Blind Justice

CHAPTER 3

The summer weather was beautiful. Rathbone stood by the window in his chambers and watched the traffic pass below him. The sun glinted on harnesses and the shining coats of the horses as a brougham went by, coachman sitting upright. In the carriage two ladies held colored parasols, the frilled edges fluttering in the breeze.

There was a brief knock on the door. As he turned to respond, the door opened and his clerk came in, his face somber.

“Yes, Patmore?” Rathbone said, curious. Usually Patmore would begin to speak as soon as he had closed the door. Obviously this was a matter of some gravity.

“There is a new case added to your docket, Sir Oliver,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “I think you might like some warning before it actually comes to court.”

Rathbone was intrigued already. “Scandal?” he asked. “Something we need to handle delicately?” He was used to such things.

“Yes, sir, but not in the usual way,” Patmore replied. “It’s … it’s really very nasty.”

“Things usually are if they find their way to the Old Bailey,” Rathbone observed a little drily. “Murder?”

“No, sir. As far as I know, nobody was physically harmed. It’s all quite literally about money.”

Rathbone almost lost interest immediately. Greed was one of the most boring motives for breaking the law. “Then why do you think I ought to be warned before I consider it more seriously?” he asked.

“You might wish to find a way to pass it on to someone else, sir,” Patmore replied, explaining it as if to someone slow of understanding. “I think it will get very ugly, and whatever the verdict, it will offend people we would prefer not to.”

Rathbone’s attention was fully engaged now. He recalled the conversation at Ingram York’s dinner table. “What on earth is so sensational in a case of greed?” He said carefully, not wanting to assume the case was anything too extraordinary. “We see them every day.”

“Not when the accused is a churchman and the victim is apparently his flock, sir.”

Patmore had a sense of irony that had not escaped Rathbone, but he was still far from used to it.

“I see.” Rathbone exhaled slowly.

“It will be unpleasant and require a great deal of tact,” Patmore continued. “I rather fancy you have been handed it because everyone else would prefer to watch from the sidelines, preferably far enough away for flying mud not to attach itself to them.”

“If anyone can counsel you to curb your opinions, Patmore, you might consider it seriously, for your own survival-but please never do it for mine. I should miss your frankness. Now tell me more specifically what the accusation is against this churchman.”

Patmore inclined his head, by way of accepting what he took to be a compliment, as indeed it was. “Mr. Abel Taft has been accused of defrauding his congregation out of several thousands of pounds, sir,” he answered. “In fact, the amount named would be sufficient to buy a row of quite respectable houses. Half a street of them.”

“Several thousands?” Rathbone said in disbelief. “How on earth could he swindle his congregation out of so much without their knowledge? And where on earth is his church that his parishioners had that much to give?” He was quite certain now that this was the case that York had mentioned.

“That is rather the issue, sir,” Patmore remarked. “It has been given, allegedly, by ordinary men and women, out of their savings, in the belief that it was going to the starving and the homeless.”

“And it was not?” Rathbone felt his anger rising.

“Allegedly not, sir. Rather more than stated was going to a very nice savings account, not to mention a high standard of living for Mr. Taft himself, and of course his young and very appealing family.”

“I begin to see what you mean about the possibility of this getting ugly,” Rathbone conceded. “We had better ensure that the evidence is more than good and that both lawyers know what they are doing. Mr. Taft is represented, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, sir. By Mr. Blair Gavinton. Having him appear in your court will be quite an experience for you.”

“I don’t like the way you say that, Patmore.”

“I could say it a lot worse, sir, I promise you.”

“Exactly what is wrong with Mr. Gavinton?”

“Greasy, sir. There’s just something about him, but the minute you put your finger on it, it slips away.”

“Indeed. And what do you know about Mr. Abel Taft? I’ve never heard of him.”

“Does very well, sir,” Patmore replied, all expression very carefully ironed out of his voice. “I’ve taken the liberty of looking him up. He has a nice house, very handsome wife, two young daughters just about the right age to be looking for husbands. Dresses very well, does Mr. Taft, at least so I hear. Dines even better. Belongs to some good clubs too. I wouldn’t care to pay his tailor’s bill.”

“Interesting,” Rathbone conceded. “Do you know who is prosecuting this case?”

“No, sir, not yet. But I have made discreet inquiries. He’ll have to be very good indeed to catch Mr. Gavinton out.”

“We must assume the police have concrete evidence, or they would not be wasting everyone’s time or risking looking incompetent.”

Patmore inclined his head very slightly. “Precisely, sir. I shall keep you informed. I believe we have three weeks yet before the trial begins. Rather depends on the Warburton case, and how long that takes.”

“Not three weeks, please heaven!” Rathbone exclaimed.

“Indeed not, sir.”

Rathbone gave him a wry look, and Patmore withdrew, his expression unreadable.

After the door had closed Rathbone stood still for quite some time. This had to be the case York had been referring to. He had said it would require considerable legal skill to keep it under control and make it clear enough for justice to be truly served. Was there a reason York had brought it up in the first place? Had he wanted the church exonerated? Or did he consider this to be a sect richly deserving a setback?

