William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

alone. As long as Hester was alive he never would be. And if there were a time after that, then the memory of her would sustain him and drive him to be all that he could, all that she had believed of him, even as he would hurt from missing her.
    Henry moved a little and the book slipped out of his grasp. Its fallto the ground woke him up. He reached for it and saw Oliver sitting a few feet away. For an instant he was startled; then his face broke into a smile of pleasure.
    “Didn’t hear you,” he apologized. “Have you been here long? How about a cup of tea? Can you stay for that?” He climbed slowly to his feet, took a moment to adjust his balance, and waited.
    Oliver rose also. “I had intended to stay all evening,” he replied. “I’ve brought some pâté and a plum pie, hoping you’d provide the rest.”
    “Excellent.” Henry started to walk back to the house, going in at the garden door. “Plenty of crusty bread and butter and a little French cheese. I’m not sure about any cream for the pie …”
    “I brought some.” Oliver followed him in through the door and closed it behind him, turning the key, just in case they forgot later.
    “Tea and fruitcake now?” Henry offered. “Or some Madeira cake, if you prefer? I’ve got a nice new little seascape I must show you.” He picked up an art folder of heavy cardboard and unfastened the ties. He laid it flat on the table and lifted the cover. “It’s only amateur, but it’s really very pleasing. Found it in an antique shop the other day.”
    The painting was small, as he had said, but the colors were beautiful. The artist had used the paper in true watercolor style, allowing it to show through and give the whole picture light. The wind-whipped sea seemed almost luminous.
    Oliver wanted to ask Henry his opinion about Ballinger’s photographs, and if he should destroy them. Or if perhaps the information they held was too valuable to be allowed to disappear. Once obliterated, their power could never be used for evil or for good. There was also the question of whether one should destroy evidence of a crime, which the photographs most certainly were. It was hard to find the words to sort through the tangled situation.
    “It’s quite lovely,” he said instead, looking at the little painting. “I think he could well become professional, don’t you?”
    Henry smiled. “Actually it’s a ‘she,’ so I doubt it. But I’m delighted you like it. I’ll have it framed, I think. Now, what kind of cake would you like with tea?”
    “Fruitcake, thank you,” Oliver replied, knowing it was also Henry’s favorite.
    Henry looked up and caught Oliver’s troubled face. “What is it?”
    “Ballinger’s photographs,” Oliver replied. “I … I’m still undecided whether I should destroy them or not.”
    Henry thought for a few minutes before speaking.
    Oliver waited.
    “I presume you have weighed the arguments on either side, and reached no conclusion,” he said finally.
    “I’m not sure that it’s quite that simple,” Oliver answered frankly. “To destroy them would be irrevocable. I suppose I’m reluctant to do that. What if a situation arises where, with them, I could right a great wrong, but I had thrown that opportunity away because I was too cowardly to deal with the responsibility of keeping them? I would have to face the fact that I destroyed a precious means of helping make a difference. Ballinger himself first used them to save countless lives after all.”
    There was no joy in Henry’s face, no light of agreement.
    “To begin with, yes,” he said. “But I think it’s more important to remember where he ended up.”
    “Are you saying I should destroy them?” Oliver asked.
    Henry regarded him slightly critically. “No, I’m not. It is too big a decision for you to allow anyone else to make for you. You are dealing with an immense power. Be very careful.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Whatever you do there is a terrible risk. That is no doubt what Ballinger intended.” He smiled bleakly; then his face lifted with gentleness. “I’m sorry.”

CHAPTER
3
    T HE SUMMER WEATHER WAS beautiful. Rathbone stood by the window in his chambers and watched the traffic pass below him. The sun glinted on harnesses and the shining coats of the horses as a brougham went by, coachman sitting upright. In the carriage two ladies held colored parasols, the frilled edges fluttering in the breeze.
    There was a brief