“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
