William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

looked at him. “Yes, Sir Oliver. I was wondering when you would object to this. Mr. Winchester, how does Mr. Monk know all this? Surely it was not apparent to the naked eye when he broke into the lower deck of this boat? And you have not yet shown any proof that it was indeed Mr. Parfitt’s boat. It could have been anyone’s.”
    “My lord, I was going to ask what any of this appalling story has to do with Mr. Ballinger,” Rathbone responded.
    “Mr. Winchester?” The judge raised his eyebrows.
    Winchester smiled. “I admit, my lord, I was attempting to show for members of the jury what a particularly repulsive character the victim was, before Sir Oliver would do it for me, as I fear he will, so that we may all appreciate that he is likely to have had a great number of enemies, and very few friends indeed.”
    There was a sigh of relief in the public gallery and a few faint titters of laughter. Even the jurors seemed to relax a little in their high-backed seats in the double jury row on the opposite side of the floor.
    Rathbone could do nothing but concede the point.
    The judge looked at Monk. “I hope you are not going to describe these acts, Commander Monk? If you intend to, I shall have to clear the court, at least of all ladies present.”
    “I did not see them performed, my lord,” Monk said stiffly. “If Ihad been present, they would not have been. I was going to say that they were photographed, and the resulting pictures used to blackmail the wealthier men taking part.”
    The judge frowned. “I was not aware that it was possible to photograph people who are moving, Mr. Monk? Does it not take between five and ten seconds exposure, even with the very latest equipment?”
    “Yes, my lord,” Monk replied. “These pictures were posed for, deliberately. It was part of the initiation ceremony into the club. An added element of risk that, for these men, heightened their pleasure, and their sense of comradeship.”
    “Did you know this at the time?”
    “No, my lord, but because of previous experiences on another very similar boat farther down the river, I suspected much of it.” He looked at the judge coldly, his face hard and hurt.
    “I see.” The judge turned from Monk to Winchester. “I shall expect you to prove every step of this, Mr. Winchester, beyond reasonable doubt.”
    “Yes, my lord. I shall leave the jury with no doubt at all. I wish that none of this were so.” He turned to the jury. “I apologize, gentlemen. This will be distressing to all of you, but for the sake of justice, I cannot spare your feelings. I …” He spread his hands helplessly.
    Rathbone knew exactly what Winchester was doing, and there was no way Rathbone could prevent it. He had expected Winchester to be clever, but had hoped he would be sure enough of his case to be careless now and then, and take one or two things for granted, where Rathbone could trip him. So far he was treading almost softly, and it made the details all the more terrible. There was nothing for Rathbone to attack, nothing hysterical, nothing unnecessary. To question it would seem desperate, the first sign that he himself was not sure of his case.
    He could not turn to look for her in the gallery, but he knew that Margaret would be watching him, waiting in an agony of tension for him to do something, anything but sit there helplessly. Rathbone was allowing Winchester to go on and on as if he, Rathbone, were tongue-tied. How could Rathbone explain to her, and her mother, that to make useless attacks weakened himself, not Winchester?
    He should put her out of his mind; all else must be forgotten, except the defense. The battle was everything.
    Monk was talking again in a low, shaking voice, describing the photographs he had seen.
    Winchester held a packet in his hand. “My lord, if you believe it necessary, they can be shown to the gentlemen of the jury, just so they are without doubt that what Mr. Monk says is indeed quite a mild description of the terrible truth.”
    The judge leaned forward and held out his hand.
    Winchester walked across the floor and gave him the packet. His lordship opened it and looked.
    Rathbone had not actually seen the pictures, but looking at the judge’s face was perhaps more powerful a flame to the imagination, a pain sharper than the actuality could have been, because it was a living thing in his mind, a monstrosity that changed and that he could never control.
    Damn Winchester!
    He looked across at the jury