William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

only the backs of people’s heads for the most part. If Sir Oliver’s wife was here, she would be nearer the front of the gallery than he was, wouldn’t she?
    Scuff was still not all that tall. He hoped he would grow a lot more, maybe as tall as Monk, one day. He was a lot less skinny than he used to be, but he was thin enough to squeeze between people if he tried. Maybe if he was careful and didn’t tread on anyone’s feet, didn’t push too much, he could work his way around nearer the front so he could see people’s faces.
    When he was another ten feet farther forward, it still took him several minutes of searching before he saw her. He had been to the clinic with Hester a few times, and had met Lady Rathbone. He remembered because she was the first “lady” he had ever seen, and he had expected her to look different. She had looked different from Hester, but then everybody did. As far as Scuff could see she was much like anyone else that you might see in the street, clean and well dressed. But he remembered her. She had had a nice face.
    Except that right now she looked angry, sort of pinched and bitter. But then, she must feel awful, with Sir Oliver sitting up there in the dock.
    Wystan was asking Mrs. Ballinger about Sir Oliver. He was being very gentle with her.
    “I know this must be difficult for you, Mrs. Ballinger,” he said quietly. “The whole court will sympathize with you, being placed in a situation where you have to testify as to the character—as you have witnessed it—of a man who is married to your daughter. However, it is necessary, in the service of justice. I’m sorry.”
    “I will do my duty,” she said without change of expression. “But thank you for your courtesy.”
    “I will keep it as brief as I can,” Wystan promised. He began slowly.Scuff thought he was pompous. “Did you come to know the accused well when he was courting your daughter?” Wystan asked. “I mean by that, did you entertain him at your home, for example? Did he dine with you? Did you learn his tastes and opinions? Did you become aware of his education, his income, his prospects, his ambitions?”
    “Of course.” There was still very little compassion in her face. Whatever memory she had of those times, it brought no light to her eyes, no flashes of past pleasure remembered. He couldn’t even detect any sorrow for broken dreams. It was as if all feeling had been crushed out of her.
    Scuff was sorry for her, but he found such coldness oddly frightening.
    “We would hardly have allowed our daughter to marry a man we knew nothing about,” she said stiffly, as if Wystan had insulted her. “Love can so …” Now at least there was grief. “Love can so easily be mistaken.”
    “Indeed.” Wystan acknowledged the truth of that with an inclination of his head. “And your opinion at that time?”
    Her face was tight, as though she were barely keeping control.
    “That he was a gentleman, a brilliant lawyer of excellent means, and that great success lay ahead of him,” she replied. “He seemed to care for Margaret, and she certainly cared for him. We thought it a most fortunate match.”
    There was a slight murmur around the gallery. Next to Scuff a man shook his head and sighed. A rather large woman in black, sitting on the end of the row, looked at the man beside her and said, “I told you so.” The man ignored her, his eyes never leaving Mrs. Ballinger on the witness stand.
    “I am sorry to raise this, Mrs. Ballinger,” Wystan went on, “but when your late husband fell into difficulty, you had sufficient trust in your son-in-law to ask him to represent your husband? That is to say, you trusted both his professional ability and his personal loyalty?”
    Her mouth flattened into a thin line. “We did,” she agreed hoarsely. “To our great grief.”
    “Why was that?”
    Her voice wobbled a bit as she tried to control it. “That was when we learned the extent of his personal ambition, his … his ruthlessness.” She stopped and gulped for air. Her face lost its bitterness and merely looked wounded, vulnerable.
    “I am so sorry, Mrs. Ballinger,” Wystan said, with apparent sincerity. “I deeply regret the necessity for obliging you to relive such tragedy. I assure you it is necessary for justice to be done. Oliver Rathbone stands accused of misusing his position as judge, for personal reasons, for power, causing the ruin of another man for purposes of his own—”
    Brancaster rose to