William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

disreputable bookkeeper of hers on to the Taft case in the first place, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir. He was robbing his congregation.”
    The commissioner sighed. “I know. None of that excuses Rathbone abusing his position as a judge to get the verdict he wanted.”
    “No, sir,” Monk agreed, knowing as he said it that he could not—would not—let Rathbone suffer if there were any way he could prevent it.
    The commissioner glared at Monk. “Keep your distance from Rathbone, do you hear me?” he ordered.
    “Yes, sir, I hear you.” And he did. But he knew he would not listen. One did not abandon friends because they made mistakes. That was what he had promised Scuff, and obliquely, Hester as well.
    If he lost his job in the police over this, that would be a blow. He had no idea where he would find another, or how he would support himself and his family. He loved the work. It was the only job he had ever done, as far as he knew. But Hester was certainly the only woman he had ever loved, the only person, really, apart from Scuff. To lose them was a price he was not prepared to pay, not for any job on earth.
    If Monk had to abandon Rathbone, his friend would understand why, but Hester and Scuff wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t be able to live with that.
    He watched Byrne leave. Then he found Orme and told him that he had to go and investigate the scene of a murder.
    “Need my help, sir?” Orme said without a flicker in his smooth, windburned face.
    “Only in that you look after everything here,” Monk answered, also not betraying the slightest emotion. They understood each other too well for an explanation to be necessary.
    “Right, sir,” Orme agreed.
    Monk hesitated. “Thank you,” he said with more feeling than perhaps Orme appreciated. “Thank you very much.”
    S CUFF LEFT HOME AND waited until he saw Monk take the ferry across to the Wapping Police Station; then he found another ferry and paid the extra fare to be taken to Gun Wharf, two stops along, so there was no chance of his being seen by Monk, should he still be standing on the dock, or possibly by Mr. Orme, who also would recognize him.
    Next he took a public omnibus, changed, and took another, until more than half an hour later, passing as an errand boy with an urgent message, he found his way into the Old Bailey and seized his chance to follow a rather self-important-looking journalist into the courtroom where the trial of Oliver Rathbone had just resumed.
    Scuff was uncomfortable, but he continued to stand where he could still look like a messenger waiting for someone. He hoped nobody would actually give him any notes to carry. He knew the riverbank as if it were his own backyard, but this part of the city was a foreign land to him. He would just have to find a way to refuse to accept any errands without getting thrown out. He hoped he had not lost any of the quickness in the invention of lies that he used to have before he met Monk. All the reading and history and school-learning of facts might have pushed it out of his head.
    The prosecutor, who was called Wystan, was just getting into his stride. He was a fuzzy, pepper-and-salt-looking man with a self-satisfied face. Scuff did not like him.
    The present witness was an old woman. The stand was some height above the floor, up its own curling set of narrow little steps, and Scuff watched her climb up with some awkwardness. Or perhaps she wasn’t so old, just a bit too heavy, and sort of faded-looking, as though it were a long time since she had been happy.
    Wystan addressed her as Mrs. Ballinger, and after a moment or two Scuff realized who she must be. It was her husband who had been accused of murdering the prostitute Monk had promised to keep safe. Monk had been terribly upset about that; he had given his word and her death had really hurt him.
    Ballinger had been murdered himself, in prison, when he was waiting to be hanged. No wonder this woman looked so miserable. She had an awful lot to be miserable about.
    And another thing he was sure of, she would be no friend to Sir Oliver. That would be why Wystan had gotten her here, to say what she could that would make him look even worse.
    But if she was Mrs. Ballinger, that meant that she was Sir Oliver’swife’s mother. Was she here too, his wife? Had she come to be a friend to him, the one face he would look at that would make him feel he wasn’t alone?
    Scuff was standing against the wall, to the side of the court, so he could see