by Anne Perry
“How do we know you’re not good?” Gavinton asked, but there was desperation in his voice, and the jury heard it. His usual confidence was gone. Even in the gallery there was an echo of hollow laughter.
“ ’Cos if I could make that kind of money, I would,” Sawley said simply.
“So you are quite a simple, very average, makeshift bookkeeper,” Gavinton responded. “So why on earth did this brilliant stranger who can understand and expose a fraud as complex and cleverly planned as you say this one is-why did he seek out you, and not the police, or some other figure of authority and reputation? How do you explain such an extraordinary and eccentric choice, Mr. Sawley?”
“Maybe ’cos I was one of the congregation, and I know the people who are being cheated, some of them ruined, and I care,” Sawley replied. “I’m angry at my friends being made fools of, when they thought they were sacrificing to help the poor, in the name of Christ, and I won’t let that drop, however long it takes me, or however much you want to make me look like a fool too. There’s nothing wicked about being a fool-there’s a lot wicked about making fools of other people.”
Rathbone himself, in spite of all his years of courtroom experience, felt a sudden hard tug of emotion. It cost him an effort of will not to voice his fierce agreement. He actually drew in his breath, and then let it out silently. The prosecution had already won.
CHAPTER 4
The new week began with Blair Gavinton rising to present the case for the defense. He looked more confident than Rathbone had expected him to. Rathbone felt a shadow of anxiety that perhaps Gavinton had discovered something over the weekend that threw a different light on events, but he could not think what that might be.
The jurors regarded Gavinton with stony faces. To them he represented a man who abused and then mocked good-hearted, ordinary people who had acted with generosity and were now reaping the bitter harvest of disillusion. They would want Taft to pay an appropriately heavy price.
Surely as he stood and called his first witness, Gavinton had to be aware of that?
The witness’s name was Robertson Drew. He walked across the floor and climbed the steps to the witness box with assurance. He was dark-haired, well-dressed, a man who was good-looking and not unaware of it. There was power in his hawk-nosed face and confidence in his voice when he took the oath.
Gavinton began quietly, without drama, as if they were two men whose conversation happened to be overheard by an entire courtroom.
“Mr. Drew, are you a member of Mr. Taft’s congregation?”
“I am,” Drew acknowledged. “I have been for many years. About ten or eleven, I think. I would like to believe I have been of some help to him in his ministry.”
“Are you paid for this, sir?”
Drew looked surprised, even a trifle indignant, although he must have been prepared for all Gavinton’s questions.
“Certainly not. It is a privilege that is its own reward.”
“Have you had any dealings with the financial side of the ministry?” Gavinton asked, his tone still conversational. “Specifically the collection of donations to be offered to various charities for the poor?”
“I have, a great deal.”
Rathbone saw the jurors paying close attention, but their expressions were hostile, ready to disbelieve him. “And did you find anything amiss in the accounting?” Gavinton inquired.
Drew smiled very slightly. “The occasional arithmetical error, usually to the amount of a few pennies. I dare say it would count to shillings, one way or the other, over a year or so. Such errors are always put right when the books are balanced.”
“Once a year?” Gavinton inquired.
“Once a quarter, sir,” Drew corrected him.
Gavinton nodded. “I see. And what do you make of the claims that there is a profound fraud going on, to the amount of tens of thousands of pounds, all very cleverly disguised in pages and pages of complex figures?”
Drew blinked then looked down at his strong hands on the railing. “Frankly, Mr. Gavinton, when one is trying to minister to a flock, one expects all manner of people. The doors of a Christian church cannot be closed to anyone. Those who come in will do so for many reasons and to fill many kinds of needs.” His voice was sonorous with regret. “We draw the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak, the quarrelsome and the silent.” He looked up. “Quite frankly, we also draw the guilty, the troubled, at times the malicious, and also those whose mental balance is questionable, who seek attention and must have it at any cost. Occasionally we even have people who see and hear things that are not there, who imagine voices and labor under the delusion that they speak for God.”
Rathbone saw a flash of amusement in Warne’s eyes and knew that those words would be brought back to haunt Drew.
Gavinton nodded. “Of course. You do not deny anyone. And I imagine that the most deeply troubled are not always obviously so to the eye?”
“No,” Drew agreed. “Some carry their wounds very deep within them. I would say this accusation, which is completely groundless, has come from a badly troubled person who labors under the delusion that he and he alone is vindicated by God to lead people. He possibly sees devils where there are none.”
Warne rose to his feet. “My lord, so far as I am aware, the only person in this case who makes any attempt to lead people, and to say that he is privy to the thoughts of God, is the accused.”
There were gasps of horror and a surge of nervous laughter from the gallery.
Rathbone had to feign a sneeze in order to cover his own laughter.
Gavinton was red-faced, his hands raised and clenched. From the witness stand Drew glared at him.
Warne stood there looking innocent. It was a feat of acting that earned Rathbone’s admiration.
“My lord,” he began again, “no witness I have called has claimed to see anything beyond what we can all see, or even suggested the existence of devils. It is Mr. Drew who is indulging in fantasy. Unless, of course, there is some monster here that Mr. Gavinton can see, and I cannot?” He looked around at the jurors, and then the gallery. “I see only human beings, good and bad, all fallible, but only human. Am I alone in that?”
