CHAPTER 9
Assistant Commissioner Byrne of the Metropolitan Police stood by the window of his office and regarded Monk unhappily.
“I didn’t say abandon him entirely,” he said with patience. “Just keep a reasonable distance. Dammit, Monk, the man has let the power of his office go to his head.”
Monk wanted to argue, but Byrne was right, at least on the surface of things.
“It’s when you are actually in the wrong, or at least in part, that you need your real friends.” Monk framed his answer carefully. “That’s the time they’re probably the only people who’ll stand by you.”
“He perverted the course of justice,” Byrne repeated, his face puckered in distaste. “He has delusions of grandeur we can’t permit. If judges don’t keep the law, precisely what standard can you hold the rest of us to? You cannot afford to be associated with him.”
“And if he’s not guilty?” Monk asked. “Wouldn’t I then be doing exactly what you say he did-taking the law into my own hands and prejudging a man before he’s tried?”
Byrne’s eyebrows rose, making his face look oddly imbalanced. “Isn’t that what you’re doing anyway, deciding he’s not guilty before you have the evidence?”
“I’m deciding he’s innocent until proven guilty,” Monk retorted. He was being argumentative, and he knew he was on thin ice. “Personally I think he’s behaved like an idiot-but an idiot who wanted to see an evil man brought to account for his greed and his manipulations of people’s gullibility. I think he very possibly used poor judgment in the means he employed. I don’t have to debate or weigh and measure whether he’s a friend or not. He has been for years, and the fact that that is currently a trifle inconvenient for me has nothing to do with anything.”
“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.”
