“Good. Then he’s facing reality. We’ve got to save him, William. What he did might legally be a bit questionable-”
“A bit questionable!” he said incredulously.
“But morally it was the right thing, just not the right way,” she went on, ignoring his interruption. “Betraying people’s faith is a terrible sin.”
“I know,” he agreed. “But all most people are seeing is that Taft killed himself because of what happened in the courtroom and, far worse than that, killed his wife and his two daughters, who were little more than children. The law is blaming Rathbone for doing something wrong, and they see that as being the cause of three senseless deaths, even if indirectly. Nobody else knows what was actually in the photographs. They might assume it was Taft himself and that the fear of Rathbone revealing him drove him insane.”
“If he was in one of them, he could have killed his family because he couldn’t bear them knowing, possibly even seeing it. It would be understandable, in a twisted, terrible way.”
“If a man would do something he’d rather die over than have people know, or kill his family over rather than have them know about it, how the hell is that the judge’s fault?” Monk demanded. “I presume Rathbone’s father will get him the best lawyer he can find. Rathbone must be able to afford anyone he wants.”
“As long as the best he can find isn’t in one of those photographs,” she said grimly. “I wonder if he looked at all of them. Has he? Did you ask?”
At that moment Scuff came noisily down the passage and opened the door. Monk caught Hester’s twisted smile just as Scuff inquired if it was hot bubble and squeak they were having for dinner with the mutton, and if there were onions in it.
They resumed their discussion a couple of hours later when Scuff had gone to bed and they were alone in the sitting room. Monk leaned forward to speak, just as Hester began. She stopped immediately.
He gave a slight shrug. “It is bad, Hester,” he said gravely. “We don’t know for sure who Rathbone’s enemies are, or what power they hold.”
“So are we going to have to look at the rest of the pictures and see who we can name?” Her features were puckered with distaste. “William, we have to know who is against him. It’s too late to be delicate about it.”
He regarded her with the amazement that every now and then washed over him. Seeing her every day, hearing her laughter, and knowing the deep wounds where she was still vulnerable, the things she lay awake and feared, worried about, sometimes made him forget the depth of the strength inside her. He forgot the courage that never backed down or gave in.
She misunderstood. “It’s much too late for delicacy,” she repeated. “If we don’t do something, Oliver could end up on trial before a judge who hates him, or even, without knowing it, have a lawyer who’s connected to someone in that wretched collection. I’d hate to look at them, but I will-”
“You won’t!” he said before she could finish her sentence.
She smiled for a moment with genuine amusement, almost laughter, and he thought at least in part that it was his leap to protect her that caused it. He felt a very faint warmth creeping up his cheeks, but he refused to acknowledge it.
She changed the subject. “William, someone lodged this complaint against Oliver. It might be Gavinton, because he lost, but I don’t think so. Even if Oliver were convicted, that wouldn’t win any vindication for Drew, or for Taft. Taft took his own life, maybe because he was sure he was going to be found guilty-but he
Monk knew Hester cared about saving Rathbone, possibly even more than he did. Rathbone had been in love with her once and had perhaps never completely gotten over it, in spite of loving Margaret in a safer, gentler way. That was a tragedy that was only going to get worse, since Margaret’s love had changed to something close to hatred. Hester felt a desire to protect Rathbone because she had not been able to give him the kind of love he wished from her. The knowledge of that sometimes twisted inside Monk, yet had she been able to remain unmoved, he would not have loved her as completely as he did.
“All right, not Gavinton,” he conceded. “Too ambitious to do something so self-destructive. That brings us back to Warne, who we know now hasn’t been arrested along with Rathbone.”
“I expect he’ll be censured, won’t he?” she asked.
“Probably. Even if they don’t particularly want to, they’ll have to, since they are charging Rathbone,” he agreed. “But it might be more nominal than actual.”
“Do you really think it could be Warne who told them Oliver gave him the photograph?” she persisted. There was a look of intense distaste in her face, and an unhappiness, as if she had liked Warne and this possibility hurt her.
“Rathbone said he’d taken precautions against that,” Monk told her. “He retained Warne as his counsel, just for that purpose, whether to protect himself or to protect Warne, I don’t know. Maybe both.”
She changed the subject, as they were getting nowhere. “Has Oliver seen his father yet?”
“Yes. And so should we.”
She winced. “He’s so hurt,” she said quietly.
“I know, but it’ll be worse if we don’t,” he answered. “Perhaps we should go now.”
“It’s late,” she protested. “We can’t leave Scuff alone.”
“Hester, he’s thirteen. He’s lived alone on the dockside, sleeping in crates and under boxes and old newspapers. Nothing’s going to happen to him if we’re gone for a few hours while he’s in his own bed.”
She stood up. “I’ll go and tell him we’ll be back when we’ve seen Henry Rathbone.”
“You’d better add that you’ll have his hide if he goes into the pantry!” he called after her.
They found Henry Rathbone alone and deep in thought. He was delighted to see them and welcomed them in. Of course, he had already seen Hester once, when she told him of the situation and Oliver’s arrest.
“You are probably the only people I am actually pleased to see,” he said ruefully, after he had taken them into the sitting room. “Would you like tea?” It was an automatic gesture, something one did for any guest. “No doubt you have come about Oliver. I have engaged a lawyer to represent him. Rufus Brancaster. I don’t know if you are familiar with his name?”
“No,” Monk said. Then he hesitated. “But if you have confidence in him, and he is willing to take the case, then that’s a good start.”
Hester winced and looked down but could not hide the pain in her face.
“What is it you know and are finding so difficult to say to me? Is Oliver guilty?” Henry asked gently.
“No, that isn’t it,” Hester said quietly.
“My dear, there are times when it is kinder to avoid the unpleasant truths, or err on the side of more generous judgments. This is not one of them.”
He turned to Monk. “If this is not about Oliver, then is it something about Brancaster that troubles you?”
Monk had intended to approach things less abruptly, but looking into Henry Rathbone’s clear blue eyes the prevarication died on his tongue.
“I’m-we’re-afraid he might be one of the men in the collection of photographs Oliver still has,” he admitted. “Or who might fear he is. We have realized that plenty of people may be candidates; they might be unsure if their photograph is actually in Oliver’s possession, and be driven mad by the doubt. If Brancaster is among them, then-”
“I see,” Henry interrupted him. “I think it is highly unlikely, but I presume that if such men were obvious when one meets them, there would be little secret and little point in blackmail. Perhaps we had better find out for certain. Where are these pictures?”
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “I thought you might.”
“Oliver would not have wished to involve me,” Henry told him. He gave a very slight shrug. “And I dare say he was not overly proud of possessing them, even though he came to do so by means beyond control. Still, he chose not to destroy them.”
“It is hard to lay aside that much power,” Monk said ruefully. “It could be used for great good. That is apparently how Ballinger started out.”
