William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

afraid I need to speak to Mr. Warne tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.”
    The footman took the card and backed away slightly, pulling the door wider open.
    “If you will come this way, sir, I shall inform Mr. Warne that you are here.”
    Rathbone thanked him and waited in the morning room as requested. It was very pleasant, full of bookcases and one or two glazed cupboards with various ornaments, but he was too restless to take any notice of them. He paced the floor, acutely aware that even now he could change his mind. He could apologize to Warne for disturbing him and say that he had reconsidered his action. He would go home again, looking like a fool, but nothing irrevocable would have been done.
    Except that that was not true. He would not be able to live with himself if he did nothing. And this was his doing—to say that he was passing the final judgment over to Warne was a coward’s lie.
    He heard footsteps across the hallway, and the door opened. Warne came in. He looked weary and confused. His dark hair was tousled, as if he had repeatedly run his fingers through it; his face was gaunt. Now he looked anxiously at Rathbone.
    “Has something happened?” he asked, closing the door behind him. He searched Rathbone’s eyes and clearly found no comfort in them.
    Rathbone had tried to decide how to approach the subject, had searched for any way at all to make it less repellent and found none. For a moment his mouth was dry, and he had to swallow and clear his throat.
    “I have been struggling with a choice,” he said, hearing the awkwardnessin his voice. “I had a strong feeling that I had seen Robertson Drew somewhere before. I have now remembered where, and the circumstances. It is not that I saw him in the flesh, but in a photograph.” He was speaking too quickly, but he could not help it. “I would prefer not to tell you how I came into possession of the photograph, but I will if you judge it necessary. It was to do with a particularly repulsive case, one that I wish I could forget, but for various reasons I cannot.”
    Warne looked unhappy and completely at a loss to understand.
    They stood facing each other in the quiet room, no sound but a faint whisper of wind in the leaves outside and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
    Rathbone felt ridiculous. He was making this even more unpleasant than it had to be by being less than honest.
    “I’m sorry,” Rathbone said. “The photograph is for you to do with as you think fit. You may need some time to decide, which is why I felt it necessary to disturb you with it tonight. I’m sorry. I debated whether to come to you at all, or if I should take the decision out of your hands by not showing it to you, but it has a strong bearing on the value of the evidence in the case against Taft, and I believe the decision must be yours.”
    “I don’t understand.” Warne looked deeply unhappy. “What decision? What is this photograph? Is it of Taft? Who took it?”
    Rathbone was bitterly aware that he was about to increase Warne’s unhappiness a hundredfold.
    “Before I pass it to you I would like to retain your services as my legal counsel,” Rathbone said. How ridiculous the words sounded, in the circumstances, and yet it was critical that he pursue this course of action. “It is to protect you, as well as me,” he added.
    Warne stared at him, uncomprehending.
    Rathbone reached into his pocket and pulled out five guinea coins. “Please?”
    Warne nodded, his eyes never leaving Rathbone’s face, but he took the coins and set them on the table.
    “I now represent you legally.”
    Rathbone held out the brown envelope.
    Warne took it and after a moment’s hesitation, opened the flap and picked out the stiff paper of the photograph. He stared at it, blinked, then his face reflected vividly the wave of revulsion that must’ve welled up inside him. His paramount emotion seemed to be acute distress.
    Rathbone wished he had not made this choice. He had done the wrong thing, and it was too late to take it back. Now he was as chilled as if his heart had stopped pumping blood around his body.
    Warne looked up at him, his eyes unreadable.
    “Where in God’s name did you get this? Did someone send it to you?”
    There was no possible way out of this. He must plunge through it—with the truth.
    “My father-in-law owned these photographs, about fifty of them. He was convicted of murder and sentenced to hang. I defended him, partly because of family