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“I have no intention of making a fuss,” he said more tartly than he had intended to. “I have not perverted the course of justice. On the contrary, I have done all I can to see that justice prevails.”
Haverstock did not yield an inch.
“Nevertheless, sir, I am arresting you on that charge as I have been instructed, and you will come with us to the police station. You will be formally arraigned later in the day. Is there anyone you would like to inform? Perhaps you would like to give instruction to your own counsel, whoever he is.”
“No, thank you,” Rathbone snapped. “I think that this will be cleared up and apologized for within a very short while. I am due to preside over the unfortunate end of what will inevitably be a mistrial at the Old Bailey this morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Haverstock agreed without the slightest change of expression. “I imagine they will call on someone else to do that. Now, if you will come with us, sir …” It was a command, and Rathbone had no choice but to obey, one police officer on either side of him, like any other prisoner.
Later that afternoon, shocked and still in a daze, Rathbone rode through the streets toward the magistrate’s court, thank heaven in an ordinary cab, but sitting with Haverstock to one side of him and the younger man on the other, all of them squashed together uncomfortably. It was like a bad dream, full of confusion. What exactly had happened? They could only be referring to the photograph. There was nothing else. But how did they know Rathbone had had anything to do with it? At least in theory, it could have come from anywhere.
Warne could not have told anyone where he got it. He had received it under privilege. Rathbone had done that as much to protect Warne as to safeguard himself.
Who else knew Rathbone had them? Only Monk, Hester, and Henry Rathbone. None of them would have told anyone. What had happened? He could hear the rattle of the wheels over the cobbles, the clatter of the horses’ hoofs, shouts of other drivers, the general noise of the streets, and none of it seemed real. No one in the cab spoke.
When they reached the building, he was taken in through a back door. There were a few people standing around, even at this hour. A man in ragged clothes leaned against a wall, obviously much the worse for drink. As Rathbone passed close by him he could smell the stench of stale alcohol and human waste.
Inside, in the entrance hall, a woman was sitting in one of the low seats, leaning forward. Her neckline was so deep half her bosom showed. Her occupation was not difficult to guess. A youth with a pinched face was staring at her, but she did not appear to be aware of him. Perhaps she was used to being gawped at by men.
Haverstock guided Rathbone toward a constable on duty beside the door into the courtroom and spoke to him briefly. The constable nodded, avoiding Rathbone’s eyes. He was clearly embarrassed. He listened, nodded again, and went inside. He was gone several minutes and they waited in silence for him.
Rathbone felt panic well up inside him. This was real. He was not going to wake up in his own bed, covered in sweat and gasping with relief. He had no idea when he was ever going to see his own house again. Now all the things in it that reminded him of Margaret, of loneliness and failure, seemed infinitely sweet by comparison, with this bare, stifling corridor filled with the smell of dirt and sweat.
But that was ridiculous! What he had done was within the law. He had had information relevant to a case and he had handed it to the prosecution for them to use as they thought fit. He had obtained the information perfectly legally. It had been bequeathed to him. He would explain that to the magistrate. The man was probably someone he knew and would likely dismiss the charge-even apologize.
He wondered if they had arrested Warne for this also. But that seemed ridiculous; the man had obtained the photograph under privilege, and he had used it. What was he supposed to have done? Ignored it? Allow Robertson Drew to tear everyone else’s reputations apart, by implication, but preserve his own? The men he had torn down, and the woman, had done nothing illegal, but Drew had. Sodomy was a crime punishable by imprisonment, never mind the moral outrage of so using a child. Even if he was not guilty of fraud-and he may well have been-he certainly wasn’t the upstanding citizen he claimed to be.
There was no more time to think about it. The door opened in front of him again, and he was led through into the magistrates’ court. It had been years since he had had any occasion to be in one. It was very small and shabby compared with the Old Bailey. There was no open space to separate the judge from the people, no tall witness stand with curved steps up to it. The magistrate sat behind a very ordinary wooden bench.
“Oliver Rathbone,” the clerk said, reading from a piece of paper in his hand. “Charged with perverting the course of justice.”
The magistrate looked at Rathbone, then blinked and looked a good deal harder. He opened his mouth to say something and changed his mind.
Rathbone racked his memory to see if he could place the man. Did he know him? If not as a magistrate, then perhaps he knew him as a lawyer? Nothing came to him. But his mind was in chaos anyway, numb with disbelief.
“How do you plead, Mr.… Sir … Sir Oliver?” The magistrate was clearly extremely uncomfortable. He was a small man perhaps in his forties, balding early.
“Not guilty,” Rathbone replied. His voice sounded a good deal steadier than he had expected it to.
Haverstock moved his weight from one foot to the other. “We request remand in custody.”
Rathbone swiveled around to stare at him in disbelief. Custody? Jail!
The magistrate gulped, and stared at the inspector. “Are you sure? This-”
“Yes, sir.” He seemed about to add something then thought better of it.
That was it. In two or three minutes it was all over. It was embarrassing, even humiliating, yet if this nightmare went on, far worse would be to come. There was no use in Rathbone protesting his innocence. “Perverting the course of justice” was a catchall sort of charge anyway. It covered all kinds of things. That was absurd! This was just a temporary, rather ridiculous exercise in fear and public shame. It was a revenge, but not by Taft. He was dead.
Again Rathbone wondered why on earth the man had killed himself. A verdict of guilty would have been the end of his ministry, but not of his life. And why in God’s name would he harm his wife and children? Had he gone completely insane?
> Clearly the answer to that was that yes, he had, tragically so. But was his suicide an admission of guilt? Or was it only defeat, despair, the conviction that there was no justice? Did a man kill himself for that? Yes, possibly. But to first murder his wife and children? Perhaps he believed he was so vital to them that they would not survive without him and saw it as a favor.
Was he in some way responsible for that? No; most criminals had some innocent person who depended on them. That wasn’t reason enough to let them go. And what of those who were dependent upon the victim?
Haverstock cleared his throat, and Rathbone realized it had all been finished, decided. He was ushered outside and walked between the two policemen the short distance along the pavement and into the waiting cab.
The jail where he was to be held until trial was a continuation of the nightmare, which was growing stronger as the numbing effect of shock wore off. Once inside the doors his manacles were removed and he stood dazed, rubbing his wrists while he was very briefly informed of what would happen to him. He heard only half of it: it amounted to little more than indistinguishable sounds washing around him. He was more aware of the smell, thick and stale, filling his nostrils. It grew so powerful it churned his stomach, closing in on him even more than the walls.
