William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

to pay for your mistakes.”
    “Does that mean we let Sir Oliver pay?” he asked.
    She smiled, a really warm, sweet smile, as if she were laughing at herself inside. “Not if we can help it,” she said. “He’s already had almost as much of a fright as he can take. And he’ll never do anything like this again. Besides, I’m not sure how really wrong it was—though it’s not up to me to judge, in court anyway.”
    He felt a lot better. Perhaps if he did something really wrong, she wouldn’t stop loving him either? She might get angry, but she wouldn’t send him away. And he would make a mistake one day; he was bound to. “Maybe he didn’t mean to do wrong,” he said softly.
    “You’re quite right,” she agreed, pushing the butter across the tabletoward him. “I don’t think he did. And to be honest, I’m not sure what I would have done in his place. Taft and Drew had to be stopped.”
    “Why’d Mr. Taft do that?” Scuff asked. “I mean, why’d he kill ’is wife an’ ’is girls too?”
    “I don’t know,” she admitted, frowning at the thought. “Have some more toast. You haven’t eaten enough. You won’t get anything more until lunchtime.”
    He buttered his toast and put marmalade on it, but he didn’t bite into it yet. “And Mr. Drew’s going to get away with it, isn’t ’e, even with the photo?” he pressed. “That in’t right.”
    “Maybe,” Hester admitted. “But it isn’t over yet.”
    Monk had been standing outside the kitchen door for several moments, not wanting to interrupt the conversation and deny Scuff the chance to say what he clearly needed to. He was taken aback by the weight of Scuff’s feelings. He realized that for the last two or three days he had been so absorbed in the desperation of Rathbone’s situation that he had succeeded in making Scuff feel excluded. He heard in his questions that continuing, underlying fear that loyalty was subject to keeping up a certain standard, and failure to do that could mean that love ended. He was talking of Rathbone, but, deeper than that, he was thinking of himself.
    Monk was consumed by the need to reassure him.
    He walked in casually, as if he had caught only the last couple of words of their conversation.
    “I am going to go to Mr. Taft’s house to take a long and very careful look at all his belongings,” he said, to no one in particular.
    “When?” Hester asked instantly. “This afternoon? Sooner?”
    Monk smiled. “The police have already been there and searched thoroughly. I’m looking for something they missed,” he told them both. “It’s the scene of three murders and a suicide. They won’t have treated it lightly, but it’s possible they saw something without realizing its significance. I’ll have to get permission first, but I can do that.”
    “I’ll come with you,” Hester responded. “I might notice something you don’t.” She turned to Scuff, who was waiting hopefully. “And youare going to school. If we find anything that matters, we’ll tell you. Do you hear me?”
    Scuff nodded reluctantly. “Yes.” He meant “yes, I hear you,” not “yes, I will.” He hoped she would appreciate the difference.
    “I’ll come home and tell you when I have permission,” Monk promised Hester.
    Scuff looked from Hester to Monk, then back again. “ ’Ow did they know that Sir Oliver gave the lawyer the photograph?” he asked. “Did somebody tell on ’im?” His expression of contempt showed very clearly his opinion of those who told tales. That was a sin it was almost impossible to forgive. It wasn’t a mistake; it was a betrayal.
    “Yes, somebody did,” Hester replied. “We don’t know who.”
    “Don’t you ’ave ter find out?” Scuff asked. “ ’E’s a real enemy, whoever ’e is. It in’t safe not to know who ’ates you that much.”
    “You’re quite right,” Monk nodded. “But we’ll have to do that after we’ve done all we can to save Sir Oliver from prison. Telling tales is pretty mean-spirited, mostly, but it isn’t a crime.”
    “Isn’t it? It ought ter be.”
    “People have to tell, sometimes,” Monk pointed out. “You might need to, to see that justice is done, or even to save someone’s life.”
    “ ’Who’s life did this save?” Scuff’s disbelief was sharp in his face.
    “Nobody’s,” Monk conceded. “I promise we’ll find out if we can.”
    Scuff nodded, clearly thinking about it deeply.
    Monk would go back and explain it to him in