by Anne Perry
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.
“It was a brilliant lawyer who defended Phillips,” Drew went on, his voice now laden with irony. “He tied Mrs. Monk up in knots with the rope of her own making.”
He had not looked at Rathbone, but Gavinton did and smiled. He gave a very slight bow, almost too small for one to be sure it had occurred. Those in the gallery might have missed his implication, but most of the jurors would not. If they were curious, it would take only a question or two outside the courtroom and they would have the answer.
“Which, of course, was the lawyer’s duty,” Gavinton quickly added for good measure. He could not resist the temptation to preach as well. “If the law is not just to all of us, then it is not just to any, and we are all in danger. It would be a license to accuse anyone, and to crucify him for crimes he did not commit. Thank you, Mr. Drew.” He moved as if to return to his seat and then swung around to face the witness box again.
“I apologize. In my enthusiasm for the law I forgot to make clear the purpose of raising Mrs. Monk’s name. You say she came to your church? To one service?”
“Yes,” Drew agreed. “So far as I know she did not return.”
“Then what has she to do with this accusation against Mr. Taft? It is not she who is making this charge; it is the police.”
Drew smiled. “In Mrs. Monk’s clinic for street women she has a bookkeeper who, I hear, is gifted with figures. In the past he indulged in some very … creative … accounting when he ran the same buildings as one of the most profitable brothels in London. I doubt there is a form of financial fraud with which he does not have at least a passing acquaintance. His physical description answers exactly that of the man who called so mysteriously upon Mr. Sawley and handed him the papers from which he drew his conclusions about the funds of the church. I think the jury may well question Mrs. Monk’s reasons for visiting us, and exactly where Mr. Sawley obtained his information.”
“Indeed,” Gavinton said with gleaming satisfaction. “One might wonder what interested her in Mr. Taft, but unless she wishes to tell us I dare say we shall never know.”
“There is not far to look.” Drew’s smile was now unmistakably a sneer. “She has recently taken on a new young woman to assist her, by the name of Josephine Raleigh. She is the only daughter of the same John Raleigh who chose to give testimony against Mr. Taft last week. Regrettably he overestimated his finances and is now blaming Mr. Taft for it. We could have given him back some of his money, but we sent it on to the charity for which it was donated as soon as we could. It was no longer in our possession. It is very sad, but it was beyond our power to help.”
There was total silence in the room. The air was hot, almost stiflingly so. Rathbone felt as if there were nothing to breathe, and the sweat trickled down his body.
“And you believe this to be Mrs. Monk’s reason for asking her somewhat unusual bookkeeper to involve himself in Mr. Taft’s affairs?” Gavinton asked with sad understanding.
“I do,” Drew answered. “That she did so seems to be unarguable, and I can think of no other reason for it; she has never been to our church before, or since.”
“The one occasion you refer to, some eight or nine weeks ago?” Gavinton asked.
“That is so,” Drew agreed.
Rathbone waited in vain for Warne to object. It seemed he had been attacked completely on the blind side and had no idea what to challenge, or how. Please heaven that by the time he came to cross-examine Drew he would have some weapon for a counterattack. Gavinton had managed to raise considerable doubt as to the veracity of any of the evidence against Taft. In fact, he had made it look like the fabrication of a rather unbalanced woman, with the help of a frankly semi-criminal former brothel keeper.
There was a bitter irony to it that cut Rathbone deeply. It was exactly what he had done in defense of Jericho Phillips—who had been guilty of far more depravity than Abel Taft. A single look at Gavinton’s face showed that he was quite aware of it and that he savored it with relish.
The remaining part of the day Gavinton spent in going through the facts and figures in the accounts that condemned Taft. Drew had explanations for all of it. Gavinton was careful what he chose to ask about, but there was such a mass of information that the jury began to look glassy-eyed. Presumably that was Gavinton’s intention. You cannot convict a man if you do not understand the entirety of what he is supposed to have done.
RATHBONE LEFT FOR THE day disturbed by his inability to do anything except watch and listen as Gavinton reversed the whole atmosphere and flavor of the case. He had begun the day backed into a corner from which it looked as if he had no escape; he had ended it having painted Hester as a hysterical and somewhat foolish woman with a habit of meddling in affairs that were really not her concern, at times to tragic results, and that in this case she had accused a good man of a criminal fraud of which he was entirely innocent.
Gavinton would call Taft tomorrow, as soon as Warne had had a chance to question Robertson Drew. Drew was supremely confident; it oozed out of him like sweat on a hot day. Rathbone imagined he could smell it in the air, oily and sickly sweat.
