William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

changed to something close to hatred. Hester felt a desire to protect Rathbone because she had not been able to give him the kind of love he wished from her. The knowledge of that sometimes twisted inside Monk, yet had she been able to remain unmoved, he would not have loved her as completely as he did.
    “All right, not Gavinton,” he conceded. “Too ambitious to do something so self-destructive. That brings us back to Warne, who we know now hasn’t been arrested along with Rathbone.”
    “I expect he’ll be censured, won’t he?” she asked.
    “Probably. Even if they don’t particularly want to, they’ll have to, since they are charging Rathbone,” he agreed. “But it might be more nominal than actual.”
    “Do you really think it could be Warne who told them Oliver gave him the photograph?” she persisted. There was a look of intense distaste in her face, and an unhappiness, as if she had liked Warne and this possibility hurt her.
    “Rathbone said he’d taken precautions against that,” Monk told her. “He retained Warne as his counsel, just for that purpose, whether to protect himself or to protect Warne, I don’t know. Maybe both.”
    She changed the subject, as they were getting nowhere. “Has Oliver seen his father yet?”
    “Yes. And so should we.”
    She winced. “He’s so hurt,” she said quietly.
    “I know, but it’ll be worse if we don’t,” he answered. “Perhaps we should go now.”
    “It’s late,” she protested. “We can’t leave Scuff alone.”
    “Hester, he’s thirteen. He’s lived alone on the dockside, sleeping in crates and under boxes and old newspapers. Nothing’s going to happen to him if we’re gone for a few hours while he’s in his own bed.”
    She stood up. “I’ll go and tell him we’ll be back when we’ve seen Henry Rathbone.”
    “You’d better add that you’ll have his hide if he goes into the pantry!” he called after her.
    T HEY FOUND H ENRY R ATHBONE alone and deep in thought. He was delighted to see them and welcomed them in. Of course, he had already seen Hester once, when she told him of the situation and Oliver’s arrest.
    “You are probably the only people I am actually pleased to see,” he said ruefully, after he had taken them into the sitting room. “Would you like tea?” It was an automatic gesture, something one did for any guest. “No doubt you have come about Oliver. I have engaged a lawyer to represent him. Rufus Brancaster. I don’t know if you are familiar with his name?”
    “No,” Monk said. Then he hesitated. “But if you have confidence in him, and he is willing to take the case, then that’s a good start.”
    Hester winced and looked down but could not hide the pain in her face.
    “What is it you know and are finding so difficult to say to me? Is Oliver guilty?” Henry asked gently.
    “No, that isn’t it,” Hester said quietly.
    “My dear, there are times when it is kinder to avoid the unpleasant truths, or err on the side of more generous judgments. This is not one of them.”
    He turned to Monk. “If this is not about Oliver, then is it something about Brancaster that troubles you?”
    Monk had intended to approach things less abruptly, but looking into Henry Rathbone’s clear blue eyes the prevarication died on his tongue.
    “I’m—we’re—afraid he might be one of the men in the collection of photographs Oliver still has,” he admitted. “Or who might fear he is. We have realized that plenty of people may be candidates; they might be unsure if their photograph is actually in Oliver’s possession, and be driven mad by the doubt. If Brancaster is among them, then—”
    “I see,” Henry interrupted him. “I think it is highly unlikely, but I presume that if such men were obvious when one meets them, there would be little secret and little point in blackmail. Perhaps we had better find out for certain. Where are these pictures?”
    “I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “I thought you might.”
    “Oliver would not have wished to involve me,” Henry told him. He gave a very slight shrug. “And I dare say he was not overly proud of possessing them, even though he came to do so by means beyond control. Still, he chose not to destroy them.”
    “It is hard to lay aside that much power,” Monk said ruefully. “It could be used for great good. That is apparently how Ballinger started out.”
    “I don’t know whether I would have destroyed them,” Hester surprisedthem by