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“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.
They found Henry Rathbone 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 surprised them by interrupting. “If I had something with which I could save the lives of an untold number of people, I think I would keep on meaning to get rid of it but always stop short of doing it, just in case the next patient was one I could have saved. I wouldn’t be prepared to watch them die, knowing it might’ve been avoided. It’s one of those tasks, the kind you’re always going to do tomorrow, until tomorrow comes.”
Monk looked at her with surprise. He had expected the opposite from her, the gentle, the conservative perspective. But she had taken the unexpected, braver stand, perhaps the more foolish, definitely the more honest.
Henry was looking at her too, and there was a startling affection in his eyes. Monk realized how much Henry would have preferred that Rathbone marry Hester rather than Margaret. Poor Margaret. Had she ever known that, even if perhaps not putting it so bluntly to herself?
Monk recalled the discussion back to the practical. “One of us has to look at those pictures and see who is in them that might be in the judiciary or in any other position of power regarding this case. Otherwise we are simply moving around blindly and possibly playing right into their hands.”
“Agreed,” Henry said grimly. “I shall ask Oliver where these damned things are, and then, with your assistance, identify as many people as possible. We must not only find out if Brancaster himself is there-which I profoundly doubt-but also if there is anyone else who might have an influence on him, or on the nature of Oliver’s trial.” He was looking intently at Monk. “But how do we ascertain that?”
“I’ll find out,” Monk said rashly. “Perhaps we should also consider who might have influence on Warne, or Gavinton, or anybody else concerned. What a bloody mess.” He looked at Hester with a twisted smile. “Still so sure you’d keep them?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t say it would be wise, or right, or that I wouldn’t regret it. I just said I think I probably would’ve.”
Henry shot her a look of gratitude, then rose to his feet. “I’ll fetch you Rufus Brancaster’s address. As soon as I have visited Oliver to ask where to find these photographs and if you identify the people in them, perhaps we can begin to understand who is with us, and who against.”
Monk drew in his breath to say something then changed his mind. It was Hester who, with brutal honesty, gave words to his thought.
“Even once we look at the photographs, there is the problem, as we said, of photographs that were not in Ballinger’s possession. There may be people who were members of the club that we have no way of identifying as such.”
“I know,” he said quietly, “but there is no value in considering problems we cannot address. You are right, though; we should not allow ourselves a false sense of safety. It is rather sad to think that so many men’s lives are so bereft of purpose and their values so diseased as to look for excitement in such places. I’m afraid when it comes to the use of children I have little understanding or me
rcy for them.”
