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“As judge?”
“Yes. Which would mean abandoning the whole trial and starting again.”
“But they might not even have prosecuted a second time!” she had protested.
“I know. That’s probably why Rathbone didn’t do it, knowing him.”
“What will happen to him?”
“I expect they’ll try him. I didn’t get the chance to ask much more than that. I asked what he needed-”
“He needs a lawyer! Someone to help …”
“He said he wanted a clean shirt and personal linen,” Monk then replied grimly.
Once he had put on dry, clean clothes himself and was seated in the warmth of the sitting room, Monk felt a great deal more comfortable, but only marginally happier. Hester had just told him about her conversation with Scuff.
“What are we going to do?” she asked. “Surely all Oliver did was to nudge justice back into the right path? After all, if Drew was in one of these photographs, then he was hardly the upstanding churchman he pretended. The jury needs to know that!”
She saw the flash of humor across Monk’s face, lighting his eyes for a moment out of their somber mood. “I don’t think the law sees a difference between perversion and a nudge into the right path … as you perceive it,” he observed.
She was stung, for all the gentleness in his voice. “You mean you think he’s guilty?” she challenged. This was going to be even worse than she expected.
“I don’t know. And if you’re honest, neither do you.” He smiled, but there was pain in it. “I might have done the same thing myself. I don’t know. We never do until we’re tested. But that doesn’t make it right, either morally or legally. I’ve tripped over my own pride before now.”
She ignored the mention of pride. She knew what he meant about Rathbone, and about himself. “But Drew was in that picture!” she protested. “And if Taft isn’t guilty, why did he kill himself? Actually, whether he was guilty or not, why kill his family? Do you suppose he’s in one of the photographs as well? Was he afraid Warne would produce that one too?”
Monk leaned forward a little, his dark gray eyes steady on hers. “That’s a more interesting question-why did they arrest Rathbone at all? How did they even know he had anything to do with it? Rathbone said he retained Warne as his own lawyer, so Warne would be protected by privilege from telling anyone who gave him the photographs.”
Hester felt a little chill, as if there were a draft in the room. “Is it possible it was Warne who told them, anyway?” she asked. “But that doesn’t make sense. Surely if he were going to do anything it would have to have been before he used the picture, not afterward-wouldn’t it? Otherwise, wouldn’t he be equally guilty, of violating the privilege?”
“I don’t know,” Monk confessed. “Perhaps they offered him the chance to escape prosecution if he testified against Rathbone? Or they went for him in the first place, and he gave up Rathbone to save himself?”
“That’s vile!” she said with sudden fury. “What kind of a man is he if he would do that? What kind of a lawyer? Lawyers have a duty of confidentiality! They can’t just betray anyone and pretend it’s all right.” She was so angry she could barely get the words out.
“No,” he replied, but there was hesitation in his voice. “Apart from anything else, Warne would know such an act would ruin his reputation. No one who had any secrets worth a damn would employ him.”
“Everyone facing trial has secrets,” she responded. “Even if they’re innocent of the particular charge they’re facing.”
“Exactly. I can’t imagine he would risk his entire livelihood to betray Rathbone.”
“Then who was it?” she demanded. “If it wasn’t Warne, then who could it be?”
He settled a little deeper in his seat, relaxing weary muscles.
“We don’t know for certain it wasn’t Warne. But Rathbone has enemies, Hester. He’s prosecuted some very important people, people who have friends and influence. And he’s defended a few people that others would rather see executed. He’s stirred up a lot of dirt, one way or another. He’s gone where his cases led him and has not been afraid whose toes he trod on. Some of them are going to be only too happy to come out of the woodwork now and kick him while he’s down.”
Another, darker thought occurred to her. “Worse than that, William, what about the other people in the photographs? We don’t know who they are, and maybe Oliver doesn’t either, but they know. And who is to say Ballinger even had all the photographs. There may be people who think Oliver has their picture, but who don’t know for sure-I bet they’d rather see him destroyed and put away so there’s not even a chance that he’s a risk to them. London could be seething with enemies he doesn’t even know he has.”
Monk was frowning. “But that would be stupid. Put his back against the wall and he’ll come out fighting. He would have nothing to lose. Even if he goes to prison he could
have all the pictures published, just to get back at his enemies. That seems even riskier.”
She stared at him intensely, her heart racing. She felt as if her throat were so tight she could hardly breathe. “William … where are the photographs?”
He caught her fear instantly. “In his house, I suppose. I don’t know. Perhaps we’d better ask him and make sure they’re put somewhere else. Otherwise someone desperate enough could set fire to it. They could burn the servants alive, and Oliver, too, if they wait till he gets bail and goes back there.”
“Yes. They should be in a bank vault or something. Just don’t bring them here!”
