Blind Justice

CHAPTER 6

The following day the trial resumed. Rathbone had slept badly, his dreams full of chaos. Now he sat in the high-backed chair and watched the proceedings, feeling as if the air in the room were as thick as that before an electric storm. His chest was tight and his neck so stiff that he could barely turn from side to side.

The gallery was less than full but the atmosphere was heavy. There was going to be no dramatic end. As far as the law was concerned, all was well, but as drama it had failed. Taft was clearly going to be found “not guilty,” which meant that everything was going to remain as it had been. It was not worth watching. Those left now were the few with a personal interest in the outcome.

Felicia Taft looked more composed than in earlier days. Perhaps she knew that the worst was past. And yet she did not look happy. If she were exhausted, one could hardly blame her. The pallor of her face, the droop in her expression might be no more than that. She had endured all she was able to. With the end in sight, she had allowed herself to relax.

Gavinton was jubilant. He all but strutted out onto the floor. Abel Taft was on the witness stand again. He was not smiling exactly, but it was as if he felt he no longer had anything to fear, or to apologize for.

Rathbone was so tense his whole body ached. No matter how he moved in the seat, the tension did not let up. He feared he had left it too late. Even with the photograph, there was nothing Warne could do. What was it Rathbone ever imagined he might accomplish anyway? Did he think Warne would show the photograph to the jury and tell them this was the man they were believing rather than the witnesses he had so carefully mocked and belittled?

He could see Gethen Sawley sitting in the gallery, stubborn, white-faced, his body hunched forward as he waited for the ultimate defeat. Why was he here? Why was he punishing himself by watching as Drew and then Taft picked him apart, humiliating him gently, acting as if they were reluctant to say each word.

John Raleigh was still here too, dignified and silent, waiting for his ruin to be complete.

Rathbone could not see Bicknor, but he was probably here somewhere.

What did they expect? Did the desperation of their faith make them think there would be some miracle to make the trial just after all? Rathbone wished that he had the power to produce that miracle for them.

What a horrible irony. Gavinton was asking Taft once again if he believed in Robertson Drew, so the last thing he left in the jurors’ minds was the image of Taft as an innocent, trusting man. Nothing was his fault. Because Drew was not charged, in a sense he was invulnerable.

Was Warne going to use the photograph? How would he introduce it? Had he even brought it?

Gavinton was handing over the witness to Warne.

Warne rose to his feet. He looked haggard. There were dark shadows on his face, as if he had not shaved, but as he moved and the light caught him it was clear it was only the hollows of his cheeks. He had probably been up all night pacing the floor, wondering what to do with the terrible picture.

Warne regarded Taft cautiously, but no politeness in his words could mitigate the intense dislike in his face.

“Mr. Taft, it seems you are ill served in your congregation, and indeed by everyone except Mr. Drew,” he observed. His voice was gravelly with strain. “Would it be fair to say that that is because your congregation is self-selecting? They come because they have tried other churches, and possibly found them wanting? Your message is the one they wish to hear, for whatever reason or hunger of their own?”

“Yes, you might say that,” Taft agreed. There was no visible tension in his body, no strain in his voice. If he were the least afraid he was a master at concealing it.

“Do you ever turn anyone away?” Warne inquired.

“Of course not.” Taft made the question sound ridiculous. “The doors of any church are always open. We would ask someone to leave only if he was causing turmoil or distress among the rest of the congregation. I’m pleased to say that hardly ever happens.” He gave a slight shrug, and his expression was rueful. “Once or twice someone did take too much to drink. Sober, he would be welcomed back.”

“Very commendable,” Warne said drily. “It is easy to see how, in these circumstances, you quite often take in the emotionally unstable, and those not to be relied upon. Such people will make errors of judgment, misunderstand, even on occasion do things that are morally, or even legally, wrong.”

Taft’s expression tightened so slightly it was barely visible. “That is unavoidable,” he conceded.

Warne continued to stare at him. “But your friends, your associates in the ministry, and most particularly those who deal with money and the charities you help-you will choose these with great care and diligence, I imagine? You will, with the utmost discretion, of course, find out all you need to know about their financial honesty, and competence, and their moral character?”

There was a rustle of awakened interest in the gallery, a stiffening of attention in the jury.

Taft frowned. “Of course,” he agreed.

Warne nodded. “Exactly. To do less would be irresponsible.”

“Indeed it would,” Taft said a little sharply.

