There were murmurs now, voices in the gallery.
“That was the only specific example he gave me, but he said there were others like it,” Rathbone continued. “I did look up that case, and the judgment. He was speaking the truth. The industrialist he mentioned had steadily refused to yield until the judgment went against him. I also know the photograph existed because I have seen it.”
“That is very frightening indeed,” Brancaster said grimly. “But it does not explain how you come to have these photographs now.”
“I was still horrified,” Rathbone went on. He knew there was no escape now. It was far too late. “I participated in the closure of the two different clubs involved. The whole situation included the murder of a man who ran one of them, a man named Mickey Parfitt. It was investigated by the police. The man was of the dregs of humanity, but murder is still a crime, no matter who the victim or who the offender.”
He looked at last at Margaret, and saw her staring back at him. Her face was twisted in anger and so white she seemed bloodless. There was no going back now.
“Sir Oliver …” Brancaster prompted him again.
“The man accused of the murder was prosecuted,” Rathbone resumed. He was finding it difficult to speak. His mouth was so dry it was blurring his words. “I was asked to defend him, and to begin with I believed him innocent. Then another person was also murdered, a young woman who was no more than a witness. It soon became clear that her death was planned by this man, in order to keep her from testifying. But I still did all I could to defend him, because that was my duty before the law, no matter what my own feelings. I tried everything I could think of, but I failed. He was found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.”
Brancaster did not move or speak. No one in the entire court seemed to do more than breathe.
“He asked me after the sentence was handed down to visit him,” Rathbone went on. His voice suddenly sounded loud in his own ears. “I did so. That was when he told me of the existence of scores more photographs. He said that if I did not find a way to save him from the rope they would fall into the hands of someone he trusted, and the blackmail would go on. I would have no power to stop it, and the foundations of everything we value would be undermined. He told me there were judges; government ministers; bishops; leaders of industry, science, and the army and navy; even distant members of the royal family involved, if not captured in the pictures themselves.”
Rathbone felt again the desperation with which he, Hester, and Monk had searched everywhere they could think of for those damned photographs.
“And you found them?” Brancaster asked in the total silence that followed.
“No,” Rathbone replied. “I went back to plead with him, and … and I found him murdered in prison.” The horror of that scene crept over his skin again like an infestation of lice. “It … it made me realize just how wide and how deep this circle of corruption went. The police never found out who killed him.”
“But you did not find the photographs?” Brancaster’s voice cracked as he spoke.
“No,” Rathbone answered. “That was the bitter irony. They found me. The man had left them with his solicitor, left them to me in his will, to be delivered to me as a final punishment for not having saved him.”
Brancaster smiled bitterly. “And this man you refer to-that would be your father-in-law, Arthur Ballinger?”
“Yes,” Rathbone said huskily. “It would.”
In her seat in the second row, Margaret sat like stone, as if she would never move again.
Rathbone would have spared her that. But there was nothing he could do. The reality was there in the courtroom like something alive, unstoppable.
“Thank you, Sir Oliver,” Brancaster said with a sigh. He turned to Wystan.
Wystan rose to his feet stiffly.
“It paints a very clear picture, my lord. I imagine Mr. Brancaster will be calling other witnesses to verify your story. For the sake of many people who may be implicated, I would like to reserve my questions until that has been done.”
York, his face full of anger, adjourned the court.
CHAPTER 17
The next person to testify was Monk. He walked across the floor and climbed up the steps, trying to look grave but unconcerned. He certainly did not feel that way. Brancaster was taking an extraordinary gamble, but it was perhaps the only move they had. He had a strong idea of what Brancaster was going to do, but Brancaster had deliberately not prepared him. He said he wanted it to sound unrehearsed, almost as if Monk, too, had been taken by surprise.
The one thing he hoped would not come out in any way was the fact that they suspected Margaret had been the one to turn Rathbone in. Scuff had told him what had happened the second time he snuck into the courtroom. Monk, for better or worse, had decided that it was not relevant to the murder of Taft. Margaret had been blighted by what had happened with her father; she had sought revenge, and she had been in the right place at the right time to get what she had wanted. Rathbone, already so hurt, would be wounded even more deeply to learn how she had betrayed him. Maybe there would be a time to tell him, but it wasn’t now.
Monk swore as to his name, occupation, and rank in the Thames River Police, and of course to tell the truth. Then he faced Brancaster.
“Commander Monk,” Brancaster began, “were you in charge of the investigation into the murder of Mickey Parfitt, whose body was found in the Thames?”
“Yes, I was.”
Brancaster nodded.
“I will be as brief as possible in establishing your connection with this present case, so forgive me if I appear to leap over great areas of your earlier involvement. What was Mr. Parfitt’s occupation, Commander?”
“He ran a club for wealthy men with a taste for child prostitution and pornography,” Monk replied. “He based it on a barge moored on the river, which is how it fell under my jurisdiction. He also blackmailed several of his clients, vulnerable because exposure would ruin them.”
“How did he do that? What evidence did he have of their involvement?” Brancaster managed to sound as if he did not already know.
“Photographs,” Monk replied.
“Why would a vulnerable man allow himself to be photographed in such a situation? Forgive me, but does a photograph not require you to maintain a motionless position for some time while the photographer performs his art?” Brancaster looked puzzled.
“Yes, it does,” Monk agreed. “But having a compromising photograph taken was part of the initiation into the club. You could not be a member without agreeing to it.”
“I see. And did Mr. Parfitt own this … club?”
“No, he just managed it.”
“Did you discover who owned it?” Brancaster inquired.
Again the court was breathless; every member of the jury was staring at Monk.
“Yes-Arthur Ballinger,” Monk answered.
Brancaster also looked only at Monk. “The same Arthur Ballinger who was father-in-law to Oliver Rathbone?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“Is there any doubt about this whatever?” Brancaster persisted.
Monk shook his head. “No. Quite apart from the detailed proof he provided, in the end, when he was facing the hangman’s noose, he did not bother to deny it. In fact, he deliberately bequeathed the collection of pictures to Oliver Rathbone.”
“I see. And what was Rathbone’s reaction to this … bequest?”
York finally lost his composure. “Mr. Wystan! Do you not wish to object to this? Are you asleep, sir? Mr. Brancaster is asking for the witness to give an opinion, to state facts he cannot possibly know.”
