William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

to see fair play, to impose the rules of the law, not to decide yourself what is true and what is not.”
    “I know.”
    And he did know. But that was not a sufficient answer, as Monk would tell him. He was dealing with human beings, emotional, erratic, desperately vulnerable. The law was there to punish the offender, but even more than that, to protect the weak, those unable to protect themselves.
    That was what the photographs could achieve: give the weak, the helpless in this case, a weapon they could use. Which would he regret the more, the broken promise not to use the photographs again, or the safe cowardice of doing nothing, just watching these people broken, humiliated, losing yet again?
    He stood by the window in the withdrawing room and watched the dusk falling. The shadows crept across the grass. The purple asters would be out soon, another month or so. Early this year. No leaves were turning yet, but it would not be long. After that the first plums would be ripe …
    But he must answer his own question tonight: a broken promise, or the cowardice of not intervening when the power to do so was in his hands? Would he forgive himself for that, when Taft and Drew were found “not guilty,” free to walk away, smirking, and begin again?
    He had deliberately chosen to stand here rather than in his study. He no longer found pleasure in this room, for all its beauty, and yet in his inner turmoil it seemed the right place to be.
    If Ballinger had never been discovered in his violence or obscenity, would Rathbone’s marriage to Margaret have grown richer and deeper? Would they even have loved each other with the passion and tenderness, the depth of friendship, that he believed Hester and Monk did? What is love worth if the first cold wind shrivels it up?
    Who was he now, with no ties, no considerations to limit him or spur him on? He must decide whether to use the photograph of Drew to condemn him and thus prevent him from destroying the witnesses against Taft; whether to ruin Taft so he could not go on, stronger andmore powerful, richer in his confidence to deceive and defraud others—to take advantage of their faith and then destroy it. At this moment, as the light faded from the evening sky, it was that destruction of faith Rathbone found to be the greatest sin.
    Yes, he would use the photograph. He would send it to Warne. It might bring either good or evil. Warne might use it or he might not. But if Rathbone did not give him the chance, then Taft would win, and whatever he did from then on, Rathbone would always know that he could have prevented it.
    He must take it to Warne himself, tonight.
    He went into his study and closed and locked the door. Then he got the key out and opened the safe. His hands trembled as he set the box on the floor and tried to open it. Twice he missed the keyhole. The third time the key slid in easily, and he opened the lid.
    It did not take him long to slip the picture into an unmarked envelope. It was extraordinary that such important consequences could spring from such a small action.
    He closed the box, locked it, and replaced it in the safe. It was as if nothing had ever happened. Except—he could feel the envelope acutely, resting in his inside pocket.
    It was a strange journey. He sat in the cab, which rolled smoothly along the quiet street, as if he were going to visit a friend. The trees were in full leaf. Flowers filled the gardens, and he could imagine their perfume. He saw an elderly couple walking together. The man turned to the woman and laughed. He put an arm around her. Rathbone noticed that she wore a pink dress.
    He alighted and paid the driver when he reached the corner of the street in which Warne lived. He dismissed the cab. He would walk back to the main road when he was ready.
    It was late, and he was quite aware that he would be disturbing Warne, but having made the decision he would carry it through. Inconvenience was trivial compared with the issues at stake.
    Of course, he would retain Warne’s professional services so that the information was at least privileged, and Warne would not be obliged totell anyone where he obtained the photograph. That was an obvious precaution. He had brought money for that purpose.
    A startled footman appeared at the door. Rathbone already had his card in his hand.
    “My name is Oliver Rathbone. I am the judge presiding in the case Mr. Warne is currently presenting in court. I’m sorry to intrude at this hour, but I am