“And I assume you take the same care with the charities to which you give this exceedingly generous amount of money?” Warne went on.

Taft swallowed, hesitated a moment, then answered. “I do the best I can, Mr. Warne. There is no way in which I can make inquiries regarding their staff. I do not always know them, and they change, but they are good and honorable people who give of their own time freely.”

Warne nodded. “Quite so. But you have never had cause to doubt either their honesty or their competence?”

“No, never.” Taft’s voice was losing a little of its smoothness.

Warne gave a slight gesture of denial.

“They are not of the emotionally uncertain nature of your own well-meaning parishioners-”

He was not allowed to finish. Gavinton shot to his feet.

“My lord, Mr. Taft is not accountable for the morality or errors of any charity he might donate to. And may I point out that the emotional fragilities of his own parishioners have extended to false accusation, but in no case whatever, in any circumstances at all, to the misuse of money.”

Rathbone was caught. He could feel his stomach knot and his breath catch in his throat. Was Warne about to introduce the photograph at last? He had just maneuvered Taft into endorsing Drew once again, swearing he knew him and all his motives and activities.

Rathbone felt the sweat prickle on his body, and in the heat of the room, the color flush in his face.

“Mr. Warne …” he began, and then had to stop and take a deep breath and cough. “Mr. Warne, you seem to be stating the obvious. Is there a question or purpose in what you are saying? Mr. Taft has already very thoroughly, several times over, sworn to the honesty, diligence, and general virtue of Mr. Drew. He has also sworn that this is from his personal knowledge, not hearsay or a charitable judgment. What is your purpose in raising this yet again?”

“I wish to give Mr. Taft every opportunity to clear himself of these charges,” Warne said demurely. “If in some way the fraud were-”

“There has been no fraud proved, my lord!” Gavinton cut across him. “My learned friend is-”

“Yes, Mr. Gavinton,” Rathbone in turn interrupted him. “He is wasting time. You wasted a good deal of it yourself.” He turned to Warne. “I think we have established to the jury’s satisfaction that Mr. Taft trusted Mr. Drew in all things both moral and financial and that he did so after a long personal acquaintance and with all due care and foresight in making certain that his good opinion was based upon fact, not upon convenience or friendship.” He looked at Taft. “Is that a just and true assessment, Mr. Taft?”

“Yes, my lord.” Taft could do nothing but agree.

Rathbone studied his face to find even a shadow of reluctance, and saw nothing. If he had any idea of danger, he was a master at concealing it. Or was he so supremely arrogant that the possibility of his own failure never entered his mind?

Rathbone looked at Warne and could not read him either. Warne looked like a man facing impossible odds, preparing for the bitter taste of defeat and yet still seeking some last-minute escape. Perhaps that was exactly what he was. Perhaps he despised Rathbone for having even kept the photograph, let alone descending to its use. Perhaps, Rathbone thought, he had earned Warne’s lifelong contempt for no purpose at all, and Warne would rather lose the case than filthy his hands with such a ploy.

“My lord,” Warne said gravely, “much of the evidence in this case seems to be believed or discarded based on the reputation for honesty and for soundness of judgment of the person offering it. It does seem, regrettably, as if some of the Crown’s witnesses against Mr. Taft are less reliable than I had supposed. My learned friend has been able to expose them as such.”

Gavinton smiled and acknowledged the somewhat backhanded compliment.

“If your lordship will allow, one witness who seems to be central to the pursuit of the case and who therefore has had her reputation for judgment, and even for emotional stability, severely questioned has not actually been called to the stand. May it please the court, I would like to call Hester Monk as a witness in rebuttal to the testimony that Mr. Taft has given.”

“You have no question for Mr. Taft?” Rathbone said in surprise. What did Warne hope to achieve with Hester? If he called her, then Gavinton would also be able to cross-examine her. The whole miserable episode of her misjudgment in the Phillips case would be exposed in more detail. She would appear to be a highly volatile woman whose compassion had drowned her judgment and allowed a blackmailer, child pornographer, and murderer to escape justice.

Because Rathbone was the man who had defended Phillips and crucified Hester on the stand, he himself would not emerge from it well-in law, yes, but not in the eyes of the jury.

Gavinton was on his feet, smiling.

“I have no objection whatever, my lord. I think it would well serve the cause of justice. I hesitated to subject Mrs. Monk to such an ordeal again. She can barely have forgotten the humiliation of the last time, but I confess it would seem just.” He turned his satisfied smile on Warne.

