“Yes,” Monk said immediately. “And whether you are prepared to or not, I am perfectly willing to use that information should one of them be called to preside in Rathbone’s trial.” He smiled bleakly, more of a grimace. “In a legal manner, and well before the trial, of course.”
Brancaster bit his lip. “I believe you. But that won’t alter the fact that many members of the judiciary will be against Sir Oliver, in spite of the fact that they won’t take much to Drew, I’m sure.”
He pulled a very slight grimace. “If you turn over a very large, very wet stone, you are going to find a lot of slugs underneath it, plus a few creeping things with too many legs, that you weren’t prepared for. Are you ready for that?”
Hester answered him. “Of course not. But if you mean would we prefer to let it go, then, no, we wouldn’t. If we try, at least we have a chance of success.”
“I dare say they’ll attempt to have him imprisoned, simply to seize his property and try to find the original plates of the pictures,” Brancaster warned.
“If they’re bent on appearing to remain within the law,” Monk agreed with a bitter smile. “If not, they’ll simply burn the house down. I dare say Rathbone himself thought of that. If not, I’ll make sure his father does.”
“Would he preserve them?” Brancaster asked dubiously. He knew Henry Rathbone.
“At least for the time being,” Monk said wryly. “It’s too good a weapon to throw away just yet.”
“You’d use it?” Brancaster said curiously. “Even after what you’ve seen it do to others?”
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. Without Hester or Scuff to think of, if he were still the man he had been before, he would not have hesitated. He had often been ruthless, and it was not easy to admit it now. How much of that man was still left in him, if pushed far enough?
Brancaster was thinking. From his face it appeared he was anxious. “It isn’t wise for other people to find out that anyone else has access to the photos, or the motive to use them, aside from Oliver,” he warned. “He is tucked behind bars, but if they realize you are equally capable of making those images public, it might drive him into a kind of panic, drive him to something dangerous, badly misjudged. Fear has different effects on people. For the moment, be careful to say nothing.”
“I will,” Monk agreed grimly. “It is ironic that these men resent Rathbone for going outside the bounds of gentlemanly conduct, when they have done things that are far outside human decency. Why the hell do they think Rathbone should guard their secrets, at the price of other people’s lives?”
“Because they have no empathy,” Brancaster replied. “No conception at all of how other people feel. They don’t see any further than their own appetites. As I said, we are in for a long battle.”
“We have to face it,” Hester said quietly. “We can’t let Oliver lose. And”-her whole body tightened-“we can’t let them win either. That would be a step into the darkness.”
CHAPTER 10
Prison was appalling. Every night Rathbone sank into sleep as an escape from the noise, the discomfort, the stale smell of the blanket, and, in his imagination, the fidgeting, scurrying, and scratching of whatever skittered across the stone floor.
He slept badly, unable to relax, most of the time half awake, drifting in and out of dreams. Often he was finally oblivious of his surroundings only just before the sound of boots on the stone jerked him back into reality. There was a moment when he was still mercifully confused, then opening his eyes brought it all back to him: the physical discomfort, the aching in his body, the scratching on his skin, then the memory that there would be no hot shave, just a scraping of his cheeks with soap and cold water from a bucket. There would be no fresh toast, sharp marmalade, hot fragrant tea. There would be porridge and then tea, dark and stewed, acrid. Still, it was better than hunger or thirst.
Would he have to get used to this? Might it be like this for years? As far ahead as he could see? As a judge he had sentenced men to that. As a lawyer he had pleaded for it, and against it, as he was hired to do, taking whichever side he was offered.
Did that mean he was without conviction, doing anything he was paid for? Or that he believed in the system? And did this adversarial-almost gladiatorial-system produce justice? The system did not look the same from here. It was frightening, offering no certainty of good to come.
He sat in the miserable cell with the noise of other men living around him; he was turning the case over in his mind for the thousandth time to no end, when the chief jailer came. He had the keys in his hands.
“Someone’s paid bail for you, Mr. Rathbone,” he said, his voice expressionless, except to emphasize the “Mr.,” but his eyes were bright and sharp. “I suppose you’ll be going home for a while now. Good lawyer you must have. All stick together, I expect. You being a larnt-up man, like, I suppose you’ll know your Shakespeare …”
“ ‘First … kill all the lawyers,’ ” Rathbone said for him. He picked up his jacket, which was the only garment he had with him, apart from the clothes he stood in.
The jailer grunted, annoyed at being robbed of his quote.
“Actors, the lot of you,” he said irritably. “Strutting around and thinking everyone’s listening to yer.”
“ ‘That struts and frets his hour upon the stage’ is meant for all of us,” Rathbone countered, coming to the door and waiting a step back while the man turned the heavy key.
The jailer glared at him, knowing it was another quote but not able to place it.
“
“You tell ’im, Fancypants,” a voice called out from the cell opposite and along a bit. “Gonna miss you, I am. Till yer come back again!” He roared with laughter at his own humor.
Rathbone smiled as he walked through the barred door and out into the stone-floored space. He looked across at the cell the voice had come from. Inside there was a gaunt, stringy-haired man; his clothes were filthy, but they had once been good. Rathbone wondered what had happened to him. Maybe the clothes were stolen, or had been thrown out. Or, on the other hand, perhaps the accent and the aggressive manner were borrowed plumage, for self-protection.
Rathbone lifted his hand in a small salute. “Keep it warm for me,” he replied. “I regret to say, I might well be needing it.”
“Arrogant bastard,” the jailer said under his breath.
Rathbone affected not to have heard him.
He had his belongings restored to him and took a hansom back to his home. Only an hour later, as he went in through the front door to the familiar hallway, did he remember that everything else in the world had changed, for him. To the staff he had to be a different person. There would be no more awe, and perhaps even their respectful behavior toward him would now be superficial-merely good manners. He would have no idea what they really thought of him. Did he want to know?
Not yet. There was too much else to think of. For right this moment he could come and go as he pleased. He could wash, have a decent cup of tea, eat what he wanted, and tonight sleep in his own bed, in the softness, enjoying the clean smell and the silence. He could get up when he wanted.
That was reality now: he could stay in bed if he wanted because there was no work to do, no one to talk to, to care for, no challenge except to find something to occupy his mind, to keep himself from sinking into anger and despair.
Early in the afternoon Henry Rathbone came to visit him.
“Thank you,” Rathbone said immediately, choking a little on the words, his voice thick with emotion. He had not meant to lose his grip this way, but his father’s familiar face and the sound of his voice overwhelmed him.
Henry turned away and looked for a place to sit while the butler, who had let him in, went away to fetch a fresh pot of tea and some hot, crumbly, buttery scones.
“I paid it as soon as they let me. Would you like to come and stay a few days at Primrose Hill?” Henry asked, regarding Rathbone with extraordinary gentleness. He would say nothing of love, or of anxiety, or fear, certainly not of disappointment, but it was all there in his eyes. He found it embarrassing to speak of such emotions, and unnecessary. A lifetime of companionship, guidance, encouragement, and shared dreams and jokes had made
