anyway.
“Yes, my lord. Most of what the witness says is hearsay, not fact.”
Wystan smiled. “If my learned friend prefers, and your lordship feels that we have time, I can take Mrs. Ballinger through each step of the trial to see what the accused did and did not do. I am trying to spare a bereaved woman the extra grief and humiliation of having to go into detail. But should you so direct me, my lord, reluctantly, then of course I will.”
“I do not so direct you,” York replied. “If you wish to pursue it further, perhaps you will be a little more specific. It would allow the jury to make up their own minds.”
It was the worst possible answer for Brancaster. He sat down, beaten.
Wystan turned to Mrs. Ballinger and began again, picking specific points in the trial of Arthur Ballinger but never reaching the verdict, as if his guilt were still a matter to be decided.
Scuff stopped watching Mrs. Ballinger and turned to look at Margaret again. He couldn’t really see Sir Oliver very well from where he was, and he didn’t want to look at him anyway. In a situation like this, where someone had to be suffering horribly and feeling as if everybody hated him, it felt like a terrible intrusion to look at him, a bit like bursting into the bathroom when somebody was in there privately.
He knew as soon as he saw Margaret that he was not intruding by looking at her. She wasn’t really suffering at all; in fact her face was bright as if she were enjoying herself. There was something almost like a smile on her lips. She looked up once to the place where Sir Oliver was sitting, and hesitated several moments. Then she looked away again, back at her mother, who was still talking about Sir Oliver. She was saying how cold and selfish he was. Even at family gatherings his mind always seemed to be on his work. She recalled two occasions when he had simply walked out, almost without explanation.
Scuff was angry now. Sir Oliver wouldn’t be here at all or accused of anything if somebody hadn’t told on him. It seemed he had given the prosecution that horrible photograph of one of the main defense witnesses, and as far as Scuff was concerned that was fair enough. It showed what kind of a man he was. Apparently it wasn’t the photograph that was the problem; it was that he had given it to the prosecution and not the defense. It was the way he did it that was wrong; it was seen as not being fair to both sides.
And then apparently he should have told them that he couldn’t be the judge anymore. The whole trial had to stop, and then maybe start all over again with someone else. Or on the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t bother, and the man who had stolen all that money from the congregation would get away with it, and just go on stealing. That really, really wasn’t fair!
Telltales didn’t usually have to even prove their information because for a start they usually go to a person who wants to get someone else into trouble and who will take their word and run with it. Any fool knows that! There are always snitches, and everybody hates them.
So who knew that Sir Oliver had the photographs, and wanted to get him into trouble? Mr. Ballinger, but he was dead. He couldn’t tell anybody anything. Monk and Hester, of course, because Sir Oliver had told them. But they would rather have their throats cut than be snitches.
So who else knew about the photographs? The person who brought them after Mr. Ballinger died? Did he know what was in the box? Maybe. More likely he didn’t.
But Mrs. Ballinger might have known about them, and Margaret-Lady Rathbone. Scuff would be prepared to make a bet with anyone that she had worked it out-if not before, then after the photograph turned up in court.
He watched Margaret as the testimony went on getting worse and worse for Sir Oliver. She was smiling now. She wasn’t upset for him at all. The conviction settled on Scuff that it was she who had snitched.
He watched and waited until the lunchtime adjournment, then, before the general crowd rose to their feet and made their way out, he wriggled from the spot he was in and put his head down to force his way between people, as if he were on a really urgent message, pushing forward toward the hall.
When he was there, he stood to one side, looking at every person who came out. He was angry and trembling, but at least he was too full of fury for there to be any room for fear.
Several people passed him, fat people and thin, ones in fancy clothes, ones in old clothes worn nearly to rags. Some were talking to one another; some were silent.
Then he saw her. She had that shadow of a smile around her mouth, as if she had eaten something really good and she could still taste it.
Scuff stepped out in front of her and she stopped abruptly. She had no idea who he was, but she was mildly annoyed that he was obviously not looking where he was going. Then she saw the fury in his face, and the words she had been starting to say died on her lips.
“You told on ’im, didn’t yer!” Scuff accused. “It was you as went an’ told on ’im that ’e were the one what gave the lawyer that photograph, weren’t yer?”
She drew in her breath sharply, but the color that flushed her cheeks gave her away.
“Who is it?” her mother demanded from just behind her. “What’s the matter? For heaven’s sake, give him a penny and let us leave this place.”
“It’s … it’s that little urchin that belongs to Monk,” Margaret replied. Then she turned to Scuff again. “Move out of the way, or I shall call an usher to have you put out. In fact, I will …”
Scuff smiled at her. “Yer done it. I can see it in yer face. For all yer ’igh and mighty airs, yer just a bleedin’ snitch.”
She pushed past him and went as quickly as she could toward the wide-open doors at the far end of the hall.
Scuff stood staring after her, not sure now what to do with the piece of information he had. It would hurt Sir Oliver if he knew that, yet how safe were you if you didn’t even know who your enemies were, especially if they weren’t who you expected?
And if he told Monk or Hester, he would also have to tell them how he knew. Well, that was a bitter medicine he would just have to swallow.
He made his way to where Margaret had gone out through the big doors onto the steps, then down into the busy street. He had enough money to get an omnibus. He would probably have the best part of an hour in which to make up his mind how he was going to explain himself when he got home.
CHAPTER 15
Monk was back in his home just before midday, sitting at the kitchen table with Hester, a pot of tea between them and a crusty loaf of bread with butter and crumbly Wensleydale cheese, and of course homemade chutney. Hester had discovered, to her surprise, that she was rather good at making it.
Monk had told Hester about the commissioner’s warning. He would much rather not have, but if she did not know, it was much more likely that she might make some slip that would eventually get back to the commissioner. Then Monk might be dismissed, or at the very least, severely reprimanded. Possibly Byrne’s warning had not so much meant “don’t do it” as “do it discreetly enough that I can pretend I don’t know about it.”
“We’ve got to find out something,” she said urgently. “Oliver doesn’t have a chance without it.”
Monk looked bleak. “I’m not sure he has a chance, even if we do,” he warned her, his face filled with unhappiness.
She knew he was trying to help soften the blow of defeat, if it came, but she did not want to hear that. She was being childish, and Monk was allowing her to be.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s time I grew up, isn’t it? You don’t have to think how to protect me. I know Oliver was wrong, even if he did it for the right reasons.”
He reached across the table and put his hand over hers gently.
“I still think there’s got to be something we can do. Have you been able to get permission to enter Taft’s house?” she went on quickly, in case he got the idea that she was giving up gracefully.
“I’m trying, but I have to be pretty devious about it.” He smiled slightly in spite of himself. “We don’t even know who our enemies are in this, Hester. There are some very important people looking to convict Rathbone because they need to show that you can’t expose people the way he’s done with the photograph of Drew. And it’s