Rathbone felt the control slipping out of his hands, like the wet reins of a carriage when the horses bolt.

They were waiting for his answer. He could not protect Hester. If he ruled against her testifying he would expose himself without helping her. In fact, it might even make it appear as if she had something further to hide.

“Very well,” he conceded. “But keep it to the point, Mr. Warne.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Warne instructed the usher to call Hester Monk.

There was silence as Hester came into the room, except for the rustle of fabric and creak of stays as people in the gallery turned to watch her, fascinated by this woman both Drew and Taft had described so vividly, and in “praise” so worded as to be moving from condescension into blame.

She was slender, almost a little too thin for fashionable taste, and she walked very uprightly across the open floor and climbed the steps to the witness stand. She did not look at Rathbone, at the jury, or up at the dock.

Rathbone watched her with a strange, disturbing mixture of emotions, which were far more powerful than he had expected. He had known her for more than a decade, during which he had fallen in love with her, been angered, exasperated, and confused by her, and had his emotions thoroughly wrung out. At the same time he had admired her more than any other person he knew. She had made him laugh, even when he did not want to, and she had changed his beliefs on a score of things.

Now he wanted to protect her from Gavinton, and Warne had set her in the center of the target-damn him!

She took the oath in a steady voice and stood facing Warne, ready to begin.

Warne, dark, haggard, and clearly nervous, moved forward into the center of the floor. He cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Monk, Mr. Drew has told us that you attended a service at Mr. Taft’s Church. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Just once?”

“Yes.”

He cleared his throat again.

“Why did you go? And why did you not return a second or third time? Was the service not as you had expected? Or did something happen while you were there that offended you to the degree that you did not wish to go again?”

Hester looked puzzled. Clearly Warne had not told her what he planned to say. Perhaps there had been no time.

Rathbone was so tense he had to move his position a little, consciously clench his hands then loosen them. Was Warne going to use her vulnerability to save his case against Taft?

Why not? Rathbone had done it to save Jericho Phillips, of all people! How could he now self-righteously blame Warne?

The jury was tense, staring at Hester, a mixture of sympathy and apprehension in their faces.

Hester answered, her voice even. It was too calm to be natural. “I went because Josephine Raleigh is a friend of mine, and she told me of her father’s distress,” she said. “I understood her desperation acutely because my father also was cheated out of money and found himself in debt. He took his own life. I wanted to see if there was anything at all I could do to prevent that happening to Mr. Raleigh.”

Now there was movement in the court. One of the jurors put up his hand to ease his collar. Another’s face was pinched with grief, or perhaps it was pity. Debt was not so uncommon.

In the gallery a few people craned forward, turned to one another, sighed, or spoke a word or two.

“How did you intend to do that, Mrs. Monk?” Warne asked curiously.

Hester moved her shoulders very slightly. “I had no clear plan. I wanted to meet Mr. Taft and listen to him preach.”

“To what purpose?”

“To see if there was any chance he would release Mr. Raleigh from his commitment,” she replied, choosing her words carefully. “Also to see if Mr. Taft asked me for money, and how he worded it, whether I felt pressured or not, whether he did it in front of others to embarrass me if I refused.”

Warne looked curious, but the tension still gripped his body and his hands.

“And did he do any of those things?” he asked.

She smiled bleakly. “I admit I did feel pressured-yes-and it was all carefully wrapped under the preaching of Christian duty: the safe and comfortable should give to the cold, hungry, and homeless. One cannot argue with that and then kneel to pray.”

“Did you give, Mrs. Monk?”

“To the ordinary collection, yes. I did not give more than that.” There was a faint, bitter smile touching her lips.

“And did anyone make you feel guilty?” Warne pressed.

There was not a sound in the gallery.

“Mr. Drew tried,” she answered. “But I told him all the money I could spare already went to my clinic in Portpool Lane. The women there are not only hungry, cold, and homeless, they are also sick.”

“Why did you not go back to the church, Mrs. Monk?”

“Because I already understood the pressure Mr. Raleigh, and others, must have felt,” she replied. “There is an art to making other people feel as if they should give what they can to those less fortunate. I am not good at it myself. I am far too direct. But I enlist the help of those who are good at it, in order to keep the clinic going. I know very well how it is done. Please heaven, we do not coerce anyone to give more than they can, so putting themselves into debt. We ask small amounts, and only from those who, as far as we can tell, have more than sufficient.”

