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.