Rathbone wondered who would be prosecuting. It certainly would have been decided already. There would be a great deal of paperwork to go through, many witnesses. Presumably the victim was the entire body of the congregation, or at the least, all those who had contributed. There would be bookkeepers and accountants as witnesses of bank records and whatever financial proof of donation the various parishioners had kept-if any.

The more Rathbone thought about it, the more he agreed with Patmore that presiding over such a trial was an unenviable task. His task was to see justice prevail, but in order to do that he would have to make certain that the jury understood exactly what had happened. One could very easily become exhausted with detail, confused by the sheer weight of facts and numbers, and fall back on the faith that a churchman couldn’t possibly be guilty of such a crime.

Was there any way Rathbone could control the testimony without denying due process of law to either side?

The defense would fight hard. A man’s freedom and his reputation were in the balance. It was not quite his life, but it was his way of life that was at stake.

Would the prosecutor try equally hard? He had less to gain, or lose.

What about the religious loyalties of either of the lawyers? Would that matter? Would anyone be angry that the name of religion in general was being blackened in the public eye?

Rathbone would have to be very careful not to overstep the boundaries of his discretion if his own prejudices were attacked.

He thought of the cases he had defended in his long career. Some of the criminals had been accused of appalling acts; some of tragic ones, painfully understandable. In certain cases he had thought that in the same circumstances, he might have made the same judgments and ended up in the same disastrous position.

He had always cared a little too much, and he had not always been right in his judgment. One of the worst villains he had ever defended was Jericho Phillips, a fearful man accused of blackmail, child pornography, and murder. He winced as he recalled it now, standing in this old wood-paneled chamber with its rows of leather-bound books and its rich rugs on the floor.

It was in Newgate Prison that he had first met Phillips, alive and well, his vulpine face full of satisfaction, all but certain that he would escape the rope. The last time he had seen him had been months later, after the acquittal, and after Monk had hunted him down again. It was as the Thames tide receded, leaving the hideous iron cage of Execution Dock naked above the water. Inside it had been the drowned corpse of Jericho Phillips, his mouth stretched wide in his final scream.

Should Rathbone have defended him? There was no serious doubt in his mind about that. He had thought Phillips guilty, but he had also thought other men guilty in the past and been proven wrong.

If someone harms a stranger, then it is usually the fault of the thief and the misfortune of the victim. But if the victim and the perpetrator know each other, both of them need to be considered carefully in order to find justice. Extortion, bullying, and consistent cruelty are so often practiced that sometimes there is no course of action short of violence-a reaction born out of desperation, because the so-called criminal was terrified, exhausted, and at wits’ end. It did not justify murder, but it raised complicated questions of self-defense, where no answer was fair to all.

Many cases had come to him through Monk, and of course through Hester. Some of those from the time when she was a nurse for private patients had tested him to what he had believed were his limits, showing him tragedies with no simple or just answer. Nature and society between them created Gordian knots impossible to unravel.

The case of Phillips, which had seemed at the beginning a simple matter of serving the law, had become so entangled in violence and in Rathbone’s own conflicted emotions that even the death of Phillips had been only a brief respite before the continuation of the crimes connected to his life.

It had ended in the destruction of Arthur Ballinger, and of Rathbone’s marriage. Even that was not as simple as it appeared. For a while Ballinger had seemed to Rathbone an irredeemable man. Then, in that final encounter, he had told Rathbone not only what had happened, but why; he had explained his slow descent from idealism, step by step downward to the conscienceless brutality that marked his character at the end of his life.

It all made a case of a clergyman embezzling money seem cut-and-dried-the evidence would be complex, full of detail that would need to be explained with great clarity-but essentially, it was a matter of simple greed. He certainly would not attempt to pass the case off to anyone else.

Hester was also looking forward to the trial of Abel Taft. She had worked extraordinarily hard to bring it about. It was extra-good news to her that it was Oliver Rathbone who had been appointed to try the case.

“What a good thing I didn’t say anything to him. I had thought about it, a few weeks ago,” she said as she and Monk walked under the trees in Southwark Park, a mere stone’s throw from their own house. “I suppose that could have compromised him so he wouldn’t have been allowed to hear the case, couldn’t it?”

“Possibly,” he agreed, smiling in the evening sun. Below them in the distance the light was mirror-bright on the water, making the ships stand out almost black. “Is that why you didn’t tell him? In case he was chosen to hear it?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “I rather thought he wouldn’t approve.”

“When on earth has that ever stopped you?” he asked incredulously, turning to look at her with amusement and a sudden surge of affection.

“Since he was placed in a position to be able to stop me,” she said frankly.

How very practical. How like her-a mixture of the wildly idealistic and the totally pragmatic. He put his arm around her and walked a little closer.

“Of course,” he agreed.

Approximately two weeks later the trial of Abel Taft began. It was a hot, almost windless day in mid-July, and the courtroom of the Old Bailey was uncomfortably warm. Even though the public gallery was not full, the atmosphere seemed airless.

The proceedings began as usual. The court had been called to order, the jurors were sworn in. As always the gravity of it gave Rathbone a sudden sharpening of his awareness of exactly who he was, and-more importantly-what his responsibilities were toward the people in this old, beautiful, and frightening chamber. Lives had been ripped apart here; dreams shattered, guilt and tragedy exposed, and, please God, justice done.

He should never forget that sometimes it could be the opposite. Lies had covered truth, oppression had crushed freedom, and violence beyond the walls had reached inside and silenced protest.