Gavinton stood up, puzzled.

“My lord, I am afraid Mrs. Monk is all very righteous in her work, and in raising funds for it. Different people have their own ways of … of doing good.” He said it in such a way it sounded like some secret vice. “But what has it to do with whether Mr. Taft is guilty of fraud, or innocent?”

Rathbone turned to Warne. “This is a somewhat circuitous route to wherever you are going. A little more direct, if you please, Mr. Warne.”

Warne bowed, his face carefully expressionless; then he turned back to Hester.

“Mrs. Monk, what did you do as a result of your visit to Mr. Taft’s Church?”

“I went to see Mr. Robinson, who keeps the accounts for me at the clinic,” she answered, her voice low and a little hoarse. “I asked him if he knew of any way of determining if all the money raised by Mr. Taft actually went to the causes he claimed it did. Mr. Robinson told me that he would endeavor to find out, and then later gave me the results of his inquiries.”

Gavinton was on his feet again.

“My lord, the court is already aware of all this. Mr. Warne is wasting our time. We know who Mrs. Monk is, and something of her past interference in cases she believed deserving. I am sorry to embarrass her; no doubt she is a well-intentioned woman, but past cases have made it tragically evident that she is also undisciplined.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “She comes with incomplete evidence, interpreted by her emotions, no doubt out of compassion, but nevertheless, emotions are not evidence. You yourself are only too aware of this. Tactless as it may be of me to remind you, but when you were a prosecutor, my lord, you totally destroyed her on the stand. Your friendship for her did not prevent you from doing your duty, however repugnant to you.”

Rathbone waited for Warne to fight back and was met with silence. He felt the heat burn up his own face. What in hell was Warne doing? He had left Rathbone no choice.

“Mr. Gavinton is right, Mr. Warne,” he said between his teeth. “This seems to be both repetitive and irrelevant. If you have anything of use to ask Mrs. Monk, please do so. If not, then release her and prepare to present your closing argument.” The case was lost. Warne was not going to use the photograph. Perhaps in a way that was a relief. This attempt to humiliate Rathbone was Warne’s way of expressing his revulsion at the fact that he had been shown the photograph at all.

“Yes, my lord,” Warne said dutifully. “I shall come more immediately to the point. I apologize if I appeared to be … meandering.” He looked at Hester. “Mrs. Monk, my learned friend has made more than one reference to the unfortunate case of Jericho Phillips, in which you gave evidence that was less than sufficient for the jury to find him guilty. Mr. Gavinton seems to feel that it somehow detracts from the value of your testimony now. Mr. Drew has spoken at length of the moral and emotional”-he hesitated, looking for the right word-“fragility of the witnesses against Mr. Taft. He has as much as said that they are lightly balanced, prone to misunderstanding and exaggeration, and therefore not to be trusted. He has included you in that category. I feel it is only right that you should have the opportunity to give any testimony that would refute that, and restore your good name-and of course your reliability as a witness.”

Rathbone stiffened. What on earth was Warne trying to do? It was too late for this.

Hester said nothing. From her expression she had no idea what she could say or do that would matter now. She had been here a couple of times, but she probably knew from Josephine Raleigh, who had been here every day, that the case had already been lost. Reputations were destroyed beyond rebuilding.

Warne smiled at her, but it was sadly, as if he were apologizing for something.

“Mrs. Monk, I regret having to remind you of what can only be a painful memory for you, but much has been made of your failure to testify against Jericho Phillips with sufficient clarity of thought to secure his conviction. Sir Oliver Rathbone appeared for Phillips at that time and pretty well destroyed you on the stand.”

“I remember,” Hester said a little huskily. She was very pale.

Rathbone racked his mind for anything he could say to stop this.

Gavinton sat with a slow smile spreading across his face, unctuous and satisfied.

“Why were you so … careless in your preparation to testify? Surely you wished Phillips to be found guilty?”

“Of course I did.” Her voice was charged with emotion now, and her shoulders were high and awkward.

There was nothing Rathbone could do to help her.

“I was careless,” she went on suddenly. “I was so certain he was guilty that-”

“Guilty of what, Mrs. Monk?” Warne interrupted her.

