rough few days. He would have to be very careful not to make any errors or allow his emotions to dictate an action, or even a look or a word. If he did, the damage might be lasting.
No wonder Ingram York was glad not to have the case himself. It crossed Rathbone’s mind that York might also be glad he was the one who had received it, especially considering how things had gone at the dinner party. A moment later he dismissed the thought. York didn’t even know him. Why would he care, one way or the other? And what was one dinner party?
But then, one dinner party had been enough to convince him that York’s wife was one of the loveliest women he had ever seen. There was a beauty in her face far deeper than feature or coloring; he had seen the intelligence there, the humor, and a quality of gentleness that seemed to signify an ability to dream-and to be hurt. He thought of the room with yellow walls that she desired that would appear as if it were filled with sunlight. There would be no tension in such a place, he thought. No seeking to find fault. It would be a place where dreams were safe.
There was a noise of scraping wood.
He was not paying attention. He jerked his mind back. Drew was speaking.
“The clinic in question is in Portpool Lane,” Drew said. “It is run by a Mrs. Hester Monk. Her husband, William Monk, is commander of the Thames River Police, and she has been known in the past to have a considerable involvement in some of his more serious cases, ones of violence and … obscenity.”
There was a ripple of interest around the gallery and one of the jurors nodded to himself with a little shiver.
“Which is natural enough, I suppose,” Drew continued, “because she is in daily contact with much of the lesser criminal elements in the city who might have information that her husband could use in his investigations.”
Two more of the jurors nodded.
Gavinton was smiling. Warne was almost expressionless. Had he any idea what was coming?
Drew resumed his explanation. “The establishment Mrs. Monk runs is, of necessity, on the edge of the criminal underworld. Those are the people she is endeavoring to help, and as a woman of compassion, she reaches out to them. The trouble is that her judgment is rather too often swayed by her emotions.”
Gavinton held up his hand to stop Drew, and then took a step closer to the stand. His voice was smooth, placating.
“That is a sweeping statement to make, Mr. Drew. I’m afraid you need to be less general, and more specific,” he explained. “You cannot expect the court to accept what you say either as factual or as relevant, unless you can show us by an example, the truth of which my learned friend can question and test.” He looked up at Rathbone again, and this time there was clear victory in his eyes.
Rathbone would have paid a high price for the chance to retaliate effectively, but he had no weapon, and they both knew it.
Drew was well primed. “Of course.” He bowed very slightly, his lips drawn tight in a gesture of distaste, as if he were actually reluctant to answer. “A year or two ago there was a case involving a most unpleasant man by the name of Jericho Phillips.” He enunciated each word carefully. “He was accused of using small orphaned children-all boys, so far as I know-in a riverboat he owned. He made obscene photographs of them.” His voice trembled with anger. “He even used some of them as child prostitutes, and then blackmailed his wretched clients. The worst of his crimes was the murder of an unknown number of these unfortunate boys when they rebelled, or reached an age when they were no longer to his clients’ taste.”
He waited a few moments for the horror of what he was describing to sink into the minds of the listeners and take shape, and then he continued, his voice a little lower, as if the horror of it all had crushed him.
“Mrs. Monk’s evidence was crucial to his trial.” A look of intense regret filled his face. “Unfortunately she was so carried away, so incensed at the brutality of the crime, and so sure in her own mind that Phillips was guilty, that she neglected to be certain of her proof. Her emotion was understandable to anyone, but courts deal in law, as they must, for the protection of both the innocent and the victims, and for those few who are assumed guilty but in fact are not.”
It was clever. It was a passionate defense for Taft, while appearing to be about Hester and an entirely different case. Rathbone was seething. The muscles in his body knotted and his jaw was tight, but there was nothing whatever that he could do about it.
From the look of anxiety in his eyes, Warne also knew what was coming next. The case would be familiar to many people. It had been headline news at the time, and what had followed had been even worse.
Drew gave a slight shrug. It looked like regret, almost an apology for so distressing the court. “Because of her ineptitude, her placing of heart before head,” he said softly, “Phillips was found not guilty, and set free. As was only to be expected, he continued on his path of repulsive crime. He was, of course, later apprehended and killed, but he did not face the law again, as he certainly should have. Once exonerated, he could never again be tried for that earlier crime.”
There was a murmur of distress in the gallery. Several jurors shook their heads sadly. One of them rubbed his hand across his face in a gesture of dismay.
“It was a brilliant lawyer who defended Phillips,” Drew went on, his voice now laden with irony. “He tied Mrs. Monk up in knots with the rope of her own making.”
He had not looked at Rathbone, but Gavinton did and smiled. He gave a very slight bow, almost too small for one to be sure it had occurred. Those in the gallery might have missed his implication, but most of the jurors would not. If they were curious, it would take only a question or two outside the courtroom and they would have the answer.
“Which, of course, was the lawyer’s duty,” Gavinton quickly added for good measure. He could not resist the temptation to preach as well. “If the law is not just to all of us, then it is not just to any, and we are all in danger. It would be a license to accuse anyone, and to crucify him for crimes he did not commit. Thank you, Mr. Drew.” He moved as if to return to his seat and then swung around to face the witness box again.
“I apologize. In my enthusiasm for the law I forgot to make clear the purpose of raising Mrs. Monk’s name. You say she came to your church? To one service?”
“Yes,” Drew agreed. “So far as I know she did not return.”
“Then what has she to do with this accusation against Mr. Taft? It is not she who is making this charge; it is the police.”
Drew smiled. “In Mrs. Monk’s clinic for street women she has a bookkeeper who, I hear, is gifted with figures. In the past he indulged in some very … creative … accounting when he ran the same buildings as one of the most profitable brothels in London. I doubt there is a form of financial fraud with which he does not have at least a passing acquaintance. His physical description answers exactly that of the man who called so mysteriously upon Mr. Sawley and handed him the papers from which he drew his conclusions about the funds of the church. I think the jury may well question Mrs. Monk’s reasons for visiting us, and exactly where Mr. Sawley obtained his information.”
“Indeed,” Gavinton said with gleaming satisfaction. “One might wonder what interested her in Mr. Taft, but unless she wishes to tell us I dare say we shall never know.”
“There is not far to look.” Drew’s smile was now unmistakably a sneer. “She has recently taken on a new young woman to assist her, by the name of Josephine Raleigh. She is the only daughter of the same John Raleigh who chose to give testimony against Mr. Taft last week. Regrettably he overestimated his finances and is now blaming Mr. Taft for it. We could have given him back some of his money, but we sent it on to the charity for which it was donated as soon as we could. It was no longer in our possession. It is very sad, but it was beyond our power to help.”
There was total silence in the room. The air was hot, almost stiflingly so. Rathbone felt as if there were nothing to breathe, and the sweat trickled down his body.
“And you believe this to be Mrs. Monk’s reason for asking her somewhat unusual bookkeeper to involve himself in Mr. Taft’s affairs?” Gavinton asked with sad understanding.
“I do,” Drew answered. “That she did so seems to be unarguable, and I can think of no other reason for it; she has never been to our church before, or since.”
“The one occasion you refer to, some eight or nine weeks ago?” Gavinton asked.
“That is so,” Drew agreed.