Gavinton’s face blushed a deep red, but it was anger, certainly not shame.
“My learned friend does not recognize an allusion when he hears one,” he said between his teeth.
“I recognize an illusion when I see one,” Warne snapped back.
Several of the jurors laughed then checked themselves immediately, glancing around as if to confirm that no one had noticed their lapse from decorum.
Rathbone smiled. “I think it would be wiser, Mr. Gavinton, if you were to request your witness to stay within the literal. Angels and devils are beyond my jurisdiction.”
A juror wiped his eyes with a large handkerchief. In the gallery there was a definite ripple of amusement.
Gavinton looked at Drew with open warning in his expression. “Were you aware of this inquiry into Mr. Taft’s financial affairs before you were called as a witness?” he asked.
“Yes, I was,” Drew replied.
“Have you any idea where the interest came from that caused the inquiry?”
Drew squared his shoulders. “I took the time and trouble to find out, sir. We are used to having enemies, people whose beliefs are different from ours, or who feel threatened by our calls for charity toward the poor. It is a tragic aspect of human nature that many people who are more than comfortably situated themselves resent others showing the example of Christianity by sharing their substance, and asking that others do so too.” His glance wandered to the jury, then back again to Gavinton. “It makes them feel uncomfortable, even guilty. I have begun to think that there is little in the world as painful to the mind as guilt.”
A response flashed into Rathbone’s mind, but he bit it back.
Warne half rose to his feet, then subsided again without speaking.
“Did you wish to object, sir?” Gavinton asked with
mock concern.
“Not at all,” Warne replied. “I realize that Mr. Drew may be uniquely qualified to speak on the subject.”
It was a second before Gavinton realized Warne’s meaning; then the laughter from the gallery enlightened him. He swung back to face Drew.
“Did you find out where this misleading information came from, Mr. Drew?” He raised his voice considerably.
“Yes I did.” Drew’s answer emerged through gritted teeth. “I am very sad to say that some of our own parishioners at one time or another gave more than they had budgeted for, and then when their expenses increased they were unable to cope. Of course, we knew nothing of it at the time, or we would have done what we could to help, in Christian charity. We could not give back their donations, if they wished us to, because they had already been passed on to the people for whom they were intended.”
“Of course,” Gavinton nodded. “Please continue.”
“Some of these people had enlisted the help, or at least the sympathy, of outside sources who do not understand us or our aims.”
“Do you know this for a fact, Mr. Drew? You have seen and spoken to such an outside source?” Gavinton interrupted.
Drew had completely regained his composure. “Yes. After I was aware of the accusations against Mr. Taft, I made it my concern to find out,” he said, pursing his lips. “One of them I have no doubt of, having seen this person actually attending one of our services. And if I may say so, asking a number of questions that I ascribed to simple curiosity at the time, but looking back I realize were attempts at learning more of our business, especially our finances.”
Gavinton looked skeptical. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Drew? Is it not possible that your own anxieties made you suspicious?”
“I thought so myself to begin with,” Drew admitted. He never took his eyes from Gavinton. This time he did not even try to draw in the jury. “But I made a few inquiries out of curiosity, and learned a great deal more of her reputation. She is a childless woman who seems to be prone to finding causes and then crusading for them, not always with fortunate results.”
Now he had the jury’s attention, if reluctantly.
Warne began to look worried. Rathbone wondered why he had not challenged Gavinton, who was allowing Drew to level charges that lacked specificity. Why had Warne not pointed that out, and required that he name this woman, if he could?
“So you learned a good deal about this woman?” Gavinton glanced at Rathbone, and then back at Drew.
“Yes,” Drew agreed. “She has done a degree of good running a free clinic for women of a certain sort, injured or diseased. But her compassion has become undisciplined, and led her into several rash enterprises …”
Rathbone froze. Drew had to be speaking of Hester. Did Warne know that, and that was why he had not pressed Drew to be specific?
“You hesitate,” Gavinton pointed out to Drew.
“I do not wish to damage the woman’s reputation unnecessarily,” Drew answered, his voice smooth. “I don’t think she intended harm, but at times she has totally misunderstood situations and, like an ill-trained horse, run off with the bit between her teeth.”
Gavinton smiled at the expression and shot a dagger-sharp glance at Rathbone. It was only a second’s deviation, so slight as to make Rathbone wonder if he had seen it at all or merely imagined it.
Warne stood up. “My lord, this is totally unsubstantiated imagination. A woman came to Mr. Taft’s Church and her curiosity was awakened as to its work. Surely only a guilty conscience would see harm or irresponsibility in that? No prudent person gives money to an organization, even one claiming to do the work of God, without making some inquiries.”
“Guard your tongue, Mr. Drew,” Rathbone warned. “Or perhaps I should suggest, bridle it!”
The nervous tension broke, and there was a wave of stifled laughter around the gallery.
This time Gavinton was not disconcerted. He smiled back at Rathbone, showing his considerable teeth and then inclining his head in a slight bow.