He looked at the participants today. As he already knew, Blair Gavinton represented the accused. He was slender, graying a little. Everything about him was smooth, immaculately tailored. He smiled easily, as if he believed it were charming. To Rathbone, he seemed to have too many teeth. He was sitting very calmly today. The expression suggested that he knew something that the rest of them did not.

On the other side of the room Dillon Warne represented the prosecution. He was a good height, perhaps an inch or two taller than Gavinton, and his hair was dark. He had an elegance that did not look as if he had struggled to attain it. Indeed he gave one the feeling that he was not even aware that he had a certain grace. Rathbone was always surprised to notice that when Warne walked he did so with a slight limp. He had never mentioned, in the few times he and Rathbone had spoken, what had occurred to cause it, nor did he ever say whether it gave him any pain.

He was sitting pensively, no indication in his face as to what he might be thinking.

The dock where the accused sat between two jailers was raised above the rest of the room, and entered separately, from a stairway apart from the main court. The accused could see and hear all the proceedings, but was removed in a sense.

Abel Taft sat there now, a calm, handsome man with magnificent hair. He looked patient rather than afraid. He might almost have been preparing for the room to come to order so he could begin his sermon. Was he a superb actor, or was he really so very confident that he wouldn’t be found guilty?

Warne rose to his feet and began to address the court as to the nature of his case against the accused, and what he intended to prove. Rathbone looked at Taft’s wife sitting in the gallery behind Gavinton. Mrs. Taft was a pretty woman, but today she looked as if she kept her composure only with considerable difficulty. Her husband might not be afraid, but she most certainly was. Another woman, rather older, sat next to her, leaning a little toward her as if to offer comfort.

Once, Blair Gavinton turned round and gave Mrs. Taft a reassuring glance. Rathbone could not see his face, but he could well imagine his expression. Hers softened into a hesitant smile, and Gavinton looked toward the front again, and listened to Warne, who now called his first witness.

Mr. Knight was a very ordinary young man, rather overweight, and at that moment extremely nervous.

Warne tried to set him at ease. Obviously he would have done all he could to prepare him, because if Warne himself did not know the testimony he could hardly present it to the court.

“If you would give us the facts and figures as clearly and briefly as you can, please,” Warne requested.

Knight swallowed, wiped his brow with a rather small handkerchief, then swallowed again.

“Begin at the beginning,” Warne prompted.

Gavinton smiled, looking down at the papers in front of him. It was a simple gesture, and yet to Rathbone it conveyed a certain smugness, as if Gavinton were awaiting his opportunity to destroy the young man.

Knight must have felt the same because when he began his voice was a squeak. First he listed sums of money, reading from a ledger that had been produced in evidence and of which the jurors had copies.

It was all very tedious, and Rathbone had only to look at the jurors’ faces to see that they were already bored. The figures had no meaning to them at all.

Mr. Knight himself must have realized it. He hurried up until he was practically gibbering.

Warne heard him out as if he were interested. Finally he held up his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Knight. I think this is sufficient for us to have the idea that these sums of money, added together, amount to a very considerable total. You have mentioned dates, but possibly in all the figures, we missed them, or we’ve forgotten. Will you give us the total sum for the year ended last 31 December?”

“Yes, sir. Two thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings and sixpence.”

“Is that typical of a year? How does it compare, for example, to the year before?”

“It increases slightly every year, sir, by about a hundred pounds, or maybe a hundred and fifty.”

“So always sufficient to purchase several very agreeable houses?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And is this year set to reach a similar amount?”

“If it continues like this, more, sir.”

“And is it made up of similar random amounts?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gavinton stood up wearily. “My lord, the defense will stipulate to the amounts mentioned being the sums donated by the parishioners to the charitable endeavors of Mr. Taft’s Church. I think it is something to be proud of, not a cause for shame.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gavinton,” Rathbone said drily. “I imagine Mr. Warne is establishing the amount, and its source, in order to pursue exactly where it ended up, not to question your skill in assessing it.” He turned to Warne. “Please come to your point, before we are so numbed by these figures we forget that they represent the life savings of many people.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Gavinton’s face, but he sat down again.

Warne inclined his head in acknowledgment. “My lord.” He turned to Knight. “Those sums must represent pennies and shillings collected over every week of the year, to have reached such an amount.”

“Yes, sir,” Knight agreed.

Gavinton rose again. “My lord, this is pointless. We agree that many people gave generously. It is a waste of the court’s time, and these gentlemen’s indulgence.” He waved to indicate the jury, who all looked bored and impatient.

“Mr. Warne, is there some point you wish to make?” Rathbone asked. “So far you have not shown us anything a simple statement of account would not have done.”

Warne smiled bleakly. “My point, my lord, is that these individual figures show a pattern.” He turned to Knight, who was looking more and more wretched, as if Gavinton’s objections were his fault. “Mr. Knight, what conclusion did you draw from these figures, sir?”

Knight swallowed yet again. “That these people had given money to Mr. Taft every week, sir. The amounts are random, often including odd pennies, as if they had turned out their pockets and given all they had. And because the number of donations every week corresponded pretty clearly with the number of adults attending the service, it seems as if they all gave … sir.”

