William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

subject of such a photograph, who can be twisted this way and that, could be anyone, couldn’t he? What I mean is we do not know such people by sight; they would look exactly like any other respected and powerful man on the surface, wouldn’t they?”
    “Of course,” Athlone agreed. “Your banker, your lawyer, your physician, your member of Parliament, for that matter. Even your judge in court, your minister in government, the senior officers of the police whose word might well be taken ahead of your own. Your bishop. Anyone at all.” He looked pale as he said it, and his voice was now hoarse with emotion. “The thought is a nightmare. A living hell of corruption.”
    “I think you are frightening us, Professor,” Brancaster said grimly.
    “I am frightening myself,” Athlone agreed. “It presents a terrifying image. I wish I could say it is a hideous dream and we shall awaken from it. But Mr. Wystan has made it clear that it is all too real.”
    Suddenly Wystan looked puzzled. A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face.
    Brancaster was still rigid.
    “I think perhaps, Professor, we need to know what you mean. Of what specifically are you afraid, sir?”
    Athlone was very grave. “I gather from what I have overheard while in the hall waiting to come in, and from the questions that both you and Mr. Wystan have asked me, that there is a serious question as to whether photographs of both obscenity and crime have been used to sway the testimony of witnesses in criminal trials. Mr. Wystan said that such a photograph is what Sir Oliver Rathbone is accused of having used and that it is a very reasonable suggestion, far too serious to be ignored, that another such photograph may have been used in another trial, again to oblige someone to change their testimony. It could not have been done unless he, or someone extremely close to him, was the subject of the photograph.” He looked harassed with anxiety.
    There was not a whisper of breath in the court. Every juror stared at Athlone as if he had risen out of the ground like an apparition.
    Brancaster was as motionless as a statue.
    “Which forces us,” Athlone continued, “to ask how many of these photographs there are, and of whom? Perhaps the most terrifying thing of all is that, if we do not know, then we must suspect and fear everyone. And yet if we are not even aware of this horror, then it will continue unseen among us. Justice, the government, the police, the Church, medicine, every aspect of our lives may be poisoned by it, and we shall not know or understand why things go terribly wrong, or who is to blame.”
    Wystan shot to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.
    “My lord! This is preposterous. Mr. Brancaster is blowing this completely out of proportion. He is attempting to frighten us out of all sense and judgment. It is perfectly reasonable to draw the conclusion that Rathbone used one of these vile photographs to cause Robertson Drew to change his testimony and thus condemn Abel Taft.” His face was ashen white. “Which, we may draw the unspeakable conclusion, causedthe poor man to take not only his own life but also the lives of his wife and daughters …” He shook his head. “And though unproven, it is possible he has done this one other time in the past, judging from the facts Professor Athlone brought up. But implying this … this further web of terror is unnecessary and unfounded.”
    “I agree,” York said a little hoarsely. He too was pale. “Mr. Brancaster, please restrict yourself to the matter in hand.”
    Brancaster smiled, but there was no humility in it.
    “My lord, Mr. Wystan opened the door by suggesting to Professor Athlone that Sir Oliver may have used obscene photographs in more than one trial. That necessarily implies that there are other photographs. How are we to know how many more?” His dark eyes were wide. “Or who possesses them? Is it a subject we can leave hanging in the air? The jury knows of them. The gallery knows of them.” He waved his hand airily in the direction of the gallery. “And no doubt when the newspapers are printed tomorrow morning, all London will know of them. Can we possibly put a lid on such a matter and hope it will stay closed? Indeed, the question is—should we?”
    There was a terrible silence. Suspense crackled in the room like the air before a great storm. Not a juror moved.
    Rathbone looked at York, whose face was pale, eyes like hollows and so dark as to seem lightless.
    Then Rathbone