William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

he had intended to tell the story, but he dared not risk being blocked now.
    There were gasps around the court. In the gallery there was a buzz of amazement. In the jury box every man stared at Monk as if he had only this moment appeared there by magic.
    York was furious.
    “If you are deliberately trying to create a sensation, Commander,” he snapped, “in the hope of making us forget why we are here, then you are making a profound mistake. This is the trial of Oliver Rathbone for perverting the course of justice and abusing his office as judge.”
    Monk hesitated. Dare he defy York, or might it only bring down further disaster, on all their heads? Suddenly the issue of the photographs had been obscured and the defense was losing clarity. He must think of an answer to York.
    He took a bold risk. It was all he had left.
    “I think Sir Oliver may unintentionally have caused the murder to happen,” he said, his breath almost choking him.
    There was utter silence.
    “I beg your pardon?” York said at last. Then, as Monk drew in his breath to repeat his words, York held up his hand. “No—no, that is not necessary. I heard you. I just failed for a moment to believe my ears. If this is some elaborate trick, Mr. Monk”—he dropped the courtesy of using his rank—“then I shall hold you in contempt of court.”
    At last Brancaster stepped in. “Perhaps, my lord, it would be best if Commander Monk were to tell us, as briefly as possible, exactly what the evidence was, so the jurors may interpret it for themselves?”
    York had no possible course but to agree. He did so reluctantly.
    “Proceed. But if you stray off the point I shall stop you and rule you out of order. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, my lord,” Monk swallowed his dislike and turned back to face Brancaster. He must recount this in exactly the right sequence, or York would stop him before he reached the end. He considered for a momentleaving Hester out of the account, because he could not give any good reason why she should have been there, but being caught in any kind of evasion would be dangerous.
    “I took my wife with me when I went to Abel Taft’s home,” he said straightaway. “I knew the search would be faster with two people, and her medical skill might prove useful if we discovered anything unusual. Also a woman can read the meaning in certain domestic arrangements that a man might miss.”
    “And did you discover such things?” Brancaster said swiftly, to forestall any interruption from York, or even Wystan, although Wystan seemed as interested as the jurors, who were grasping every word.
    “Very little,” Monk replied. “What we did find dismissed everything else from thought.”
    “Money?” Brancaster asked innocently.
    “Paintings,” Monk answered. “Framed so as to conceal the artists’ signatures. Experts are examining them now, but there seems to be a very considerable collection of good paintings disguised as copies. Their value, if authentic, would be enough to live on, more than comfortably, for thirty or forty years if sold judiciously over time.”
    “Does the value about equal the money that has not been accounted for?” Brancaster questioned.
    Wystan stood up. “While this theft was well detected on Commander Monk’s part, my lord, it is a long way short of murder. Unless he is somehow suggesting that Taft killed his wife over the paintings? I don’t see any evidence whatsoever to indicate such a thing.”
    “Your point is well taken,” York replied. “If that were so, it might relieve Rathbone of the moral guilt of causing the Taft family’s deaths, although even that seems to be questionable. You are not advancing your case, Mr. Brancaster.” He smiled thinly, a faint, bitter satisfaction.
    Brancaster’s cheeks colored with anger. “My lord,” he said between his teeth. “If we might allow Commander Monk to complete the account of what he found …”
    “Then get on with it!” York snapped. “You are trying the court’s patience.”
    Without replying to him Brancaster made a small gesture with his hands, inviting Monk to continue.
    “One of the larger paintings, an almost life-size portrait of a man, swung away from the wall in the upstairs study,” he said a trifle too quickly. “Behind it was a panel that, when pushed in, revealed a space containing a ladder up into the attic …”
    The gallery rustled. Every juror leaned forward. Even Wystan turned in his seat to stare at Monk more