William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

I’d get out of it, but they’ve called me and I have no choice. I’ve racked my brains to think of anything helpful.” He shook his head, the anger evident in his face. “They’re not prosecuting me, which makes me feel additionally guilty. I was the one who used the damn photograph!”
    “Why?” Monk asked gravely.
    Warne did not understand, but he was too tired to be polite. “What?”
    “Why did you use that particular piece of evidence?” Monk elaborated.
    “Because I was losing the case and I hadn’t any other. I already told you that.” Warne’s voice was weary.
    “And was winning a case worth it to you, at any price?” Monk kept his voice level and mild, as if he were merely curious.
    Warne blushed and looked at him more intently. “Not usually,” he said. “But this case I cared about very much. I’m not sorry that bastard killed himself, though murdering his family was an appalling crime. It just adds cowardice to his list of sins.” His voice sharpened. “Why are you asking?”
    “Well … I imagine Rathbone also felt Taft was pretty low, and perhaps now most of those in the court, including the jury, will agree,” Monk replied.
    Warne leaned forward a fraction, suddenly eager. “Are you saying somehow we can use the fact Taft was a coward? It’ll be the deaths of Taft and his family that the jury reacts to, whatever is said about legal responsibility and details of what evidence should be produced when.”
    “That’s about all I can see to go for, at the moment,” Monk agreed. “But I wish we knew how Drew fit into the picture. I mean, he was the one who was so vicious toward Gethen Sawley. He made the man look like a complete fool in front of the jury.”
    “To defend Taft, of course.” Warne replied, and then he drew in his breath sharply. “You think there was some other reason?”
    “Could there be?”
    “Of course there could be.” Warne shrugged. “But nobody’s charged Drew with being involved in the fraud. And nobody knows what was in the photograph, except Gavinton, Rathbone, and me. The jury knew it was bad, but not how bad, or of what nature. It might have been Drew with Taft’s wife, for all they knew. In fact, because Taft killed his wife, that very possibly will be what they think.” His voice was gathering speed. “It would be a fairly natural conclusion. Reprehensible, certainly, but not beyond human understanding. Drew wouldn’t be the first man who slept with his best friend’s wife.” A bitter smile twisted his lips.“Possibly even a juror or two would find that too close to home to condemn.”
    “If Taft had lived and gone to prison,” Monk said thoughtfully, “it would have been interesting to see what Mrs. Taft would have done—and where the rest of the money went!” Briefly he related the information that Scuff had learned from the Tafts’ scullery maid, painting a picture of their home life for Warne.
    Warne listened intently, nodding as Monk finished. “I didn’t see that,” he admitted. “But it fits in with the little I saw or heard. Perhaps I should have had the wits to speak to the scullery maid or the tweeny myself. I never thought of it.” Warne was nodding now, his involvement sharp again. “But time’s very short. I’ll do what I can to help, not only for Rathbone’s sake but my own as well. I’m beginning to realize just how much I hate being beaten when I know something doesn’t add up.”
    They discussed the issue for another half hour, precise details that could be pursued, possible avenues to explore. They agreed that Warne should review the evidence and exactly how each fact had emerged, so a new jury would see what little choice Rathbone had. Monk would try to learn more about Taft himself and would keep on searching for the missing money.
    T HE FIRST PLACE M ONK went after leaving Warne’s office was the clinic in Portpool Lane. He spoke briefly to Hester, but it was Squeaky Robinson he wanted to see. He found him at his usual desk, bent over the books, a pen in his hand. He looked up as Monk came in.
    Monk closed the door behind him and walked across the small floor space to the desk.
    “Good morning, Mr. Robinson,” he said pleasantly, pulling out the chair opposite the desk and sitting down, crossing his legs comfortably as if he intended to be there for some time.
    Squeaky did not reply, but he put his pen back in the holder and blotted his page, resigned to doing no more for a