What could Warne attack? Rathbone had no doubt that Drew’s account of Hester’s involvement was accurate in all its main assumptions. He knew Hester well enough to believe that it was precisely what she would do. He wondered for a moment why she had not mentioned it at least one of the times they had met in the past month. Of course the bookkeeper clever enough and sufficiently well versed in fraud to understand Taft’s tricks was Squeaky Robinson. Rathbone had met Squeaky a few times and recognized the description. It was Rathbone who had tricked Squeaky out of the brothel buildings in Portpool Lane, the same buildings Hester had turned into the clinic. Squeaky had had a twisted and reluctant respect for Rathbone ever since. And if he was honest with himself, Rathbone had a certain respect for Squeaky also. That alone might answer why Hester had not burdened him with knowledge of the affair.
How like her!
Perhaps it would be unwise to see her. She might very well be called as a witness.
He thought about it as his hansom wove in and out of the other carriages on the road. He was still turning it over in his mind as he entered his house.
What was there that Warne could rebut? Would it be in his interests or only make matters worse
, if he were to delve into the accounts again and try to argue any of the figures? Gavinton had very cleverly seen to it that the jury’s threshold for details about numbers was crossed and left far behind.
Rathbone gave his hat and stick to his butler and asked him to bring a whisky and soda.
Were the proceedings Rathbone had watched play out in court, without any interference from himself, evidence of brilliant legal ability on Gavinton’s part, or somehow a sleight of hand that he ought to have been able to prevent? Did it even matter, as far as he was concerned, whether Taft was innocent or guilty? His title was “judge,” but actually he had no legal or moral right to judge the most important issue they were met to decide. He was there to make sure that the law was observed, to the letter and to the spirit. The verdict was the jury’s alone.
But surely there was something he could do?
He chose to sit in his study rather than the withdrawing room. The withdrawing room was beautiful, but it had been so much Margaret’s room as well as his that memories of her haunted it. These were not happy thoughts intruding into today’s loneliness; they were a sad recognition of things he should have better understood, futile now because he could not go back.
He sipped the whisky and let the flavor and the fire of it roll around in his mouth.
Eventually he put the glass down and went outside to walk through the garden in the twilight and listen to the soft sounds of the oncoming night.
THE FOLLOWING DAY GAVINTON recalled Robertson Drew to the stand. They did not refer to Hester again but instead directed the attack at Gethen Sawley, the witness who had produced the crucial papers, the only physical evidence of fraud.
Rathbone wondered if Gavinton intended to produce anyone from the charity that supposedly had received the money. Warne had not. Surely, if such a person existed, that would put an end to the matter? Perhaps they did not exist, and Warne would tell the jury so in his summation; that would be the best time to do it. They could not possibly forget!
He returned his attention to the proceedings.
Gavinton was asking Drew about Cuthbert Bicknor.
Drew was very composed today. He shrugged casually. “A pleasant young man, but—I have to be honest—very easily influenced. Desperate to be liked, approved of.” He sighed. “It is not a fault. I’m sure we can all understand the need for the regard of our fellows. And if you want friends, where better to look for them than in a church?” He raised his hands in a gesture of inclusion, and smiled toward the jury. “You will meet good people, well spoken, sober, generous, seeking to become even better. But”—he let out his breath in a sigh—“it is possible to mistake a politely friendly manner for something deeper. I think Cuthbert read meaning into people’s words that his interlocutors may not have intended. Because of that, he gave away his money too easily and realized afterward that he had overstretched himself, and then he didn’t know what to do about it.”
“But he was willing for his father to testify on his behalf against Mr. Taft,” Gavinton pointed out. “Quite powerfully, in fact. That doesn’t sound like the act of a young man so devoted to the church and its congregation that he would bankrupt himself.”
Drew waved his hand with a slightly impatient dismissal. “I did not say that he was devoted to the church, sir. I said he was looking for friendship and that approval mattered to him rather out of proportion to … I don’t want to be unkind, but to an emotional balance. I am sure that if a lawyer as skilled and charming as Mr. Warne were to pay him attention and court his … his desire to be important, then he would find some way of obliging him, no matter the request.”
This time Warne did rise to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Drew is all but accusing me of suborning perjury, and Mr. Bicknor of being of less than sound mind. Mr. Bicknor is not here to refute that, but I most certainly am. If Mr. Drew believes that I coerced Mr. Bicknor’s father’s testimony, then I require that he provide proof. And if I were to call him a liar, as I would dearly like to, I still require proof, or I myself will stand condemned.”
“Your point is well taken, Mr. Warne,” Rathbone said with some relief. “Mr. Drew, you are not free to say whatever you like because you are in the witness stand. If you are suggesting that Mr. Warne has acted inappropriately, or that Mr. Bicknor is emotionally unstable, we require evidence to that end, not just your conjecture. If not, I advise you to be careful, Mr. Drew. I see several journalists in the public gallery, and your parishioners would be less loyal to you, I think, if they fully appreciated the extent, or lack, of your loyalty to them.”
