William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

knock on the door. As he turned to respond, the door opened and his clerk came in, his face somber.
    “Yes, Patmore?” Rathbone said, curious. Usually Patmore would begin to speak as soon as he had closed the door. Obviously this was a matter of some gravity.
    “There is a new case added to your docket, Sir Oliver,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “I think you might like some warning before it actually comes to court.”
    Rathbone was intrigued already. “Scandal?” he asked. “Something we need to handle delicately?” He was used to such things.
    “Yes, sir, but not in the usual way,” Patmore replied. “It’s … it’s really very nasty.”
    “Things usually are if they find their way to the Old Bailey,” Rathbone observed a little drily. “Murder?”
    “No, sir. As far as I know, nobody was physically harmed. It’s all quite literally about money.”
    Rathbone almost lost interest immediately. Greed was one of the most boring motives for breaking the law. “Then why do you think I ought to be warned before I consider it more seriously?” he asked.
    “You might wish to find a way to pass it on to someone else, sir,” Patmore replied, explaining it as if to someone slow of understanding. “I think it will get very ugly, and whatever the verdict, it will offend people we would prefer not to.”
    Rathbone’s attention was fully engaged now. He recalled the conversation at Ingram York’s dinner table. “What on earth is so sensational in a case of greed?” He said carefully, not wanting to assume the case was anything too extraordinary. “We see them every day.”
    “Not when the accused is a churchman and the victim is apparently his flock, sir.”
    Patmore had a sense of irony that had not escaped Rathbone, but he was still far from used to it.
    “I see.” Rathbone exhaled slowly.
    “It will be unpleasant and require a great deal of tact,” Patmore continued. “I rather fancy you have been handed it because everyone else would prefer to watch from the sidelines, preferably far enough away for flying mud not to attach itself to them.”
    “If anyone can counsel you to curb your opinions, Patmore, you might consider it seriously, for your own survival—but please never do it for mine. I should miss your frankness. Now tell me more specifically what the accusation is against this churchman.”
    Patmore inclined his head, by way of accepting what he took to be a compliment, as indeed it was. “Mr. Abel Taft has been accused of defrauding his congregation out of several thousands of pounds, sir,” heanswered. “In fact, the amount named would be sufficient to buy a row of quite respectable houses. Half a street of them.”
    “Several thousands?” Rathbone said in disbelief. “How on earth could he swindle his congregation out of so much without their knowledge? And where on earth is his church that his parishioners had that much to give?” He was quite certain now that this was the case that York had mentioned.
    “That is rather the issue, sir,” Patmore remarked. “It has been given, allegedly, by ordinary men and women, out of their savings, in the belief that it was going to the starving and the homeless.”
    “And it was not?” Rathbone felt his anger rising.
    “Allegedly not, sir. Rather more than stated was going to a very nice savings account, not to mention a high standard of living for Mr. Taft himself, and of course his young and very appealing family.”
    “I begin to see what you mean about the possibility of this getting ugly,” Rathbone conceded. “We had better ensure that the evidence is more than good and that both lawyers know what they are doing. Mr. Taft is represented, isn’t he?”
    “Oh, yes, sir. By Mr. Blair Gavinton. Having him appear in your court will be quite an experience for you.”
    “I don’t like the way you say that, Patmore.”
    “I could say it a lot worse, sir, I promise you.”
    “Exactly what is wrong with Mr. Gavinton?”
    “Greasy, sir. There’s just something about him, but the minute you put your finger on it, it slips away.”
    “Indeed. And what do you know about Mr. Abel Taft? I’ve never heard of him.”
    “Does very well, sir,” Patmore replied, all expression very carefully ironed out of his voice. “I’ve taken the liberty of looking him up. He has a nice house, very handsome wife, two young daughters just about the right age to be looking for husbands. Dresses very well, does Mr. Taft, at