Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel Read Online Free PDF

if you know where to look. ‘Brothers of the Poor,’ indeed!” He assumed an expression of profound disgust. “Very bad. Thieving from the rich is one thing, but gulling the poor like this, an’ in the name of religion, that’s low.”
    “You’re quite sure?” Hester knew the necessity of being exact in court. She still felt a touch of ice when she remembered past times, one in particular, when she had been so certain of a man’s crime that she had not been sufficiently diligent in the proof, and Oliver Rathbone had caught her out on the witness stand. The result had been humiliating, and disastrous. Her carelessness—even hubris—had lost the case and the man had gone free. They had got him in the end, but not before other lives had been lost, very nearly including Scuff’s.
    “Of course I’m sure!” Squeaky replied, his ragged eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into his hair. “Suddenly you don’t trust me?”
    Hester kept her temper well under control. “I’ve made enough mistakes in taking things for granted before. I won’t let it happen again,” she replied.
    He knew immediately what she was referring to. He let his breath out in a sigh. “Right. Yeah, I’m sure. But it don’t matter anyway, since the police and the lawyers are the ones adding it all up. You just give ’em these. If they look careful, it’ll prove there’s bin thieving.”
    “I will,” she said, starting to put the papers together. “Thank you.”
    He snatched them from her and shuffled them into a pack, almost as easily as if they had been cards.
    “You’re very welcome.” He glared at her, then all of a sudden he smiled, like a wolf. “You go get ’em. Hang ’em as high as their own church tower.”
    “It’s not a hanging offense,” she corrected him.
    “Well, it should be,” he said flatly. “On second thoughts, a good stiff ten years in the Coldbath Fields’d be worse. I’ll be happy with that. You just take it to the police!”

CHAPTER
2
    O LIVER R ATHBONE SAT IN the judge’s seat, slightly above the body of the room at London’s central criminal court known as the Old Bailey. This was possibly the crowning point in his career, to be presiding in such a place. He had been arguably the most brilliant barrister in England, and recently, after a string of notable cases, he had been offered this elevation to the bench. He had been surprised by how much it meant to him. It was recognition not only of his intellect but also of his ethical standards and his personal, human judgment.
    This promotion had come at a time when other parts of his life were far less happy. His wife of only a few years had accused him of arrogance, selfishness, and of placing his own professional ambition above loyalty or honor, specifically loyalty to his family. He had tried and failed to explain to her that with Arthur Ballinger’s case he had had no choice but to adhere to the law. She could not afford to believe him.The grief of that was still burning slowly inside him, unreachable by reason or by any of the success that had followed since.
    Now he watched as the jurors filed back into their seats ready to deliver their verdict. They had been out only two hours, a far shorter time than he had expected. The charge of fraud and the evidence had been extensive and complicated, as it usually was in fraud cases. Robbery was simple: one act. Even violence was usually limited in time and place. The hidden duplicity of fraud required numerous papers to be read, figures to be added and traced to one source or another, and inaccuracies found that could not in any way be ascribed to honest human error.
    His conduct of the trial had been a balancing act of some dexterity.
    Rathbone looked over at Bertrand Allan, the prosecutor. He looked nervous. He was a tall man, a little stooped, with a shock of brown hair beginning to go gray. He appeared at a glance to be quite relaxed, but his hands were hidden from sight, and his