“Thank you,” Warne said with a bow. “Your witness, Mr. Gavinton.”

Gavinton rose to his feet. The satisfaction still gleamed in his face.

“Mr. Knight, do you go to church, sir?”

“Yes.”

“And do you give an offering?”

“I do.”

“And does it compare roughly to any of the amounts you found in these records?”

“Yes, sir. I give what I can.”

Gavinton smiled. “I imagine everyone in your congregation does. And in every other congregation in London, indeed in England.” He looked a little wearily at Warne. “I don’t understand your point. And forgive me, Mr. Knight, I haven’t any idea what you think you are testifying to! Other than the perfectly obvious fact that Mr. Taft has a more generous flock, and perhaps a larger one, than most congregations of rather more orthodox faith!”

Knight leaned forward in the witness stand, his plump hands gripping the railing. “You could if you understood figures, sir,” he said distinctly. “These people are giving all they can, pennies and ha’pennies, whatever they have left at the end of the week. All of them-every week.”

“All you are saying is that they are noble and generous,” Gavinton pointed out with a faint smirk. “And possibly that Mr. Taft is a better preacher than most. Thank you, Mr. Knight!” The smirk was wider.

“No!” Knight said loudly as Gavinton walked away from him. “It shows that they believed with all their hearts that Mr. Taft was going to do something with it that they cared about, so much so they were willing to go cold and hungry,” he said angrily.

“Willing to make do with less, you mean?” Gavinton suggested. “Did he ask anyone to go into debt? To fall short on their own commitments?”

Warne rose to his feet. “We shall show that that is exactly what he did.”

“If he did, that is not a crime,” Gavinton shot back. “He could ask, but he couldn’t force anyone to do anything against their will. You are wasting the court’s time and bringing a righteous man’s name into disrepute by making those frankly absurd charges.”

“Gentlemen!” Rathbone demanded their attention. “It is you who are wasting our time. We are here to provide evidence and test it on exactly these matters. Please continue to do so, with facts, however tedious they may be to unravel. Mr. Gavinton, have you anything more to ask Mr. Knight?”

“I don’t think Mr. Knight can tell me anything at all,” Gavinton said ungraciously.

Warne raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think anyone can,” he responded.

There was a titter of amusement from the gallery, and one juror laughed outright.

Gavinton was far from amused.

Rathbone kept his face straight with something of an effort. “Have you anything to ask or redirect, Mr. Warne?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Warne said. “Mr. Knight, you deduce from these figures that a number of people, almost the same number every week, gave random amounts to Mr. Taft’s Church. The numbers vary from a few pence to many pounds, in fact whatever they could possibly manage. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in what way is that a crime?” His voice was very light, curious, no more.

“It’s not, sir,” Knight replied. “So long as Mr. Taft used the money for exactly what it was given for.”

“Ah …” Warne breathed out slowly. “That is rather a big condition, is it not? If … it was used for that purpose, all of it, and that purpose alone.”

For the first time there was attention in the gallery. People moved, exchanged glances. Journalists were busy scribbling on their pads.

In the jury box more notes were made. Suddenly faces were grave, showing sharp interest. Several of them looked up at Taft with the beginnings of doubt and even dislike.

In her seat in the gallery, behind Gavinton, Mrs. Taft was clearly anxious.

The trial went on like that for three days. The facts and figures were boring even to the jurors, who were paying as much attention as they could manage. Many wrote things down, but there was far too much detail for anyone to record, and even then it would have meant little. It was the conclusions that mattered. Rathbone had thought at first that the detail would have affected them. There were no crushing boulders, only endless grains of sand, and the sheer volume of their assumed and monstrous weight. The figures all tallied at first glance, but time-consuming evidence showed again and again that they did so only through sleight of hand, duplicity, and shifting of the boundaries and the terms of reference.

Gradually the jury’s reaction of boredom and confusion changed to one of pure suspicion that they were being deliberately duped. They resented it, as if they had been patronized by someone who thought them too stupid to fathom a trick when they saw one, or too easily distracted to follow a trail of slow and well-concealed theft.

As Mr. Knight had said at the beginning, as much as you might deplore it, taking the last penny a man had to give, or even beyond that, sending him into debt, was not a crime. But when he had given it in trust for a specific and limited purpose, and it had been used for something else, then it assuredly was-and keeping it for oneself was fraud, pure and simple.

On Thursday, the fourth day of the trial, Warne presented Mr. Bicknor, the elderly father of a young man named Cuthbert Bicknor, who had apparently given to Taft a great deal more money than he had the right to dispose of. As a result of his mismanagement, he had lost his job and after that his health had suffered, and he was now confined to his bed with pneumonia.

Warne treated him as gently as he could.

“Mr. Bicknor, could you please tell the court of the change in your son after he joined Mr. Taft’s Church?”

Bicknor looked wretched. The whole situation obviously embarrassed him acutely. He hated being here, stared at by so many people and obliged to recount his family’s shame.

“He became totally absorbed in it,” he said so quietly Rathbone had to ask him to speak a little more loudly.

“I’m sorry,” Bicknor said, jerking his head up to stare at Warne. “He seemed to be able to think and talk of nothing else. He stopped going out to the theater or the music hall, or out to dinner with friends.”

“Did Mr. Taft’s Church teach against such things?” Warne asked gently.