“Guilty of using children,” she said sharply. “Boys unwanted by their families, orphans or ones whose parents couldn’t look after them, all of them between five years and eleven or twelve years old. He imprisoned them on his riverboat and had the men who frequented the boat pose for pornographic photographs, which he later used to blackmail them-”

Warne held his hand up again to stop her.

“I find it highly unbelievable that anyone would allow themselves to be photographed if they were engaging in such horrible acts, Mrs. Monk. You are stretching the limits of credibility.”

“Phillips ran a club for wealthy and influential men,” she told him, her voice now sharp with distress. “Men whose ordinary lives no longer gave them the thrill of danger they hungered for. The price of membership in the club was to have the photographs taken. It also ensured that none of the other members would betray the club or one another-they were all in the same situation.”

“Very clever,” Warne said bitterly. “I can see why the whole matter angered you to the point that you lost your sense of judgment. But in order to obtain a conviction you had to prove that a crime had taken place and that the person accused was responsible. Where did you slip up in this?”

Gavinton stood up again. “My lord, that is irrelevant.” He sounded weary, as if his patience had been tried to the utmost. “We all know that Mrs. Monk did indeed fail in that endeavor. I do not contest it. There is nothing to be gained by repeating the miserable affair, and Mrs. Monk herself can only be embarrassed by it. Mr. Warne is wasting our time.”

Rathbone felt the sweat trickling down his body. Looking at Gavinton it was clear that he had no idea that Drew was in one of those photographs. Obviously Hester did not either. Was Warne somehow going to bring it in? He could not do so legally without first showing the evidence to the defense.

When Rathbone started to speak his mouth was dry, and he had to clear his throat before he could force his voice to make a sound.

“Mr. Warne? The defense stipulates to Mrs. Monk’s distress in the earlier case and the fact that the whole issue was so repugnant to her that she failed to present adequate evidence of Phillips’s guilt in the eyes of the law. What is your purpose in raising the subject again? Jericho Phillips is dead, and his crimes have nothing to do with this case.”

“I did not raise the subject, my lord,” Warne said smoothly, his dark eyes fixed on Rathbone’s. “It was my learned friend who brought it up, to discredit Mrs. Monk. He suggested she was overemotional, her judgment warped by her horror at that time, to the degree that her testimony even now is still unreliable. I want to show the court that that is not so. I believe I have that right.”

“My lord-” Gavinton began.

Rathbone did not even look at him. “Mr. Warne,” he said quietly, “you are trying our patience. If you can show that Mrs. Monk is a reliable witness and we should take what she says more seriously, then do so. But briefly, please.”

“Yes, my lord.” Warne looked again at Hester. “Mrs. Monk, you spoke of photographs that Mr. Phillips used to blackmail the otherwise respectable gentlemen who were members of the club that indulged in pornography and the sexual abuse of small boys. I think we all find that not only obscene but also, as my learned friend said, highly unbelievable.”

Rathbone could hardly breathe. Warne was going to do it. Had he shown the photograph to Gavinton, as the rules of evidence required? If he had not, then Gavinton could ask for a mistrial and Rathbone would have to grant it. Was that what Warne intended to do? Why? It would not ensure a conviction.

“Yes …” Hester was saying uncertainly. “It sounds unbelievable. But the photographs do exist.”

“Indeed,” Warne replied, his voice almost devoid of expression, his face now pale. “I believe I might have one such photograph. Have you ever been on Jericho Phillips’s boat yourself?”

Hester was gripping the edge of the rail to the witness box, her knuckles white. “Yes …” Her voice was a whisper, but it was perfectly audible in the silence of the courtroom, where it seemed no one else was even breathing.

Gavinton was on his feet, but wearily, no tension or sense of outrage in him, not even of apprehension.

“My lord, the prosecution has not passed over this piece of evidence to the defense. I ask that it be ruled inadmissible-on grounds of irrelevance, if nothing else. I withdraw my remarks as to the unlikeliness of their existence.”

Warne was tense, his body awkward as he stared unblinkingly back at Rathbone.

“My lord, the remarks have been heard by the jury, they cannot simply be withdrawn. I have a right to prove my witness’s truthfulness.”

“You do, Mr. Warne,” Rathbone agreed, hating having to meet Warne’s eyes. “But the defense also has the right to see the evidence.”

With a faint, bleak smile Warne passed the photograph across to Gavinton.

Gavinton took it casually, glanced at it with a look of boredom, then his body jerked and his face went so white Rathbone was afraid he was going to faint.

