William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

come out of some kind of loyalty, a remnant of the closeness they had once had? He had thought they had loved each other, but the first real test in their marriage had ripped them apart.
    If the tragedy of Ballinger had not happened, would they have lived out the rest of their lives imagining they were happy, never enjoying anything deeper than superficial affection?
    Ardmore was still waiting.
    “Please ask her to come in,” Rathbone replied. “And … and ask her what she would like as refreshment.”
    “Yes, sir.” Ardmore bowed, still expressionless, and went out.
    A moment later Margaret came in. She was still dressed in black, with only the relief of a pale fichu at the neck and a cameo brooch. He remembered her telling him that it had been a gift from her father for her eighteenth birthday. She looked like a grieving widow. It was irrelevant, but he wondered if she wore black all the time, or if this was to make the point to him that she still felt totally bereaved, of husband as well as father.
    She looked as handsome as he had ever seen her. There was fire in her blue eyes and a faint flush to her skin.
    “Good evening, Oliver,” she said, stopping a good yard and a half away from him. “I suppose it would be foolish to say that I hope you are well, and I think we are long beyond the point where politeness would be anything less than a farce. You can’t be well, in the circumstances. Prison is extremely unpleasant, as it is intended to be.” She raised her delicate eyebrows slightly. “Not that you have acquired a prison pallor yet. I imagine it will come, when they have found you guilty. From the advice I have received, that seems to be inevitable.”
    He was surprised by this remark. “You sought advice on the subject? From whom?”
    “My lawyer, of course. To whom else would I take such a matter?”
    “I don’t know why you should take it to anyone.” His mind raced, trying to think why she had come at all. There was nothing gentle in her, nothing anxious or concerned. It seemed impossible that they had once made love, lain in each other’s arms.
    She stood ramrod stiff, her shoulders square, her chin high. He looked at her. At first glance, he thought anger became her. It gave her a vitality, even a passion she did not normally have. Only when he looked more closely did he see a hardness in her, an absence of the warmth he used to see. There was a probing edge to her gaze, a searching for the place most vulnerable to drive the blade home.
    He waited for her to explain her purpose.
    “It will be a very public trial,” she went on. “Just as my father’s trial was. Perhaps even more so. It is spectacular, as justice goes, that a judge should answer for himself in court. An irony, don’t you think?” She did not wait for his answer. “What you are accused of is despicable because apart from anything else, it is a betrayal of the profession that has given you all you have … in fact, all that you are. If we cannot trust judges, then what is the law itself worth? You have damaged anyone who ever trusted you.”
    He drew in his breath to try to explain, but the fury in her eyes made him realize the futility of that. The hope that she might have come in any manner of kindness faded away. He was foolish to have entertained it in the first place. The whole world had altered for him, erupted and caved in on itself. How he must be an embarrassment to her, even an encumbrance.
    When Ballinger had been tried her world had been destroyed. Rathbone’s had not. It had hurt, certainly. He had been confused, desperate to find some defense for him, torn between loyalty to Margaret and loyalty to his own duty and beliefs. When it all ended he had been left with a sense of loss, but he was still whole. It was she who had suffered a permanent injury.
    Now the tables were turned. This time she would lose very little,actually perhaps nothing at all. He was legally bound to look after her financially, and he would have done it whether the law required it of him or not. But she would not accept anything from him. She would rather live in near poverty with her mother than take his money. If he were sent to prison and therefore had nothing, she would not lose.
    Then why had she come? Not to assuage his anxiety for her, but to rejoice in his downfall.
    Margaret was regarding him now with contempt, waiting for him to find his tongue.
    “Nothing to say, Oliver?” she asked finally. “Did you not know