William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

terrible intrusion to look at him, a bit like bursting into the bathroom when somebody was in there privately.
    He knew as soon as he saw Margaret that he was not intruding by looking at her. She wasn’t really suffering at all; in fact her face was bright as if she were enjoying herself. There was something almost like a smile on her lips. She looked up once to the place where Sir Oliver was sitting, and hesitated several moments. Then she looked away again, back at her mother, who was still talking about Sir Oliver. She was saying how cold and selfish he was. Even at family gatherings his mind always seemed to be on his work. She recalled two occasions when he had simply walked out, almost without explanation.
    Scuff was angry now. Sir Oliver wouldn’t be here at all or accused of anything if somebody hadn’t told on him. It seemed he had given the prosecution that horrible photograph of one of the main defense witnesses, and as far as Scuff was concerned that was fair enough. It showed what kind of a man he was. Apparently it wasn’t the photograph thatwas the problem; it was that he had given it to the prosecution and not the defense. It was the way he did it that was wrong; it was seen as not being fair to both sides.
    And then apparently he should have told them that he couldn’t be the judge anymore. The whole trial had to stop, and then maybe start all over again with someone else. Or on the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t bother, and the man who had stolen all that money from the congregation would get away with it, and just go on stealing. That really, really wasn’t fair!
    Telltales didn’t usually have to even prove their information because for a start they usually go to a person who wants to get someone else into trouble and who will take their word and run with it. Any fool knows that! There are always snitches, and everybody hates them.
    So who knew that Sir Oliver had the photographs, and wanted to get him into trouble? Mr. Ballinger, but he was dead. He couldn’t tell anybody anything. Monk and Hester, of course, because Sir Oliver had told them. But they would rather have their throats cut than be snitches.
    So who else knew about the photographs? The person who brought them after Mr. Ballinger died? Did he know what was in the box? Maybe. More likely he didn’t.
    But Mrs. Ballinger might have known about them, and Margaret—Lady Rathbone. Scuff would be prepared to make a bet with anyone that she had worked it out—if not before, then after the photograph turned up in court.
    He watched Margaret as the testimony went on getting worse and worse for Sir Oliver. She was smiling now. She wasn’t upset for him at all. The conviction settled on Scuff that it was she who had snitched.
    He watched and waited until the lunchtime adjournment, then, before the general crowd rose to their feet and made their way out, he wriggled from the spot he was in and put his head down to force his way between people, as if he were on a really urgent message, pushing forward toward the hall.
    When he was there, he stood to one side, looking at every personwho came out. He was angry and trembling, but at least he was too full of fury for there to be any room for fear.
    Several people passed him, fat people and thin, ones in fancy clothes, ones in old clothes worn nearly to rags. Some were talking to one another; some were silent.
    Then he saw her. She had that shadow of a smile around her mouth, as if she had eaten something really good and she could still taste it.
    Scuff stepped out in front of her and she stopped abruptly. She had no idea who he was, but she was mildly annoyed that he was obviously not looking where he was going. Then she saw the fury in his face, and the words she had been starting to say died on her lips.
    “You told on ’im, didn’t yer!” Scuff accused. “It was you as went an’ told on ’im that ’e were the one what gave the lawyer that photograph, weren’t yer?”
    She drew in her breath sharply, but the color that flushed her cheeks gave her away.
    “Who is it?” her mother demanded from just behind her. “What’s the matter? For heaven’s sake, give him a penny and let us leave this place.”
    “It’s … it’s that little urchin that belongs to Monk,” Margaret replied. Then she turned to Scuff again. “Move out of the way, or I shall call an usher to have you put out. In fact, I will …”
    Scuff smiled at her. “Yer done it. I can see it in yer face. For