Or a man whose hands were soiled by the use of what amounted to blackmail, to force a weak judge to be honest?
He finished the last sandwich and ate the cake, then drank the last drop of the brandy. Tomorrow he was going to carry out a decision that would change his life-and maybe Dinah’s, and that of whoever had murdered Lambourn, and Zenia Gadney.
He stood up and went to the safe where he kept Arthur Ballinger’s photographs. One day he must find a better place for them, not in this house. But for now, he was glad they were still here.
He opened the safe and took out the case. He opened that, calm now that the decision had been made. He went through the images slowly, one by one. He was disgusted, sickened by the coarseness of them, by the cruelty, the indifference to the humiliation and pain of children.
He found it. It was the same face as that in Pendock’s silver-framed photograph. And on the bottom of this one, in Ballinger’s hand, was written “Hadley Pendock,” and the date and place in which it was taken.
Rathbone put it back again, made a note in his diary, checked that it was correct, then locked the case and put it back in the safe.
He knew what he must do tomorrow morning before the trial resumed, however hard, however painful and repellent. Shame was bitter, but it was a small thing compared with the hangman’s noose.
CHAPTER 23
In the morning, long before the court sat, Rathbone unlocked the safe again and took one of the prints that Ballinger had made of the photograph of Hadley Pendock. It was quite small, only three inches by four, a sample to show anyone what the original contained. Even so, the faces were clearly identifiable.
Rathbone put it in his pocket between two clean sheets of white notepaper, then left the house, taking a hansom to the Old Bailey. Today he needed to be early. As he rode through the gray icy morning streets he refused to let his mind even touch on what he must do, how he would say it, or how Pendock might respond. He had made up his mind, not that this was good, only that the alternative was unbearable.
He arrived at the court even before the usher, and had to wait until the man came in, startled to see Rathbone there before him.
“Are you all right, Sir Oliver?” he asked anxiously. He must know how the case was going. There was pity in his face.
“Yes, thank you, Rogers,” Rathbone said bleakly. “I need to speak to his lordship before we begin today. It is of the greatest possible importance, and it may take half an hour or so. I apologize for the inconveniences I am causing you.”
“No inconvenience at all, Sir Oliver,” Rogers said quickly. “It’s a miserable case. Maybe I shouldn’t be sorry for Mrs. Lambourn, but I am.”
“It speaks well for you, Rogers,” Rathbone replied with the ghost of a smile. “May I wait here?”
“Yes, of course, sir. As soon as I see his lordship I’ll tell him you’re here, and it’s urgent.”
“Thank you.”
It was another twenty-five minutes before Pendock came up the wide hallway and saw Rathbone. He looked grim, and clearly not at all pleased with what he feared was going to be an unpleasant interview.
“What is it?” he asked as soon as they were both inside his chambers and the door closed. “I cannot allow you any further latitude, Rathbone. You have exhausted all the leniency the court can allow. I’m sorry. You are on a loser this time. Accept it, man. Don’t string this out, for all our sakes, even hers.”
Rathbone sat down deliberately, as a signal that he would not be dismissed with a word. He saw the flicker of irritation on Pendock’s face.
“It is not over, my lord, until all the evidence has been heard, and the jury has delivered a verdict,” he replied. He drew in his breath and let it out very slowly.
“Due to circumstance,” he continued, “and entirely against my wish, I have recently inherited a very remarkable collection of photographs, which I keep in a safe place, away from my home.” That would soon be true.
“For God’s sake, Rathbone, I don’t care what you’ve inherited!” Pendock said with disbelief. “What on earth is the matter with you? Are you ill?”
Rathbone reached into his pocket and pulled out the sheets of paper and the photograph between them. Once he showed it to Pendock he would, like Caesar, have crossed the Rubicon, the line marking one side from the other; and he would, like Caesar, have declared war on his own people.
Pendock made a move to stand up, in effect a dismissal.
Rathbone took the top sheet off and laid the photograph bare.
Pendock glanced at it. Perhaps he did not see it clearly. His face filled with revulsion.
“God Almighty, man! That’s obscene!” He raised his eyes. “What on earth makes you imagine I might want to look at such filth?”
“I would not have thought so until yesterday,” Rathbone answered, his voice shaking in spite of his intense effort to control it. “Then I saw the same young man’s face in that picture over there.” He looked toward the silver-framed photograph on the table.
Pendock followed his gaze and his face flooded with scarlet. He seized the photograph where Rathbone had left it and held it close enough to the silver frame to compare one with another. Then the blood drained from his skin, leaving him as gray as the dead ashes in the morning fireplace. He staggered back and all but collapsed into his chair.
Rathbone felt worse than he could ever remember in his life, worse than when he had faced Ballinger in his cell, or found his murdered body so soon after; worse than when Margaret had left, even, because this was his own deliberate doing. It was open to him to have chosen differently. But what alternative could he have chosen?
Pendock lifted his head and looked at Rathbone with the same contempt with which he had regarded the small photograph when he had not known who it portrayed.
“I will not find Dinah Lambourn not guilty!” he said slowly, his voice a croak from a dry throat. “I … I’ll pay you anything you want, but I will not mock the law!”
“Damn you!” Rathbone shouted at him, half rising to his feet. “I don’t want your bloody money! And I don’t want a directed verdict. I’ve never looked for one in my life, and I’m not now. I just want you to preside over this trial fairly. I want you to allow my witnesses to testify and the jury to hear what they have to say. Then I’ll give you the original of the photograph, and all copies, and you can do what you like with them. Whether you speak to your son or not is your own choice and God help you.”
He leaned across the table toward Pendock. “You were willing to give me money to keep your son from paying the price of his criminal use of children, revolting as you find it. Is it so repellent to you to give Dinah Lambourn at least the justice of a fair hearing? She’s somebody’s child as well; somewhere there are people who love her. And if there weren’t, would that make her any less deserving?”
“It’s the natural … the natural instinct,” Pendock stammered. “This slander will damage the government, good men. We cannot change the law to alter people’s freedom to take whatever ease of pain they can, for the sake of the few who abuse it.”
“I love my freedom as much as the next man,” Rathbone answered. “But not at the cost this is to the weaker and more vulnerable, and those who exploit them for gain. Do you love your son more than you love justice?”
Pendock sank his head into his hands. “It looks like it, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “No. No, I don’t. I think. But …” He opened his eyes slowly, his face now that of an old man. “Bring on your witnesses, Rathbone.”
Twenty minutes later Rathbone was standing in the open space before the witness stand, which was occupied by the largest woman he could ever remember having seen. She was not immensely fat, and only just over six foot tall, but at the top of the steps as she was, she seemed to tower above them all. She was broad-shouldered like a stevedore, huge-chested, her arms heavy and muscular. Thank heaven, she was soberly dressed, even though her expression was fierce, as if defying the ritual and establishment of the law to intimidate her.