In the courtroom there was total silence. No one in the gallery moved. The jurors were frozen in their seats, staring at Gavinton.

Gavinton gulped, having difficulty finding his voice. “My … my lord … this evidence is …” He stopped and put his hand up to his throat as if his collar were choking him.

Rathbone’s mind raced. He must avoid a mistrial. Warne might even find himself unable to prosecute again. Without this evidence Gavinton would win.

Rathbone leaned forward. “Mr. Gavinton, would you like a brief adjournment to consider this evidence, which appears to have disturbed you intensely?”

Gavinton swallowed, and choked on his own breath.

“If I may intrude, my lord,” Warne said politely. “Perhaps we might discuss it in your lordship’s chambers?”

Rathbone adjourned the court amid a hum of excitement and confusion, and five minutes later he, Warne, and Gavinton were in his chambers with the door closed; the usher had been told not to disturb them, regardless of the circumstances.

“Mr. Gavinton?” Rathbone asked with as blank a face as he could manage.

Gavinton was still holding the photograph.

“It is obscene, my lord,” he said, still speaking with difficulty.

“So I had assumed,” Rathbone replied. Trying to remain expressionless, he turned to Warne. “You clearly intended to show it to Mrs. Monk; did you also intend the jury to see it?”

Warne hesitated. He was saved from an immediate answer by Gavinton’s interruption.

“You can’t! She may be gullible with more goodwill than sense, but she’s a decent woman. This picture is vile-it’s repulsive.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Warne snapped. “She’s an army nurse, you fool! She’s seen men dismembered on the battlefield! She saw the original boat with its cargo of imprisoned and tortured children-the real ones, alive, terrified, half starved, and bleeding. What is it you imagine she can see in this photograph that she hasn’t already seen? Except perhaps the face of someone she recognizes?”

“Recognizes?” Rathbone said quietly. “Who is in this picture, Mr. Gavinton?”

Gavinton closed his eyes. When he answered his voice was hoarse and no more than a whisper.

“Mr. Drew, my lord.”

Rathbone held out his hand. Gavinton gave him the photograph. Rathbone took it and looked at it, not that he needed to; every sordid detail was already imprinted on his brain.

He cleared his throat. “Indeed it is,” he agreed. “It is obscene, as you say, and it is quite clearly Mr. Robertson Drew. I imagine, Mr. Gavinton, that you object to this being put into evidence to show Mr. Drew’s character as very far indeed from what it seems. However, you repeatedly held him up as an honorable man. Mr. Warne has the right to question that, and rebut it if he can-which, it is now abundantly clear, he is able to do. Upon what grounds do you protest, other than that you apparently did not know that your star witness, who so protected your client’s virtue, is somewhat short of virtue himself?”

The air in the room was electric, like that in the half second between lightning and thunder.

“I was given no warning of it!” Gavinton protested.

“I received it only late yesterday evening,” Warne told him. “I agree, I should have told you before court this morning. I accept censure for that.” He looked at Rathbone, then back at Gavinton. “But I will not accept the suppression of it. You called Mrs. Monk’s character into question, on the word of Drew. I call Mrs. Monk to defend herself and at the expense of Drew. Is there something unjust in that?”

“Where the devil did you get this … this filthy thing?” Gavinton demanded, the color returning to his face in a wash of scarlet.

“That is privileged information,” Warne replied smoothly. “But if you wish to have it authenticated, then of course you must do so.”

“It could be … some trick!” Gavinton was still struggling.

“I do not believe that,” Warne answered. “But I may be able to obtain the original plate, if you feel that is necessary.”

“You’re bluffing!” Gavinton was all but shouting now.

“No, I am not,” Warne snapped, lowering his voice with effort. “But if you wish to take that chance, then do so. However, I think you might be better served by consulting with Mr. Drew on the matter. He will know beyond question that the picture is genuine, and he may wish, quite voluntarily, to be more truthful in his testimony regarding Mrs. Monk’s reliability as a witness, and the strength and honesty of her general character. He may also prefer to be more moderate in some of the rather condemnatory remarks he made about the weaknesses or gullibility of the various other witnesses.”

Gavinton stared at him as he would at a poisonous snake.

“Were that his choice,” Warne continued, “then the photograph would no longer be relevant. You could merely stipulate to its veracity, and to Mrs. Monk’s character, and then at the end of the trial I would hand it over to you to destroy.”

“And the plate from which it was printed?” Gavinton said huskily.

