William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

they were perfectly clean, then changed his mind and went out. He knew a hint now when he heard one.
    “I know,” Monk said as soon as the door closed behind Scuff and they heard his footsteps along the corridor.
    “How is he really?” she asked.
    “Scared stiff, I think.”
    “Good. Then he’s facing reality. We’ve got to save him, William. What he did might legally be a bit questionable—”
    “A bit questionable!” he said incredulously.
    “But morally it was the right thing, just not the right way,” she went on, ignoring his interruption. “Betraying people’s faith is a terrible sin.”
    “I know,” he agreed. “But all most people are seeing is that Taft killed himself because of what happened in the courtroom and, far worse than that, killed his wife and his two daughters, who were little more than children. The law is blaming Rathbone for doing something wrong, and they see that as being the cause of three senseless deaths, even if indirectly. Nobody else knows what was actually in the photographs. They might assume it was Taft himself and that the fear of Rathbone revealing him drove him insane.”
    “If he was in one of them, he could have killed his family because he couldn’t bear them knowing, possibly even seeing it. It would be understandable, in a twisted, terrible way.”
    “If a man would do something he’d rather die over than have people know, or kill his family over rather than have them know about it, how the hell is that the judge’s fault?” Monk demanded. “I presume Rathbone’s father will get him the best lawyer he can find. Rathbone must be able to afford anyone he wants.”
    “As long as the best he can find isn’t in one of those photographs,” she said grimly. “I wonder if he looked at all of them. Has he? Did you ask?”
    At that moment Scuff came noisily down the passage and opened the door. Monk caught Hester’s twisted smile just as Scuff inquired if it was hot bubble and squeak they were having for dinner with the mutton, and if there were onions in it.
    T HEY RESUMED THEIR DISCUSSION a couple of hours later when Scuff had gone to bed and they were alone in the sitting room. Monk leaned forward to speak, just as Hester began. She stopped immediately.
    He gave a slight shrug. “It is bad, Hester,” he said gravely. “We don’t know for sure who Rathbone’s enemies are, or what power they hold.”
    “So are we going to have to look at the rest of the pictures and see who we can name?” Her features were puckered with distaste. “William, we have to know who is against him. It’s too late to be delicate about it.”
    He regarded her with the amazement that every now and then washed over him. Seeing her every day, hearing her laughter, and knowing the deep wounds where she was still vulnerable, the things she lay awake and feared, worried about, sometimes made him forget the depth of the strength inside her. He forgot the courage that never backed down or gave in.
    She misunderstood. “It’s much too late for delicacy,” she repeated. “If we don’t do something, Oliver could end up on trial before a judgewho hates him, or even, without knowing it, have a lawyer who’s connected to someone in that wretched collection. I’d hate to look at them, but I will—”
    “You won’t!” he said before she could finish her sentence.
    She smiled for a moment with genuine amusement, almost laughter, and he thought at least in part that it was his leap to protect her that caused it. He felt a very faint warmth creeping up his cheeks, but he refused to acknowledge it.
    She changed the subject. “William, someone lodged this complaint against Oliver. It might be Gavinton, because he lost, but I don’t think so. Even if Oliver were convicted, that wouldn’t win any vindication for Drew, or for Taft. Taft took his own life, maybe because he was sure he was going to be found guilty—but he
was
guilty; nothing that happened to Oliver was going to change that. And whether Taft cheated people or not, he actually killed his wife and daughters. That’s a triple murder and suicide. It makes defrauding a handful of parishioners rather pale in comparison.”
    Monk knew Hester cared about saving Rathbone, possibly even more than he did. Rathbone had been in love with her once and had perhaps never completely gotten over it, in spite of loving Margaret in a safer, gentler way. That was a tragedy that was only going to get worse, since Margaret’s love had