And John Raleigh might be dead like her father.
When do you walk away? How can you know?
“We’ve got to help Oliver,” she said. “For Scuff as well as for himself.”
Monk looked puzzled. “For Scuff?”
“For heaven’s sake!” She was close to tears. She could feel them prickling in her eyes and the tightness getting worse in her throat. “Oliver is our friend, William! Scuff’s watching to see if we’re loyal to the people we care for, even if they make mistakes and everyone else turns against them.”
He looked startled. “Does he think we’d do that to him?”
“He doesn’t know!” she cried out. “He’s afraid! He’s terrified that love is conditional, that we love people only when they do the right thing, and that that applies to anyone.”
Understanding flooded his face. “He’s only a child! You don’t …” He let out his breath in a sigh.
“You were afraid,” she pointed out. “When you thought you killed Joscelyn Grey, you were afraid I’d abandon you.”
He flushed slightly. “But you didn’t think I had!”
“I didn’t think so. I didn’t know! But if you had, I wouldn’t have walked away.”
“Were you that much in love with me?” he asked very quietly. “You never said so.”
“No I wasn’t, you complacent oaf!” she cried in exasperation. “But even if you had killed him, I knew you were a good man, and I couldn’t leave you to hang for it. Even good people sometimes do stupid and ugly things. Besides, no one else believed in you. If I hadn’t fought for you, who else would have?”
“No one,” he said even more quietly. “Sergeant Evan did only because you did. Honestly, even I wouldn’t have fought for me. You know, one day you’ll have to tell Scuff about that. But not yet. I don’t think he’s ready for it-and I know I’m not. I need him to think better of me than that, for a while. But if it goes badly with Rathbone, maybe we should tell him. Then at least he’ll know you never give up, and never leave.” He breathed in and out slowly. “Perhaps we should tell him sooner, after all.”
Hester shook her head briefly, as if to dispel the idea, then started again, even more seriously. “William, do you think Oliver made the wrong decision? I mean morally wrong? How could he sit back and let Taft get away with everything, let Drew slander all those people who were only doing their best to right a wrong? They were so vulnerable and Drew destroyed them with words. And it was him in the picture, unmistakably.”
“I know,” he agreed, reaching out his hand and catching hers. He held her gently, but with too much strength for her to pull away. “But yes, I think he may have made a mistake in this. He should have destroyed those photos when he first got them.”
“But they can be used for good!” she protested. “That would have left him helpless to … William, you can’t throw away power just because it could be misused, or you might make a mistake, or maybe it’ll turn out badly. Because-maybe it won’t! Maybe it’ll help someone. Can you imagine standing over somebody with a knife in your hand-”
“And using it on him?” he interrupted. “Deciding if he had the right to live or die? No …”
“No!” she snapped. “Deciding whether you can really cut out the gangrene or the appendix before it bursts, or open the wound and stitch an artery so he doesn’t bleed to death. Deciding if you have the courage to try, or if you’d rather just watch him die and hope you don’t get blamed for it. Well, you
“That rather depends on whether he did nothing because he knew it was wrong to do it, or because he was afraid to, for his own safety,” Monk answered.
She gave him a withering look. “And we always know the difference there, don’t we? I can think of a score of times when I hadn’t the faintest idea what was wise or how things would turn out, but acted anyway, because the alternative seemed too terrible. Maybe I wasn’t always right-maybe Oliver wasn’t. But I’m sure he thought hard about it. He didn’t back away because he wanted to be safe. And I would have wagered all I have that you wouldn’t either.”
She saw his face pale and wondered if she had gone too far. But she meant what she had said, and she would not lower her eyes.
“I have a wife and child to think of now,” he replied levelly. “I can’t be as rash, or as self-righteous, as I used to be.”
“Don’t blame me!” she accused him. “And don’t you damn well blame Scuff either! He’s looking to see if you’ll help Rathbone because he needs to know you’ll be loyal, come hell or high water.”
“He also needs to know I’ve got a modicum of sense,” Monk replied, his body stiff. “And that I love both of you enough not to take stupid risks and leave you defenseless.” He gave a twisted smile. “Although looking at you I don’t know what makes me imagine you’ve ever been defenseless.”
She took a deep, shaking breath and let it out slowly. “I need you,” she said so gently he only just heard her. “Not to defend me, but just because I couldn’t bear to be without you. But I need you to be who you are-not hobbled because of me, or Scuff. So what are we going to do to help Oliver?”
“Find out the truth,” he replied. “Or as much of it as we can. And not just about who started the prosecution against Rathbone, and why. And why the hell Taft killed his whole family, for that matter. Nothing about this case adds up.”
“Good,” Hester replied firmly. “And we must get those terrible pictures out of Oliver’s house.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But not tonight. Let me think … and sleep.”
She gave him a sudden, radiant smile and saw the relief flood back into his eyes.
CHAPTER 8
To begin with Rathbone had been dazed by the speed and the horror of what had happened to him. However, after the first night, when he awoke feeling stiff, his body aching, he knew exactly where he was and nothing of the previous day had been forgotten. Perhaps he had not slept deeply enough for any of it to have left him. All night he had lain on the hard, narrow bunk under a single greasy blanket, which smelled so stale he deliberately kept it low around his chest, away from his face. He refused to think who had been on it before him or when it was last washed.
He was awake when the jailer came with a tin jug and bowl of tepid water so that he could wash and shave and would look at least presentable, if not clean or uncrumpled. They lent him a comb for his hair and took it away again as soon as he had used it. Only then did he wonder if it might have lice in it. He had not even considered that before touching it. The thought was disgusting, and he tried to force it out of his mind. There were immeasurably more terrible things to think about.
Physical discomfort was trivial, and as far as he could see, unalterable. He could adjust his position, sit or stand, but he could not walk more than about five paces before having to turn and walk back. It was good only to uncramp his legs. The sounds of tin or stone, voices, the occasional scrape or clang of a door barely intruded on his thoughts.
If he were convicted, whoever sat as judge would be ordered to give him the harshest sentence the law allowed. This would be partly as an example to all other jurists, that they, above all others, must keep the law, and partly to demonstrate to the public that they had no partiality toward their own. Whatever they felt personally, Rathbone had no doubt that the authorities would make certain there was no misunderstanding in the direction of leniency. They had to, for their own safety.
What could Rathbone do to save himself? Was there a legal defense? He had given the prosecution evidence that called into very serious question the honor and integrity of their chief witness. That was not illegal. Nor could he have given it to the police earlier: he had not realized he had it.
No. The sin was in not having given it to both parties and then recusing himself from the case. It always came back to that. But if he had done so, it would automatically have been declared a mistrial. Both Taft and