Bicknor shook his head. “No-Cuthbert said he shouldn’t spend the money on such things, not when there were people cold and hungry in other places. It is unchristian to indulge ourselves, he said. He stopped even buying himself new shoes.”

Warne looked puzzled. “And did you not admire him for that, Mr. Bicknor? It sounds a most generous and truly Christlike attitude. Perhaps if more of us thought like that, the world would be a better place.”

There was a murmur of approval from the gallery, and some discomfort in the jury box. Several of the jurors looked intently at the woodwork, avoiding anyone’s eyes.

Rathbone wondered if Warne was really thinking about what he was saying. He seemed to be playing into Gavinton’s hands.

“If the whole world was like that, yes,” Bicknor replied, clearly distressed. He looked as if Warne’s question was unexpected. “But it isn’t, is it? My son’s going around with shoes that have holes in them, and a shirt with a frayed collar that’s already been turned once. Look at Mr. Taft. He’s got brand-new boots with a shine you could see your face in. And I’ve seen him myself in three different pairs. And I’ll wager he doesn’t have his wife turn his shirt collars so the frayed edges don’t show. He has a nice carriage and a matched pair of horses to pull it, while my son walks to save the omnibus fare.”

Warne nodded slowly. “Then Mr. Taft is a hypocrite. He does not himself do what he expects of others. But that is not a crime, Mr. Bicknor. Certainly it is contemptible, and repugnant to any decent man, but I’m afraid we find such people not only in the Church but in all walks of life.” He looked unhappy as he said it, his dark face rueful.

“We don’t give them our money!” Bicknor retorted angrily, his frustration at his inability to convey the injustice of the situation ringing in his voice. “He’s a cheat! He lied to us … in the name of God!” His cheeks were flushed and he was trembling, grasping the rail of the witness box with hands whose knuckles shone white.

Warne smiled, his lips drawn tight. “If Mr. Taft has asked for money in order to give it to the poor, and then taken it for his own use, then it is a crime, Mr. Bicknor, and we shall prove it so. It is particularly despicable if he has taken it from those who have little enough in the first place. Thank you for your testimony. Please remain there in case my learned friend has anything to ask you.”

As Warne returned to his seat, his limp a little more noticeable, Gavinton stood up. He walked across the open space of the floor as if he were entering an arena, a gladiator swaggering out to battle. He looked up at Bicknor, a lumbering man by comparison, who now was regarding him with apprehension.

“Mr. Bicknor, you are naturally very protective of your son. It sounds as if he is an unusually vulnerable young man, desperate to have the approval of Mr. Taft. Do you know why this is?”

“No I don’t,” Bicknor replied a little sharply. “The man’s a charlatan. Mind, my son didn’t see that. He thinks a man in the pulpit, preaching the word of God, has to be honest. We brought him up to respect the Church, and any man of the cloth. Maybe that was our mistake.”

“No,” Gavinton shook his head. “It is right to respect the Church, and those who represent it. But it seems your son’s emotions were far more radical than simple respect would dictate. Did you teach him to give all he possessed, more than he could possibly afford, to anyone who asked for it?”

“Of course not!” Bicknor was angry. Rathbone could see his self-control, which Warne had guarded so carefully, already beginning to slip out of his grasp. One should not underestimate Gavinton.

Gavinton smiled, flashing his teeth again. “I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Bicknor. I imagine you are a great deal more careful with your money. You give what is safely within your means?” He made it sound somehow mean-spirited.

“Yes.” Bicknor could give no other answer.

“A pity you did not teach your son to do the same,” Gavinton shook his head. “Without offense, might I suggest it was your duty to have done that, not Mr. Taft’s?” He ignored Bicknor’s scarlet face and his hunched, shaking body. “How was Mr. Taft to know that your son was in financial difficulty? He has hundreds of parishioners. He cannot possibly be aware of the affairs of all of them. Why is it that you expect him to be? How many sons do you have, Mr. Bicknor? Correct me if I am mistaken, but is it not just the one?”

“Yes … but I don’t ask him for money to support me!” Bicknor said with a rising note of desperation. “I don’t bleed him dry and then make him feel ashamed if he can’t give me even more. I don’t use Christ’s name to get him to do things I want him to.”

“Is that what your son told you happened? Or possibly it is simply what you assume, knowing that Mr. Taft is a man of God?” He raised his eyebrows. “I take it that you were not there while this was happening, or you would have intervened, would you not?”

“ ’Course I weren’t there at the church.” Bicknor’s control was slipping even further out of his grasp.

Rathbone could see from Warne’s face that he longed to help him, but there were absolutely no grounds for him to object. There was nothing Rathbone could do either, whatever he felt personally. Gavinton was very possibly testing the emotional value of the testimony, but that was his job. And there was always the possibility, remote as it seemed, that he was correct. Young Bicknor might be a naïve young man who had misunderstood what was said to him. His father might be blaming Taft for faults in his son that he himself should have checked.

“Mr. Bicknor,” Gavinton continued, “is it not possible that your son sought out Mr. Taft, and became so dependent upon his good opinion, because he wished to overcome some doubt or fear within himself? Possibly it was even God’s forgiveness he sought, for some sin that burdened him heavily?”

