William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

newspapers, they would want to hear the words, see the faces, and taste the emotions of it.
    Rathbone walked briskly along Ludgate Hill toward St. Paul’s, passing in the shadow of the great cathedral and into Cannon Street before hailing a hansom and giving the driver his home address.
    He sat back inside, and even before the driver had turned westward he was lost in thought.
    Was it justice? If so, what had been the price?

CHAPTER
7
    R ATHBONE DID NOT SLEEP well but was at last resting dreamlessly when his valet woke him. He was startled to see the warm sunlight through the gap in the curtains. He sat up slowly, his head heavy.
    “Damn!” he said miserably. “What time is it, Dover? Am I late?”
    “No, sir.” Dover’s face was very grave. “It is still quite early.”
    Rathbone heard the seriousness in his voice. “What is it?” he asked a little sharply. “You sound as if someone had died.” He meant it with sarcasm.
    “Yes, sir, I’m very much afraid so,” Dover replied.
    Rathbone blinked, straightening up. Then suddenly he was ice cold. His father! His chest tightened and he could not breathe. The room seemed to disappear, and all he could see was Dover’s white face. He tried to speak and no sound came.
    “The case you were presiding over, sir.” Dover’s voice came from faraway. “The man accused … a Mr. Abel Taft, I believe …” He went on speaking but Rathbone did not hear him.
    The room steadied itself, and the warmth flooded back into his body, which was tingling with life. Dover was still talking and Rathbone had not heard a word of it.
    “I beg your pardon?” he asked.
    Dover swallowed and began again. “Mr. Taft, sir. The police left a message for you. I’m afraid he has taken his own life. Shot himself. But before doing so it appears that he suffocated his wife and his two daughters. I’m very sorry, sir. It is most distressing. I thought you should know immediately. It is bound to be in at least some of the daily newspapers. I do not know what is the correct procedure in court, but no doubt there will have to be an alteration in the arrangements.”
    Rathbone swung his legs out of bed and stood up slowly, swaying for a moment before regaining his balance. “I shall shave and dress,” he said. “And consider what would be best to do. The only part of the trial remaining was the summations. His suicide would make them appear redundant … as indeed a verdict would be. Society will make its own judgment now.” He took a shaky breath. “But in God’s name, why kill his poor family?”
    “I have no idea, sir,” Dover said quietly. “It seems a very terrible thing to do. I assume the verdict would have been against him?”
    “Yes. But it was only for fraud, not murder. He could have faced prison, but that is survivable. Difficult, unpleasant, but far from a death sentence.”
    “Yes, sir. Would you like kippers for breakfast, sir, or eggs?”
    Rathbone felt his stomach clench.
    “Just toast, thank you,” he replied.
    “It may be a difficult day, sir. It is better not to face it on an empty stomach.”
    Rathbone looked at him and saw the concern in his face. He was doing his job.
    “You are quite right. Scrambled eggs, please.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Half an hour later Rathbone sat at the dining-room table. The scrambled eggs had been excellent, the tea was hot and fresh and the toast crisp, the marmalade just as sharp as he liked it. But all he could think of was Abel Taft shooting himself. Why? Was the disgrace really more than he could bear? Could he not face his wife and daughters’ disillusionment in him?
    Or was it his own disillusion in Robertson Drew? Had he really trusted him and had no idea of the man’s secret indulgences? Could he have known of them, and perhaps believed that Drew had repented and changed? Did something of his own value depend on his ability to bring others to redemption?
    No, that was a foolish thought. Taft was charged with fraud, with taking money given for a specific purpose and diverting it to his own use. Squeaky Robinson had found ample proof of his guilt. This had nothing to do with Drew’s proclivities.
    Maybe his death had been an act of momentary despair, perhaps after a heavy night of drinking, an indulgence he might well not be used to. But to kill his wife and children as well!
    Had Rathbone driven him to that? Was this his fault?
    No! He had driven himself to it, first by fraud, then by believing in a man like Drew, and