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He was searched, and his personal belongings were taken away except for his handkerchief. The items were all recorded carefully by a constable with copperplate handwriting: fountain pen, card case, notebook, small comb, wallet containing money. His money had been meticulously counted and came to a lot: four pounds, eight shillings, and seven pence halfpenny, as much as some people earned in a month. They searched again to make sure that was all he had. Some people carried more things in their pockets, he supposed. He thought better of telling them that gentlemen did not; it spoiled the line of a well-tailored jacket.
Then he was put in a barred cell. Perhaps he should count himself fortunate that he was alone, even though he was clearly visible to the inmates of the cells opposite him. There was no privacy. Perhaps even this much safety might not last if the prison became busy and they had to put someone else in with him.
The other men were staring at him now, curious, interested. He was different from them; everything about him said so, from his carefully barber-cut hair to his white shirt with its starched collar, from his Savile Row suit to his well-polished fine kid boots. Even his hands betrayed him: clean and soft compared to those of a laborer, with no ingrained dirt around his nails.
Even without these features, as soon as he spoke his pronunciation and his choice of words would give him away. He wondered how long it would be before he was recognized as a judge, a natural enemy-in fact the worst one: the man who actually sentenced the convicted to prison or to death.
In truth he had never sentenced a man to death. He had been a judge for only a short time, less than a year. He had been a lawyer all his adult life, both prosecuting and defending. He had won far more of his cases than he had lost. Perhaps he would soon find himself pleading his own defense in front of other prisoners hungry for the only revenge they could see against the relentless machinery of the law, which was usually beyond their reach.
Of course he had been inside prison before. He had visited lots of men, and women, accused of all sorts of crimes. Latterly they had been largely serious crimes: rape, treason, murder. Everyone had known that one did not hire Oliver Rathbone for a mere robbery.
How long would it be before someone knew, and then everyone did? He realized for the first time that he was not only humiliated, he was physically afraid of being alone among the other prisoners. Surely it would not be long before he was able to get help and this ridiculous situation would be over.
But what if the situation was never over and he was here for years? What could he have missed that had landed him here? The photographs were his. Goddamn Ballinger, he had left them to Rathbone in his will, there was proof of that at least. Ballinger had not stolen them from anyone, so his possession of them was also aboveboard, however disgraceful his intentions had been.
Of course they might have been considered seriously pornographic, if sold, or even publicly displayed. But he had not been accused of possessing pornography. Was that yet to come? The thought made his whole body flush with heat, followed by a chill that left the sweat on his skin like ice. He would be more ashamed of that than of an accusation such as theft or even physical violence. It was obscene, unbearably shameful.
Perhaps if it had been Drew who had taken his own life, Rathbone could have understood his actions. Or might Taft be in one of the photographs as well, and Rathbone had simply not remembered it? He had looked at them only once when he first received them. The sight revolted him to nausea. What if that was why Taft had taken his own life? He might’ve thought that if Warne had the pictures of Drew he might have others. Even so, why kill his wife and daughters? With him dead no one would have reason to expose the picture.
Could someone see his actions as coercion? He had given the picture to Warne without telling him what to do with it. He had left it up to him what to decide. Or had Warne felt the pressure implicit? Rathbone was a judge, and as such, a man of unique power and responsibility. Is that how the police would see it? Could it be Warne who had spoken to them?
Hardly. Warne had received the photograph under privilege, and he had used it. That made him as guilty as Rathbone, morally if not legally.
But it was the law they were concerned with.
Gavinton? It made the most sense-except he could not know that it was Rathbone who had given the picture to Warne. Deduction! From the story Hester had told, it was not a great leap of reasoning. It was no secret that Rathbone had not only been the lawyer to represent Ballinger when he came to trial, he had been his son-in-law. Yes, that made sense.
But what else could he have done once he remembered that he had seen Robertson Drew in the photograph? Silence was unacceptable. Should he have recused himself?
Of course he should’ve. As soon as he recognized Drew. But that would have taken from him the power to … what? The power to make certain that justice was done?
How monstrously arrogant! As if he thought nobody else was capable enough, or honorable enough, to do that. Hundreds of people were! It was terrible, and ridiculous to suggest otherwise.
Legally, he should have recused himself. He was caught-guilty.
“Eh! Mr. Fancypants!” one of the prisoners in a cell opposite yelled out. “Wot are you doin’ in ’ere wi’ the likes of us, then? Pick someone’s pocket, did yer?”
There was laughter from beside the taunter, although Rathbone could not see the other occupants of the cell.
Rathbone smiled bitterly. “Sir Fancypants to you,” he corrected with a twisted smile.
There was another guffaw of laughter.
“We got a right comic ’ere!” the prisoner opposite told his fellows. He made an elaborate bow, sweeping his arm up in the air before bending low. “We’re goin’ ter ’ave some proper entertainment, fellers. Something ter keep us from dyin’ o’ boredom in the long days. Eh! Fancypants! Can yer dance, then? Or sing, mebbe?”
“No,” Rathbone told him. “Can you?”
“We can teach yer,” the man replied. “Can’t we, fellers? Teach yer ter sing real ’igh. And mebbe dance real fast too, an’ light on yer feet, if yer try.”
This was met by an even more raucous bellow of laughter.
Rathbone wanted to reply with something witty and brave, but his mouth was suddenly dry as dust. He knew what they meant by “sing” and “dance.” He had not realized before how afraid he was of physical pain. Would he even survive this?
But it wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. At worst he was guilty of misjudgment, not a crime. He would pay whatever fine was necessary, sell the house. It was no real asset to him now, without Margaret, and there wouldn’t be any family to need it.
If he were found guilty of this, his career was finished anyway. That was a new thought. Even if he survived prison and came out alive and whole-no broken arms or legs, no knives in the back or other injuries of prison violence, no disease-his life would be irrevocably different.
“Hey! Fancypants! Gone deaf, ’ave yer? Too good ter speak to the likes of us, then?” The voice was jeering now, on the edge of anger.