“How dare you?” Bicknor burst out, rage and humiliation thickening his voice. He banged his closed fist on the railing. “First he was robbed blind, deceived by lies and canting ways, and now you accuse him of some terrible sin! He’s never done anything worse than dodge school a few times when he was younger. You-you’re disgusting!”

Rathbone leaned forward a little. “Mr. Bicknor, Mr. Gavinton is only putting to you a possible reason as to why your son might have been coerced so easily into giving more money than he could afford. There is nothing dishonorable in seeking to pay your debts to God by giving generously to those less fortunate.” He drew in a breath. “And we all have debts to God-the honest among us acknowledge it.”

Bicknor looked at Rathbone in silent misery. He wanted to argue, but he dared not. Rathbone represented the majesty of the law, which Bicknor had respected all his life. The answers were in his head, but he was afraid to give them.

“Thank you, my lord,” Gavinton said, instantly turning Rathbone’s remarks to his own advantage.

Rathbone had a sudden flash of empathy for Bicknor. The result was not what he intended. He must be more careful.

“Do not thank me yet,” he snapped. “It is one of the skills of those who cheat people out of their money to make them feel guilty for nameless sins they have not committed. As I am sure Mr. Warne will point out on his reexamination of the witness.”

Warne did not bother to hide his smile.

Gavinton bit his lip in order to suppress the objection he would like to have made. He was taken by surprise. He had thought Rathbone less brave, possibly even less involved.

Bicknor’s shoulders eased and he gripped the railing again, but this time not as if he intended to break it.

“You can think what you like,” he said to Gavinton. “It’s your job to be on his side.” He glanced up at the dock, then back to Gavinton again. “God help you. You’ve got to live with yourself. My son’s got a soft heart, not a guilty one. Maybe a bit of a soft head, to believe that … that liar!” This time he only nodded toward the dock.

Gavinton opened his mouth to protest, then glanced at the jury and changed his mind. He sat down and offered the witness back to Warne.

Warne walked over to the witness stand, his limp barely noticeable now. He was smiling, in spite of an apparent effort not to.

“Mr. Bicknor, are you aware of your son having a major issue of conscience at any time in his life, of the sort or degree that Mr. Gavinton has suggested?”

“No, sir, I am not,” Bicknor said loudly.

Warne was not finished yet.

“On the other hand, have you known him to be generous to those less fortunate?” he persisted. “To share what he had, for example? To be willing, as a child, to let others play with his toys?”

“Yes,” Bicknor agreed immediately. “We taught him in that way. He has sisters, and he was always good to them. Younger, they are. He looked out for them.”

“Did they take advantage of him?” Warne went on.

Bicknor smiled. “They’re little girls! Course they did! And of me too. Some people think little girls is all weak and soft. I’ll tell you, they aren’t. Sweet and gentle, all right, but clever as little monkeys, they are. A man who hasn’t had little girls has missed out on one of the best things in life. But anyone who thinks they’re daft is in for a very big surprise.”

Warne’s smile was wide and surprisingly sweet. “Thank you, Mr. Bicknor. I really don’t think I have to ask you any more. It seems clear to me that your son is a decent man taken advantage of by those he had been brought up to trust.”

Gavinton rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Warne is making speeches; he is all but directing the jury as to their conclusions.”

“You suggested Mr. Bicknor was a guilty man seeking to buy off his conscience with money,” Rathbone pointed out. “This seems a fair rebuttal. It is an alternative explanation for a piece of behavior that is crucial to the case.” He turned back to Warne. “Please call your next witness, Mr. Warne.”

The prosecution continued for the rest of the day. Warne had enough wisdom to choose a variety of people, old and young, men and women, those who had given from wealth and those who had offered almost all they had. In each case they had done so believing it would be used to help those in desperate need. It became very apparent that Cuthbert Bicknor was one of very many.

John Raleigh was also among them. He looked gaunt and worried, a man prematurely old for his years as he mounted the witness stand. He was no more than Rathbone’s own age, and yet he looked pale and beaten. It was clear that Warne found it difficult to question him at all, so sensitive was he to the man’s deep unhappiness and shame.

And yet Raleigh was exactly who he needed to make the case. He was so obviously an honest man, harrowed by the fact that he was now deeply in debt. Gavinton would have been a fool to attack him. Not only was he sincere, he was articulate.

Warne treated him with respect. He walked out slowly to the center of the floor and looked up. His voice when he spoke was quiet and clear.

“Mr. Raleigh, would you please explain to the court why you went on donating to Mr. Taft’s causes when it stretched your means beyond what was wise? Some people may not understand why you did not simply tell him that you could not.”

Raleigh looked embarrassed. It was so apparent in his face that even Rathbone, long used to the acute distress of witnesses, found himself uncomfortable, as if he were intruding into some private issue that he should have had the sense and the good taste not to observe in the first place.

“Mr. Taft told us the most pitiful stories of the plight of those he intended to help,” Raleigh said, his voice soft but clear. “I was very moved by it,” he went on, lifting his chin and facing Warne and the court as if he were walking into battle. “I … I gave more than I should have, and then found myself facing the choice of paying one bill, or another. One has certain expenses that one deals with so regularly they become invisible. And then, as always, there’s the unexpected thing. I …” He took a deep breath.