Warne spread his hands. “I don’t have that-but I know where it is. I will see what I can do. That’s all I can offer.”

“Mr. Gavinton?” Rathbone asked.

“I’ll … I’ll have to consult with my client and with Mr. Drew …”

“Of course. You may have thirty minutes.”

Half an hour later Hester was told that she would not be needed after all, and Warne called Robertson Drew to the stand.

“My lord, in light of this remarkable turn of events, I should like to ask Mr. Drew if he wishes in any way to reconsider his testimony. He may now prefer to lend more credence to the witnesses he previously condemned. Mrs. Monk, in particular …?” His expression changed almost imperceptibly, and he turned to Gavinton.

Gavinton struggled to find some ground to protest and failed. He sank back into his seat, looking as if he had aged a decade in the last hour.

Several turbulent minutes passed as Robertson Drew made his way back to the stand and climbed the steps, fumbling as if he were partially blind. A bristling silence filled the room, hostile, angry, disturbed.

Rathbone brought the court to order and Warne approached Drew, who clung on to the rails, not as if for support, rather more as if he would exert all the force he had to bend them to his will. He was clearly in the grip of some violent emotion.

Rathbone looked at the jurors. Their faces reflected an intense confusion. They seemed to have been taken entirely by surprise.

Drew was reminded that he was still under oath.

Warne was brief. After what had gone before, anything now would be anticlimactic.

“Mr. Drew, you represented yourself to the court as a man of the utmost propriety, of honor, diligence, and dedication to the work of Christ. In light of the change in circumstances of which Mr. Gavinton has made you aware, you may wish to reconsider some of your condemnation of other witnesses as to their honor and their worth.”

In the dock Taft’s face was hidden, bent forward almost to his knees.

“Mr. Drew,” Warne continued, “was … Mr. Taft … aware of all your private, very personal … tastes? And, by the way, did any of the money paid by the parishioners you appear to despise make its way into your own pocket? That would account for why we find it so difficult to trace it to the charities whose books seem-to put it kindly-chaotic.”

“No!” Drew said furiously. “If anyone took it, it was Taft!”

Warne’s dark eyebrows rose. “And the little digression into Mrs. Monk’s testimony in the Phillips case-which, incidentally, she later solved to the satisfaction of the law, and of society’s need for justice-would you agree that was irrelevant, except as a means of trying to invalidate her testimony in this case?”

Drew glared at him. “Yes.” The word was barely audible. The jury strained forward to hear him.

“Might the same be said of your attempts to discredit Mr. Gethen, Mr. Bicknor, and Mr. Raleigh?” Warne continued.

“Yes.” It was the snarl of the desperate man cornered.

Warne shrugged and turned to Gavinton. “I doubt you will want to pursue it, but the witness is yours, sir.”

Gavinton declined. He looked like a beaten man, stunned with shock, reeling from blow after blow.

It remained only for each of them to present their closing arguments. In fairness to Gavinton, to give him an opportunity to collect his thoughts and attempt to recover at least something to say for his client, Rathbone adjourned the court for the day. Warne made no objection. Perhaps he also wanted to collect his thoughts and make certain that between them they had allowed Gavinton no cause for appeal.

Rathbone walked out into the afternoon sun in something of a daze, oblivious of the crowds around him on the footpath.

Warne had used the photograph after all, cleverly-if at some risk to his reputation. He might well be censured for not having given Gavinton the picture at the beginning of the day. He had called Hester, something Rathbone had not foreseen, and then used her courage and dignity, her honesty in admitting her own error with Phillips to his advantage. It was as if Gavinton had pulled the entire edifice of his case down on top of himself.

The crowd was still pouring out of the Old Bailey behind and around him into the late afternoon heat, bumping into one another, jostling for space on the burning pavements. Two well-dressed men were arguing vociferously, voices raised. A fat woman in black struggled with a parasol, muttering to herself in frustration. Another woman’s hat was knocked off in the jostling, and several people reached to retrieve it. They would all be back tomorrow for the summations and the verdict. They would not be content to read about it in the newspapers, they would want to hear the words, see the faces, and taste the emotions of it.

Rathbone walked briskly along Ludgate Hill toward St. Paul’s, passing in the shadow of the great cathedral and into Cannon Street before hailing a hansom and giving the driver his home address.

He sat back inside, and even before the driver had turned westward he was lost in thought.

Was it justice? If so, what had been the price?