“In all matters,” Taft said instantly. “I would not have him in the position he is if I didn’t.”
“Is he responsible for the finances of your Church?”
“He is.” Taft straightened even a fraction more. “But if you are implying that any of this misfortune is his fault, then you are mistaken. I placed him in charge. The fault, if there is one, is mine.”
“Nobly spoken, sir,” Gavinton said warmly.
Rathbone felt a wave of revulsion wash over him, but he saw the respect in the jurors’ faces and knew that Gavinton, for all his unctuousness, was striking exactly the right note for them. The disgust in Rathbone, if it were misread in his expression, would reflect badly on him. Whatever it cost him, he must appear to be completely neutral. Above all else, he must not give the defense grounds for appeal because he appeared to be biased.
Warne’s frustration was visible not only in his face but also in the angles of his body; yet there was nothing for him to object to in legal terms.
Gavinton continued with Taft, drawing out details of his relationship with the men who had testified against him, first Bicknor, then John Raleigh, and lastly Gethen Sawley. His questioning dragged on until the luncheon adjournment and resumed afterward. Delicately, as if with great reluctance, Taft displayed the weaknesses of each one, exactly as Drew had.
Bicknor was made to sound petulant, emotionally vulnerable, a young man desperate for attention to the point where his judgment was warped. He seemed unable to handle rejection and turned it into blame.
Warne was desperate to refute it. It was plain in his face and in the obvious discomfort with which he shifted position, but there was no legal fault in the line of questioning.
When it came to John Raleigh, Taft was more careful. He spoke of him respectfully; in fact so respectfully it all but overbalanced into sarcasm. Again he echoed the testimony of Robertson Drew.
Rathbone sat watching and listening intently. Had there been the least issue over which he could have challenged Gavinton he would have done so, but the man was clever, well prepared, and meticulously careful. He made no mistakes. He teetered on the edge of irrelevance, even of slander, but he never lost his balance. His only danger was perhaps in drowning the jury in so much information that they became bored. Taft’s charm probably compensated for that. Ten years of practice in the pulpit had taught him how to woo an audience.
Gavinton was winning, and he knew it.
Rathbone tried to quash his emotions and think of the facts of the law, but his anger was too great for him to concentrate on the kind of detail that would outwit Gavinton. Innocent, trusting, hopeful people were being picked apart and destroyed as he watched, and there was nothing he could do about it. Taft would walk away not only vindicated but more powerful than before.
It was only as he was looking around the faces in the gallery, not because he expected to see anything of value but simply to calm his mind by momentarily taking it away from Taft’s mellifluous denials, that he saw Hester. For a moment he was uncertain if it really was her. Then she moved, lifted her head, and looked straight at him. Even across the space of the open floor and four or five rows of other people, he could see the distress in her eyes. As clearly as if she had spoken, he knew the strength of her wish that he should do something to stop this smooth, choking tide of self-righteous destruction, the painted charade of half lies.
He had not known she was here, but then, it would have been improper for her to approach him. She was not directly a witness, but she was unquestionably involved in the case, having first taken it to Squeaky Robinson. Heaven only knew how Squeaky had found all the evidence he had. Rathbone was happy to remain ignorant of that. It might well have been by moving beyond the law and into criminality. Perhaps that was one of the reasons Hester had not spoken to Rathbone about it. She was protecting the case.
She would not speak now, even if they were to bump into each other in the hall. The appeal was in her eyes. She knew that would be enough. Perhaps she also read the helplessness in his.
It was irrelevant, even inappropriate, but suddenly Beata York’s face replaced Hester’s in his mind. He remembered her smile, the sudden glance away as something hurt her and she did not want anyone to see, perhaps most of all not her husband.
What would she think of this? Would she be resigned to the law, seeing it as a purpose in itself? Or would she be like Hester, viewing the law as servant to justice, and in this case failing? Would she be disappointed in him that he was not clever enough to find a way of using the law to obtain or create justice? What would her morality require he do?
Why was he even thinking of Beata York? It was ridiculous. She was a woman he had met once. He was not twenty, to allow her face to haunt him like this.
Hester’s desires were plain in her face. She wanted John Raleigh saved, Squeaky vindicated, and Abel Taft stopped from ever doing this to other people. She would like to see Robertson Drew shown for the sanctimonious liar he was. And she would probably like to see herself vindicated as well. Drew had given a warped and very partial view of the Jericho Phillips affair. Certainly both Monk and Hester had been shown to be lacking in judgment, especially Hester. Rathbone himself had caused that. It was not an action he was proud of, no matter how legally justified in his defense of Phillips.
Gavinton was recalling Drew’s evidence in order to ask Taft his own opinion of the various financial contributions made by different people.
“And you passed all these on to the charities you work with?” Gavinton concluded.
“Of course,” Taft assured him.
“I imagine my learned friend will remind you that Mr. Sawley could find no evidence of these charities ever having received the sort of amounts you were given by your congregation. How do you account for that, Mr. Taft?”
“I can’t,” Taft said frankly, his face creased in puzzlement. “I have all the receipts, properly in order and countersigned. It is quite necessary that I do, for financial reasons as well as moral ones. If Mr. Sawley had come to me, and given me some valid reason why he should see them, I would have shown them to him. I’m afraid he is … not being strictly honest in this.”
“He claimed that the charities themselves had received almost nothing from you,” Gavinton persisted.
Taft smiled. “Perhaps they misunderstood him. They may have thought that he was asking what they had in hand, rather than what they had received over the years.” He lifted his shoulders slightly. “The charity workers are not all fluent in English, and some are elderly, or in poor health. Or, dare I say, Mr. Sawley heard what he wished to hear. Overemotional people, in a state of distress, are prone to do that.”
“Indeed they are.” Gavinton nodded agreement.
Rathbone glanced at Warne and saw him writing something hurriedly on a piece of paper. Perhaps it was a note to himself for the time when he would have the chance to question Taft.
Gavinton bowed. “Thank you, Mr. Taft. I can think of nothing further to ask you. Perhaps my learned friend has something?”
Warne did not look happy. He had nothing to pursue, unless he could catch Taft in a lie; everything Taft and Drew had said was so vague, so much a matter of hint and understanding, implication and belief, that he was left floundering; it was clear in his face and in the uncertainty of his gestures.
Rathbone made a decision, knowing that perhaps he would regret it for the rest of his life. But if he let this go, presiding over a farce and doing nothing, then his whole purpose was void.
“I think we will adjourn a little early,” he said distinctly. “Mr. Warne, prepare yourself to question Mr. Taft in the morning.”
He was oblivious of the streets as he rode home. It was high summer. Everyone who could be was outside. As usual the traffic was heavy. Possibly someone had lost a load farther ahead, Rathbone thought as he felt the carriage jolt forward, stop, then move forward again. He moved his body with the rhythm automatically, trying to ignore the impact of the thinly upholstered seat on his bones.
The decision was not irrevocable. He had not yet acted. He wished there were someone he could ask, but he had not the right to. He would contaminate them with the outcome. If he could have chosen anyone it would be Monk, but that would be a very particular abuse of friendship. He could imagine the conversation. “I have this photograph of Drew. Do you think I should use it?”
“How could you use it?”
“Show it to Warne, of course! Allow him to decide whether he will expose Drew for what he is. Or alternatively blackmail Drew into changing his evidence.”