Rathbone looked at him with concern. “Are you able to continue, Mr. Raleigh?” he said gently. “If you would like a few moments to collect yourself, you may take them.”

“No, thank you, my lord,” Raleigh answered. “If I am man enough to do it, I must have the honesty to explain myself. I am far from being the only one so … embarrassed for means. Mr. Taft asked me how much I had in the bank, and if I would not trust in God to provide for me if I gave all I could to fellow human souls who were perishing for lack of food or shelter. What answer could an honest man give, except that of course I would?”

“And what happened, Mr. Raleigh?” Warne asked, his face filled with pity.

“A slate came off my roof, then several more,” Raleigh replied. “I asked the roofer to replace them for me, otherwise the first rains would come in, and the rafters would begin to rot. Before long I should have irreparable damage.”

“But you had insufficient means to pay him?” Warne asked.

“I had sufficient funds for the damage I could see. But when he climbed up there, he found other slates were broken and the lead was inadequately laid around the chimney. It cost twice as much as I had anticipated, and I no longer had the funds set aside against such things.” There were tears in his eyes, and he blinked them away rapidly. “Perhaps the Lord expects rather more prudence than I exercised.”

“Did you consider asking Mr. Taft to return some of your money to you?” Warne asked. “I know the answer, but the court may wish to hear.”

“I did.” Raleigh’s face was scarlet with humiliation, and he stumbled over his words. “He accused me of asking him to rob God. He told me I would forfeit the grace I had obtained, and that I should strengthen my faith if I wanted to be among those in whom God was pleased.”

Warne’s own face was white now, his voice suddenly rough-edged. “Did you believe that Mr. Taft had the power or the right to tell you whom God would favor, and whom he would not?”

Raleigh looked down at the floor, away from Warne’s eyes. “He is an ordained preacher, sir. He was very persuasive. And do I need two coats, when my neighbor has not even a shirt? ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ ”

“Mr. Raleigh, how many coats do you think Mr. Taft possesses?” Warne said softly.

Raleigh sighed. “I have seen him in at least a dozen, at one time or another. I didn’t think of that at the time. I admit it, I was gullible, extremely foolish. I really believed that what I was giving would go straight to some poor soul who had not even that night’s supper, and I knew I had mine, and to spare.”

“And have you now, Mr. Raleigh?”

“No, sir, I have not. I am ashamed to say it, but I am dependent upon my daughter’s kindness-and, God knows, she has little enough money to share.”

“And has Mr. Taft seen your need and offered to help you?” Warne asked, with an edge to his voice like an open blade.

“No, sir,” Raleigh whispered.

Warne thanked Raleigh for his evidence and said nothing more.

Gavinton had the sense not to make his situation even worse. He could see in the jurors’ faces, and when he glanced behind him in the gallery also, that if he attacked Raleigh in any way, he would lose even the small hope he had left.

The following day, FRIDay, Warne called his final witness. Gethen Sawley was a quiet, rather studious young man with horn-rimmed glasses, which kept sliding down his nose. He was bony, as if somehow in the making of him the sculptor had been interrupted before he was finished. Sawley took the oath nervously and faced Warne, appearing as though he had to struggle to hear him.

“Mr. Sawley,” Warne began gently, “what is your occupation, sir?”

“I’m a clerk at Wiggins amp; Martin, but mostly I do the bookkeeping since Mr. Baker left.” Sawley pushed his glasses back up his nose.

“Are you a member of Mr. Taft’s congregation?”

“I was. I don’t go there anymore. I can’t take being badgered for more money all the time.” He said it apologetically. Clearly he felt as if such a thing should not have bothered him so deeply.

“Is that your only reason, Mr. Sawley?” Warne pressed.

“Er … no.” Sawley colored. “I … er …” He stopped again. He fiddled with his glasses, gulped, and then continued. “I was embarrassed because I’d been inquiring into their finances behind their backs, and … and I couldn’t look them in the eye, for what I thought of them.”

The jurors appeared mildly interested.

“We do not want to know your thoughts, Mr. Sawley,” Warne said gravely. “Only what you did, and what you discovered that led to your opinions. The gentlemen of the jury will come to their own conclusions. How did you obtain access to these accounts?”

“I know how much I gave to the church,” Sawley said carefully, watching Warne all the time. “I had a fair idea how much other people did. Some who gave were not always discreet, if it was a large amount. Not that I believe everything I’m told.”

“That is hearsay, Mr. Sawley. What can you tell us that is fact?”

“The name of the main charity that the congregation’s money was to go to, sir. Brothers of the Poor. They minister to people in desperate straits, especially in parts of Africa. That is where Mr. Taft said our money was going. Because they are a charity, their accounts are open to inspection, if you know where to go.”

Several of the jurors straightened a little in their seats. One rather large man leaned forward.

“And you looked into their affairs?” Warne pressed Sawley. “To what degree? Are you qualified to do this?”

Sawley blinked. “I have no qualifications, sir, but I can do arithmetic. The Brothers of the Poor have sent less to Africa in all their time than our congregation gives them in a month.”

“Perhaps they had certain expenses to meet in handling the money?” Warne suggested.

“You weren’t listening, sir!” Sawley was becoming agitated, his glasses wobbling down his nose. “In the whole ten years of their existence, the Brothers of the Poor have sent only a few hundred pounds to Africa, or anywhere else. The poverty referred to in their title is their own. They are simple men who labor and pray.”

