William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

Rathbone’s lips. “Actually, he did it to ruin you, get you off his trail forever. He meant you to go after Rupert Cardew, and then he would have proved him innocent, at the last moment, carried Lord Cardew’s everlasting gratitude, and seen you off the force with your reputation shattered. Nothing you said about him after that would have been listened to. Even evidence would have been disregarded.”
    Monk looked startled.
    “He knew you suspected his part in Phillips’s boat and it would be only a matter of time before you came after him,” Rathbone went on. “With your care for Scuff, you wouldn’t have let it go.”
    Hester looked across at Monk and felt a sense of warmth fill her, as if even in this ghastly situation she still wanted to smile, still trusted in a goodness, an inner beauty that would survive.
    “I’m sorry,” Monk said with a little shake of his head. “What can we do? If we could think of any way of appealing, would you?”
    “I don’t know,” Rathbone admitted. “But there isn’t. There’s no new evidence, and no legal grounds. I suppose the only thing I can think of is to find the photographs and destroy them. But I have no idea where to look. Who would he trust with such things? There can’t be so many people.”
    “Are we sure he was telling the truth?” Monk looked from one to the other of them.
    Rathbone pushed his hand through his hair. “I believe him. He still wants to go on forcing through the reforms he cares about. But I can’t think of any way of proving it, and can we afford to take the risk?”
    Hester spoke slowly, weighing her words, uncertain of her own feelings. “Even if we could find these photographs and destroy them, and we were certain they were the only ones, do we want to? It is a sin and a crime to abuse children in such a way. Why do we want to protect men who are doing such things? I’m not sure that I do. And I’m not sure that I want to have that kind of power over people in anyone’s hands, even my own. How do you decide what to use it for, when to stop, how many people’s lives you can destroy along with the guilty?” She shook her head minutely, her shoulders rigid, aching, with the muscles knotted. “No one—”
    “I see! I see,” Rathbone said sharply, his voice raw-edged. He pushed his hand through his hair again. “I should have seen it. But whatever he could do, I still don’t have grounds for an appeal.”
    “Then, we have to look for the photographs,” Monk replied. “At least it will tell us who is vulnerable, even if we have no guarantee that they are the only copies.”
    “God, what a nightmare!” Rathbone said softly. He seemed about to add something more, and then changed his mind.
    “We’ll need help,” Hester said practically. “We can’t possibly do it all by ourselves. We don’t even know where to look, or how to make the right people listen to us.”
    Rathbone raised his hand. “Who else could we trust?”
    “The people at the clinic,” she replied, thinking as she answered. “Squeaky Robinson, perhaps Claudine?”
    “What on earth could she do?” Rathbone said incredulously.
    “Make inquiries in society,” Hester replied. “I don’t mix with the sort of people who would be worth blackmailing for power, and you can hardly ask.”
    Rathbone blushed very faintly, and she knew he was thinking that at any other time they would have asked Margaret to help, but now it was impossible. But Hester would not say so, or even that he himself would hardly be wishing to move in his usual social circle. He had not even considered how life would be after his father-in-law was hanged. There would be no waking up from this nightmare.
    “And Crow,” Monk added. “I’ll ask Orme. His knowledge of the river is better than mine.”
    “I’ll ask Rupert Cardew,” Hester said, looking at Monk, then at Rathbone. She expected them to argue, and she had her rebuttal ready.
    “He could be putting his life at risk, after what he’s already done,” Monk warned her.
    “I know. And I’ll remind him of it. But I have to ask. It’s a long path back from where he was, and I believe he means to take it.”
    “If he stays in London, he’s ruined,” Rathbone said grimly. “Doesn’t he understand that? He’ll never be forgiven for what will be seen as betraying his own.”
    “He knows,” she assured him, remembering Rupert’s ashen face when she had asked him to testify. “He’s ruined anywhere in England.