was shaking. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped the rail. “I hope you would have the grace to-” He did not finish. The gasps from the jury and the wave of horror from the gallery made him realize what he had said, and his face flamed with embarrassment.
York banged his gavel furiously.
“Order! Order! I will have order. Mr. Brancaster, you are completely out of-” He stopped as Brancaster’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. York’s face was white. He turned to Gavinton and all but snarled at him. “You forget yourself, sir. One more outburst as utterly inappropriate as that and you will oblige me to declare a mistrial, and then we shall have to send the accused back to prison and await the setting of a date for a new trial.” He looked at Brancaster and then back to Gavinton. “And you will not go unscathed either, sir. Remember where you are, and control yourself.”
Gavinton closed his eyes, as if by doing so he could block out the room. “Yes, my lord.” He did not apologize.
York glared at Brancaster. “And no more parlor tricks from you, sir. This is an extremely serious matter, whether you appreciate it or not. There is more than a man’s honor and reputation in the balance, or even his freedom. It is the cause of justice itself.”
“I am aware of that, my lord,” Brancaster said without a flicker. “I was as much taken by surprise by Mr. Gavinton’s outburst as you were. I thought I had made it perfectly clear that I was not seeking such information.” It was a blatant lie-of course, it was exactly what he had been seeking-but he told it superbly.
York said nothing.
“Perhaps I had better excuse the witness, my lord,” Brancaster suggested. “I would be very loath to provoke another such … indiscretion.”
There was nothing York could do, but the dull flush of anger still stained his cheeks. Rathbone knew that he would bide his time and rule against Brancaster when he could. Was it Brancaster’s tactic to provoke York into doing something that would be grounds for appeal? A very dangerous course indeed, perhaps even lethal.
Rathbone should have burned the whole damnable box and smashed the plates into splinters the day Ballinger’s lawyer brought it to him. Too late now. Too late … the saddest words in the vocabulary of man.
They adjourned late for luncheon, and resumed again at about three in the afternoon.
Rathbone sat in the dock. He had found it difficult to eat, his stomach rebelling against the clenching of his muscles, his throat so tight that swallowing was almost impossible. He ate the watery stew and soggy potatoes only because he had to, and what he was offered was probably better than the food he would have from sentence onward.
He no longer understood what Brancaster was doing. He feared he was bluffing, playing for time, and that his earlier words of courage to Rathbone were empty. Now he was disturbing people, but possibly to no intended effect. What would it change, beyond lengthening the ordeal?
The next witness was Dillon Warne. He looked wretched. Rathbone knew it was inevitable that he would be called, but it was still painful to see him there and know what he would have to say.
He was sworn in and stood with his hands gripping the rail, his face tense and very clearly unhappy.
Wystan looked at him with grave disfavor.
“You acted for the prosecution in the case against Abel Taft, did you not, Mr. Warne?”
“I did,” Warne agreed.
“Did you have personal feelings, Mr. Warne?” Wystan inquired. “I mean, did you grow to feel very strongly about this case in particular?”
“I do find it peculiarly distasteful to see one of the witnesses for the defense mocking and humiliating people I believed to be both honest and unusually vulnerable,” Warne answered, looking straight back at Wystan.
“To the degree that you were very upset indeed when you thought you would lose the case?” There was the very slight suggestion of a sneer on Wystan’s face.
“A prosecutor who does not care is not worthy of the trust placed in him by the people,” Warne answered.
Wystan was annoyed.
At any other time, without his own future in the balance, Rathbone would have enjoyed the exchange. With some detached part of his mind he noticed the jurors’ attention sharpen.
“That is not what I asked, Mr. Warne,” Wystan said tartly. “As you well know. You are playing to the gallery, sir, and it is most unbecoming. Just because you have escaped prosecution for your part in this miserable and disgraceful affair, does not entitle you to attempt wit at the expense of the proceedings.”
Warne’s face flushed, and Rathbone was struck with a fear that just as Brancaster had baited Gavinton with indiscretion, Wystan could do the same to Warne. Why was Brancaster not objecting? Rathbone longed to stand up and shout at him.
Brancaster rose to his feet at last.
“My lord, that accusation is unfair and-”
Before he could finish, York cut him off.
“Your objection is overruled, Mr. Brancaster. Please sit down, and do not interrupt again unless you have some point of law to make.”
Brancaster sat down as commanded. If he was annoyed he did not show it. Perhaps he had not expected to be upheld. He had succeeded in breaking Wystan’s rhythm, and Warne had regained his self-control. That might have been all he had wished for.
“I repeat my question, Mr. Warne,” Wystan said.
“It isn’t necessary, sir,” Warne interrupted him. “I was upset when I thought I would lose the case. I always am if I believe profoundly that the accused is guilty and that if not found so, will almost certainly continue to commit the same crime against more people.”
York leaned forward. “You could not know that, Mr. Warne. Please stick with the facts.”
Brancaster was on his feet. “My lord, with the greatest respect, Mr. Warne did not say the accused would reoffend, he said such was his belief and the reason he was upset at the prospect of an acquittal.”
York drew in his breath, then changed his mind and let it out again. But Rathbone knew from his face that he would not forget. Brancaster might have the jury on his side at the moment, and certainly the gallery, but he had irrevocably alienated the judge. It was a very risky tactic indeed. He must be desperate even to have considered it.
Wystan took up the thread again.
“Up to the point of your showing the photograph to the witness, Mr. Warne, did you believe you were losing?”
“Yes, I did,” Warne admitted.
“So this was a last, desperate attempt to win?”
“I would not have chosen the word ‘desperate,’ but I had no other tactic,” Warne conceded.
“And this obscene photograph, why did you not use it before?” Wystan pressed on. “In fact, why did you not show it to the defense, as the law requires? Were you afraid that if they looked into its provenance they would find it far from satisfactory? In fact sufficiently unsatisfactory that it could be excluded from evidence?”
“No, I did not!” Warne said sharply.
“Then why did you not produce it before, as you should have?”
Rathbone had seen the question coming. It was like watching a train crash, but so slowly that you could see the wheels spin and the carriages rear up before they toppled over and the sound of breaking glass reached your ears.
“I did not have it before,” Warne replied.
“Indeed?” Wystan affected surprise. “How did you come by it, then, in what appears to have been the middle of the night, Mr. Warne?”
“Sir Oliver Rathbone gave it to me.” Warne might have considered lying, or protesting privilege and refusing to answer, but it was clear that the truth was known, and it would add weight to the apparent misdeed if he gave the information only when forced to. Perhaps it was better to do it now, with some dignity.
If the jurors had known or guessed before, they still looked stunned. With Warne’s admission it became an irrefutable fact.