“I shall have my witness be very specific, my lord.” He looked up at Drew. “Perhaps, sir, you would oblige his lordship by telling the court exactly what you know of this woman, and showing us that your information is accurate, provable, and relevant. The jury at least has a right to this much, if they are to take it into account in their verdict.”
“Of course,” Drew conceded.
Rathbone grasped at last precisely why Gavinton had looked so smug when proceedings had opened today, and why he had glanced at Rathbone with a sly half smile on his face. It chilled him as if someone had opened a door and allowed in a bitter wind. But there was nothing he could do. It was a perfectly legitimate tactic. In fact, it was probably what he himself would have done in Gavinton’s place, and they both knew it. It was going to be a rough few days. He would have to be very careful not to make any errors or allow his emotions to dictate an action, or even a look or a word. If he did, the damage might be lasting.
No wonder Ingram York was glad not to have the case himself. It crossed Rathbone’s mind that York might also be glad he was the one who had received it, especially considering how things had gone at the dinner party. A moment later he dismissed the thought. York didn’t even know him. Why would he care, one way or the other? And what was one dinner party?
But then, one dinner party had been enough to convince him that York’s wife was one of the loveliest women he had ever seen. There was a beauty in her face far deeper than feature or coloring; he had seen the intelligence there, the humor, and a quality of gentleness that seemed to signify an ability to dream-and to be hurt. He thought of the room with yellow walls that she desired that would appear as if it were filled with sunlight. There would be no tension in such a place, he thought. No seeking to find fault. It would be a place where dreams were safe.
There was a noise of scraping wood.
He was not paying attention. He jerked his mind back. Drew was speaking.
“The clinic in question is in Portpool Lane,” Drew said. “It is run by a Mrs. Hester Monk. Her husband, William Monk, is commander of the Thames River Police, and she has been known in the past to have a considerable involvement in some of his more serious cases, ones of violence and … obscenity.”
There was a ripple of interest around the gallery and one of the jurors nodded to himself with a little shiver.
“Which is natural enough, I suppose,” Drew continued, “because she is in daily contact with much of the lesser criminal elements in the city who might have information that her husband could use in his investigations.”
Two more of the jurors nodded.
Gavinton was smiling. Warne was almost expressionless. Had he any idea what was coming?
Drew resumed his explanation. “The establishment Mrs. Monk runs is, of necessity, on the edge of the criminal underworld. Those are the people she is endeavoring to help, and as a woman of compassion, she reaches out to them. The trouble is that her judgment is rather too often swayed by her emotions.”
Gavinton held up his hand to stop Drew, and then took a step closer to the stand. His voice was smooth, placating.
“That is a sweeping statement to make, Mr. Drew. I’m afraid you need to be less general, and more specific,” he explained. “You cannot expect the court to accept what you say either as factual or as relevant, unless you can show us by an example, the truth of which my learned friend can question and test.” He looked up at Rathbone again, and this time there was clear victory in his eyes.
Rathbone would have paid a high price for the chance to retaliate effectively, but he had no weapon, and they both knew it.
Drew was well primed. “Of course.” He bowed very slightly, his lips drawn tight in a gesture of distaste, as if he were actually reluctant to answer. “A year or two ago there was a case involving a most unpleasant man by the name of Jericho Phillips.” He enunciated each word carefully. “He was accused of using small orphaned children-all boys, so far as I k
now-in a riverboat he owned. He made obscene photographs of them.” His voice trembled with anger. “He even used some of them as child prostitutes, and then blackmailed his wretched clients. The worst of his crimes was the murder of an unknown number of these unfortunate boys when they rebelled, or reached an age when they were no longer to his clients’ taste.”
He waited a few moments for the horror of what he was describing to sink into the minds of the listeners and take shape, and then he continued, his voice a little lower, as if the horror of it all had crushed him.
“Mrs. Monk’s evidence was crucial to his trial.” A look of intense regret filled his face. “Unfortunately she was so carried away, so incensed at the brutality of the crime, and so sure in her own mind that Phillips was guilty, that she neglected to be certain of her proof. Her emotion was understandable to anyone, but courts deal in law, as they must, for the protection of both the innocent and the victims, and for those few who are assumed guilty but in fact are not.”
It was clever. It was a passionate defense for Taft, while appearing to be about Hester and an entirely different case. Rathbone was seething. The muscles in his body knotted and his jaw was tight, but there was nothing whatever that he could do about it.
From the look of anxiety in his eyes, Warne also knew what was coming next. The case would be familiar to many people. It had been headline news at the time, and what had followed had been even worse.
Drew gave a slight shrug. It looked like regret, almost an apology for so distressing the court. “Because of her ineptitude, her placing of heart before head,” he said softly, “Phillips was found not guilty, and set free. As was only to be expected, he continued on his path of repulsive crime. He was, of course, later apprehended and killed, but he did not face the law again, as he certainly should have. Once exonerated, he could never again be tried for that earlier crime.”
There was a murmur of distress in the gallery. Several jurors shook their heads sadly. One of them rubbed his hand across his face in a gesture of dismay.