William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

because they did not suspect. They have been made a fool of by the perpetrator. That feeling isn’t present in a street robbery, when someone threatens you with physical harm and you have little choice but to comply.”
    York nodded, his face smooth with satisfaction. “Exactly. It is quiet, but it is a deadly sin. Just because the wounds are not easily visible does not mean you cannot bleed to death from them. You have put it very well. With your permission, I would like to use your words when I next address the Law Society.”
    It was a question, in a roundabout way, but not one to which no wasa possible answer. It would be professional self-injury of a remarkably clumsy kind to refuse, as York was perfectly aware.
    Rathbone forced himself to smile. “Of course,” he agreed. “I think you had exactly the same thought yourself, sir.” He lowered his eyes to his plate, but not before he’d stolen a glance at Beata.
    Her brows were slightly puckered, her generous mouth pulled a little tight. She knew exactly what her husband had just done, and she did not approve of it. Or was that merely what Rathbone wanted to believe? He must stop thinking about her! He needed to clear his mind and pay total attention to the conversation, or he would make more stupid errors and lose the game. And it was a contested game, a match of wits; he should make no mistake about that. Success was the prize, visible success as seen and understood by others.
    He was suddenly aware Margaret had accused him of seeking exactly that: professional fame and success before love and loyalty to family.
    Was he like that? Was that the reason he was sitting here in this beautiful house with Ingram York? Was he like Bertrand Allan, who was clearly an ambitious lawyer looking for the next opportunity to climb another step?
    Allan was talking eagerly to York again. Rathbone watched him, watched the flicker of his eyes and the moments of hesitation and tried to remember himself ten years ago. Had he been as easy to read? Or was it only that, having been through it himself, he could now understand Allan? Maybe then York, by token, could read both of them with ease.
    He turned to Mary Allan, discreetly searching her face. She was watching her husband with admiration in her eyes. Was that emotional or intellectual? Did she understand the nuances as Allan commented on other cases and his views of certain judgments and York agreed with him? Was any of it completely honest? Possibly Allan was expressing what he believed, but he definitely selected to please.
    What would happen if Allan’s loyalties were ever torn, as Rathbone’s had been? Would Mary Allan be so certain of her husband then? Perhaps they had been married longer. No one had mentioned children, but then one did not at a professional dinner party. What wouldMargaret have done had she and Rathbone had children? He would never know.
    They were still talking about fraud. Recent large cases were being mentioned, and how the defenses and prosecutions had been handled. Allan was saying, with the wisdom of hindsight, what he would have done.
    Rathbone looked at Beata. She had been looking at him. She lowered her eyes quickly, hiding the gleam of interest. For an instant he was certain that had it been appropriate she would have asked him what he thought and if he read Allan as easily as she did. It was almost as if they had spoken, though no words had been uttered.
    “There’ll be more, of course,” York said grimly. “And God knows how many we don’t find; that is the worst thought.”
    “Maybe this verdict will put off a few,” Allan said hopefully.
    “And the severity of the sentence also,” Mary Allan agreed with a sideways glance at Rathbone.
    “I’m afraid it isn’t the severity of punishment that is most effective,” Rathbone replied. “It’s the certainty.”
    She looked surprised. “Surely no one would be willing to face ten or fifteen years in prison, no matter how much money was involved?” she said with open disbelief. “In some of the prisons we have they might not even survive it! What use is money then?”
    “It doesn’t matter what the sentence is, if they are not caught,” he explained. “And they all think they will be the one to get away with it. But if you know you will be caught, then even one year is too much.”
    “We need a rather better police force for that,” York pointed out with a bleak smile.
    Rathbone’s instinct was to defend the police, but he