hear that. She was being childish, and Monk was allowing her to be.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s time I grew up, isn’t it? You don’t have to think how to protect me. I know Oliver was wrong, even if he did it for the right reasons.”
