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“Yes, sir. He was robbing his congregation.”
The commissioner sighed. “I know. None of that excuses Rathbone abusing his position as a judge to get the verdict he wanted.”
“No, sir,” Monk agreed, knowing as he said it that he could not-would not-let Rathbone suffer if there were any way he could prevent it.
The commissioner glared at Monk. “Keep your distance from Rathbone, do you hear me?” he ordered.
“Yes, sir, I hear you.” And he did. But he knew he would not listen. One did not abandon friends because they made mistakes. That was what he had promised Scuff, and obliquely, Hester as well.
If he lost his job in the police over this, that would be a blow. He had no idea where he would find another, or how he would support himself and his family. He loved the work. It was the only job he had ever done, as far as he knew. But Hester was certainly the only woman he had ever loved, the only person, really, apart from Scuff. To lose them was a price he was not prepared to pay, not for any job on earth.
If Monk had to abandon Rathbone, his friend would understand why, but Hester and Scuff wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t be able to live with that.
He watched Byrne leave. Then he found Orme and told him that he had to go and investigate the scene of a murder.
“Need my help, sir?” Orme said without a flicker in his smooth, windburned face.
“Only in that you look after everything here,”
Monk answered, also not betraying the slightest emotion. They understood each other too well for an explanation to be necessary.
“Right, sir,” Orme agreed.
Monk hesitated. “Thank you,” he said with more feeling than perhaps Orme appreciated. “Thank you very much.”
Scuff left home and waited until he saw Monk take the ferry across to the Wapping Police Station; then he found another ferry and paid the extra fare to be taken to Gun Wharf, two stops along, so there was no chance of his being seen by Monk, should he still be standing on the dock, or possibly by Mr. Orme, who also would recognize him.
Next he took a public omnibus, changed, and took another, until more than half an hour later, passing as an errand boy with an urgent message, he found his way into the Old Bailey and seized his chance to follow a rather self-important-looking journalist into the courtroom where the trial of Oliver Rathbone had just resumed.
Scuff was uncomfortable, but he continued to stand where he could still look like a messenger waiting for someone. He hoped nobody would actually give him any notes to carry. He knew the riverbank as if it were his own backyard, but this part of the city was a foreign land to him. He would just have to find a way to refuse to accept any errands without getting thrown out. He hoped he had not lost any of the quickness in the invention of lies that he used to have before he met Monk. All the reading and history and school-learning of facts might have pushed it out of his head.
The prosecutor, who was called Wystan, was just getting into his stride. He was a fuzzy, pepper-and-salt-looking man with a self-satisfied face. Scuff did not like him.
The present witness was an old woman. The stand was some height above the floor, up its own curling set of narrow little steps, and Scuff watched her climb up with some awkwardness. Or perhaps she wasn’t so old, just a bit too heavy, and sort of faded-looking, as though it were a long time since she had been happy.
Wystan addressed her as Mrs. Ballinger, and after a moment or two Scuff realized who she must be. It was her husband who had been accused of murdering the prostitute Monk had promised to keep safe. Monk had been terribly upset about that; he had given his word and her death had really hurt him.
Ballinger had been murdered himself, in prison, when he was waiting to be hanged. No wonder this woman looked so miserable. She had an awful lot to be miserable about.
And another thing he was sure of, she would be no friend to Sir Oliver. That would be why Wystan had gotten her here, to say what she could that would make him look even worse.
But if she was Mrs. Ballinger, that meant that she was Sir Oliver’s wife’s mother. Was she here too, his wife? Had she come to be a friend to him, the one face he would look at that would make him feel he wasn’t alone?
Scuff was standing against the wall, to the side of the court, so he could see only the backs of people’s heads for the most part. If Sir Oliver’s wife was here, she would be nearer the front of the gallery than he was, wouldn’t she?
Scuff was still not all that tall. He hoped he would grow a lot more, maybe as tall as Monk, one day. He was a lot less skinny than he used to be, but he was thin enough to squeeze between people if he tried. Maybe if he was careful and didn’t tread on anyone’s feet, didn’t push too much, he could work his way around nearer the front so he could see people’s faces.
When he was another ten feet farther forward, it still took him several minutes of searching before he saw her. He had been to the clinic with Hester a few times, and had met Lady Rathbone. He remembered because she was the first “lady” he had ever seen, and he had expected her to look different. She had looked different from Hester, but then everybody did. As far as Scuff could see she was much like anyone else that you might see in the street, clean and well dressed. But he remembered her. She had had a nice face.
Except that right now she looked angry, sort of pinched and bitter. But then, she must feel awful, with Sir Oliver sitting up there in the dock.
Wystan was asking Mrs. Ballinger about Sir Oliver. He was being very gentle with her.
“I know this must be difficult for you, Mrs. Ballinger,” he said quietly. “The whole court will sympathize with you, being placed in a situation where you have to testify as to the character-as you have witnessed it-of a man who is married to your daughter. However, it is necessary, in the service of justice. I’m sorry.”
“I will do my duty,” she said without change of expression. “But thank you for your courtesy.”
“I will keep it as brief as I can,” Wystan promised. He began slowly. Scuff thought he was pompous. “Did you come to know the accused well when he was courting your daughter?” Wystan asked. “I mean by that, did you entertain him at your home, for example? Did he dine with you? Did you learn his tastes and opinions? Did you become aware of his education, his income, his prospects, his ambitions?”