Gavinton was furious. His face lost its smooth control. “My lord! Mr. Drew’s words may have been a little … ill chosen … but he is only attempting to tell the court the truth. Cuthbert Bicknor, through his father, has attempted to slander Mr. Taft and accuse him of a most despicable fraud. Mr. Taft has the right to defend himself, and for others to defend him, from this charge. It is not only his livelihood that is at stake—it is also his good name, which is of far more importance to him, as is true of many of us.”
“Indeed,” Rathbone agreed. “As is Mr. Warne’s. Perhaps this problem can be answered by allowing Mr. Warne a certain latitude in questioning this witness, so as to establish what grounds Mr. Drew has for making such an allegation.”
Gavinton frowned. He turned to Drew again.
“Let us leave the subject of Mr. Bicknor. The main evidence of a material nature, something more than hearsay and supposition, is this large sheaf of accounting papers Mr. Sawley says he obtained from the man with the long gray hair and apparently without name. Mr. Sawley claimed not to know him, but you have told us that you believe he is a former brothel keeper by the name of Robinson. Mr. Sawley says that he had not met this man before—this Mr. Robinson—that he simply turned up on his doorstep and offered him these papers.”
The jury’s attention had been captured again by Rathbone’s interjection. One rather rotund gentleman took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Their eyes moved from Drew to Gavinton and back again.
Warne still looked slightly unhappy.
Gavinton was deliberately, exaggeratedly careful.
“I do not ever imply that Mr. Sawley was telling us less than the exact truth. The story is so extraordinary, how could he have imagined it?” Drew looked up at Rathbone, challenge and loathing in his face, open and unmistakable.
“Indeed.” Gavinton swiveled very slightly to face the jury. “Gentlemen, I assume my client to be innocent, as I am sure the court does, unless and until proved otherwise. That is every man’s right, is it not? That is the basis of the law. His lordship, you may not know, was the lawyer who so brilliantly defended Jericho Phillips—not because he admired the man, or wished him to escape justice, but because above all other things, he serves the law. He holds it sacred that everyone, no matter who, no matter the crime, is entitled to defend himself.”
Warne closed his eyes, his face tight, lips drawn into a grimace. Rathbone realized that Warne had not known it was Rathbone who defended Phillips. And why should he! Why would he study the past cases of a judge, from a time before that judge was on the bench? Surely only his decisions since appointment were relevant?
Or did everything matter?
Rathbone was furious. He felt so cornered that for a moment he lost his temper. “What are you looking for, Mr. Gavinton? A round of applause? Please continue to your point, which I believe had something to do with Mr. Sawley and how he acquired the evidence of fraud—other than by simply opening the door to Mr. Robinson.”
“Indeed I can, my lord,” Gavinton said, his voice soft, his composure regained. He had pricked Rathbone and he knew it.
In that moment Rathbone felt fear, not of Gavinton, but of failing his own responsibility. He must not allow himself to be provoked again.
It was difficult. Gavinton led Robertson Drew carefully, question after question into destroying Gethen Sawley. It was always to do with the papers, however obliquely. Warne objected that it was irre
levant, and Rathbone was obliged to overrule him. The thread of connection was thin at times, but it existed.
Gavinton asked about the history of Sawley’s relationships with members of the congregation, always finding the weak spot, the conversation that could be misinterpreted. He savored the tales of times Sawley took offense where it was not intended and afterward apologized too much, appearing to be emotionally erratic, too eager to please. Drew very subtly held him up to ridicule, questioning his judgment, even his honesty in small things.
Warne objected again.
Rathbone upheld him, but the damage had been done.
“But his religious views were the same as your own, and those of Mr. Taft?” Gavinton persisted.
Warne was on his feet again. “My lord, Mr. Sawley’s religious beliefs are his own concern. He is not required to explain them to us, or to anyone.”
“They are relevant to his persecution of Mr. Taft, my lord,” Gavinton replied with elaborate patience. “If they had been the same as those of Mr. Taft and Mr. Drew, then he would have rejoiced in the opportunity to give to the desperately poor. He would have seen it as Christ’s work on earth.”
Warne was furious. “My lord, a man has the right to interpret Christ’s work on earth in any way he pleases! And he should be free to give help as he pleases—or not! And as his own means allow. To suggest otherwise is preposterous!”
“Of course,” Gavinton said with a shrug and that flashing smile with too many teeth. “And Mr. Bicknor was free to give or not. He chose to give, and when he had misjudged his own finances and got himself into debt, he blamed not his own inaccuracies, but Mr. Taft, and set about trying to stir up a wave of accusation against him. I am seeking only to show that Mr. Bicknor—and Mr. Sawley—are unreliable men, motivated by their own embarrassment and inadequacies, not by a love of truth, or a pity for the unfortunate. This whole farrago of lies that this creature Robinson dug up is a pathetic man’s revenge, no more than that. In Mr. Taft’s defense, I must be allowed to demonstrate that this is the case.”