“Are you sure you have the right people?” Warne would not be easily put off. “It seems a simple name. Perhaps theirs is not the only group that uses it?”

Sawley jammed his glasses up his nose again.

“Yes, I am sure. They take some money from Mr. Taft, and they are in regular touch with him.”

Warne kept his voice calm. “Then how has this not come to notice before, Mr. Sawley? It would appear rather a gaping hole in Mr. Taft’s accounting.”

Sawley shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It isn’t there right now so as you can see it. It’s all very complicated,” he explained.

“Then how is it that you are able to see it, when others haven’t?” Warne persisted.

Rathbone wondered why Warne was directing the jury’s mind to this. Then he realized it must be because Warne needed to draw out the answer before Gavinton did so, far less gently, when Sawley would not have the chance to tell the court in his own words, or perhaps in Warne’s words.

“I didn’t,” Sawley admitted uncomfortably. “Somebody asked me to look into it, because he was suspicious. And he told me what to look for.”

“Who would that someone be?” Warne asked.

No one in the jury box moved.

Sawley avoided meeting his gaze. “I don’t know. He did it anonymously. But I was so angry and distressed myself that I took him at his word … at least …”

“At least what, Mr. Sawley?” Warne was motionless, as gentle as he dared be. “Even if I believe you, and the financial evidence is incontrovertible, my learned friend Mr. Gavinton is going to want to know exactly how you came by it. Who was it that gave it to you? Who started you on the course of your investigations?”

Sawley looked trapped. Everyone in the courtroom listened intently. The jurors were staring at him. Even Rathbone found himself leaning forward slightly as if afraid he might miss a word.

Sawley drew in a deep breath, and his glasses slipped right off and clattered onto the floor of the witness stand. He did not dare bend down to search for them, but stood blinking.

“I didn’t really see him. He came to my door one evening, late, well after dusk, and he stood away from the light of the lamp. I just knew that he was at least fifty, to judge from what I could see of his face, and his hair was gray, nearly white. I could see his hair, even though he had a hat on, because it was long. He was clean shaven, hollow cheeked. He was about my height, and thin.”

“What did he say to you, Mr. Sawley?” Warne prompted.

Sawley shook his head. “He didn’t ask me anything about myself. As soon as he made sure who I was, he held out a package of papers and said that the information inside was what I was looking for. I didn’t know what he meant.” He shrugged thin shoulders. “I told him I wasn’t looking for anything. He told me that I was. I needed to expose what Mr. Taft was doing, before he ruined me and all my friends. He pushed the packet into my hands then turned around and left.”

“On foot?” Warne asked. “Did you see any carriage? Any hansom cab?”

Sawley shrugged again, looking bewildered.

“No. But I live on a short street, and he turned on the first corner. He could have got a hansom within a hundred yards. There’s no point asking me who he was, or how he knew what I wanted, because I have no idea.”

“And the papers he handed you?” Warne asked.

No one moved in the courtroom; there was not the rustle of fabric or the crack of a whalebone corset, not a sigh.

Rathbone found himself with hands clenched, muscles tight as he sat forward, waiting.

Sawley made a movement to fiddle with his glasses and remembered they were on the floor by his feet. He looked oddly helpless without them.

“Copies of the accounts and certain public charities, of Mr. Taft’s Church,” he answered. “Lots of figures and calculations. At first it didn’t make sense to me, then I looked at them more carefully and crosschecked those with a red pencil mark beside them, and gradually I understood. It was very clear. You’d have to understand fraud to see it, the way the money was all moved around from one place to another. Everything seemed to be paid out honestly, until you followed it all the way, and saw how it came back around again. Hardly any of it really went to the people in Africa it was supposed to help.”

“I see. And why would this mysterious stranger bring all this to you, Mr. Sawley?”

Sawley looked totally confused. “I’ve no idea, sir. I just know that he did.”

Warne retired on that note, and Gavinton rose to try to undo some of the damage. He walked out into the middle of the floor without his usual slightly cocky swagger. Then he was obliged to wait to begin while Sawley crouched on the floor of the witness box and retrieved his glasses. When he stood up at last Gavinton spoke.

“Terribly convenient for you, Mr. Sawley,” he observed with an acute edge of sarcasm to his voice. “Did anybody else see this … this apparition?”

Warne rose to his feet immediately.

“Yes,” Rathbone agreed before he could voice his objection. “Mr. Gavinton, if you can prove that this was an apparition and not a real person, then please do so. Otherwise do not present assumptions as if they were facts.”

Gavinton’s face tightened in irritation, but he obeyed because he had no choice.

“I apologize, my lord. Mr. Sawley, did anyone besides yourself see the extraordinary person?”

Sawley put his glasses back on his nose.

“No, sir, not as far as I know. But the papers are real, and I didn’t write them. I’m fairly good with figures, but I’m not anywhere near good enough to have worked out a fraud like this, or to have uncovered one. I had to read it half a dozen times before I saw what’d been done.”

“We have only your word for that, sir,” Gavinton pointed out.

Sawley shook his head. “If I were that good I’d be bookkeeper to some big company, not just a clerk who fills in for the accountant now and then.”

“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.