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It had ended in the destruction of Arthur Ballinger, and of Rathbone’s marriage. Even that was not as simple as it appeared. For a while Ballinger had seemed to Rathbone an irredeemable man. Then, in that final encounter, he had told Rathbone not only what had happened, but why; he had explained his slow descent from idealism, step by step downward to the conscienceless brutality that marked his character at the end of his life.
It all made a case of a clergyman embezzling money seem cut-and-dried-the evidence would be complex, full of detail that would need to be explained with great clarity-but essentially, it was a matter of simple greed. He certainly would not attempt to pass the case off to anyone else.
Hester was also looking forward to the trial of Abel Taft. She had worked extraordinarily hard to bring it about. It was extra-good news to her that it was Oliver Rathbone who had been appointed to try the case.
“What a good thing I didn’t say anything to him. I had thought about it, a few weeks ago,” she said as she and Monk walked under the trees in Southwark Park, a mere stone’s throw from their own house. “I suppose that could have compromised him so he wouldn’t have been allowed to hear the case, couldn’t it?”
“Possibly,” he agreed, smiling in the evening sun. Below them in the distance the light was mirror-brigh
t on the water, making the ships stand out almost black. “Is that why you didn’t tell him? In case he was chosen to hear it?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “I rather thought he wouldn’t approve.”
“When on earth has that ever stopped you?” he asked incredulously, turning to look at her with amusement and a sudden surge of affection.
“Since he was placed in a position to be able to stop me,” she said frankly.
How very practical. How like her-a mixture of the wildly idealistic and the totally pragmatic. He put his arm around her and walked a little closer.
“Of course,” he agreed.
Approximately two weeks later the trial of Abel Taft began. It was a hot, almost windless day in mid-July, and the courtroom of the Old Bailey was uncomfortably warm. Even though the public gallery was not full, the atmosphere seemed airless.
The proceedings began as usual. The court had been called to order, the jurors were sworn in. As always the gravity of it gave Rathbone a sudden sharpening of his awareness of exactly who he was, and-more importantly-what his responsibilities were toward the people in this old, beautiful, and frightening chamber. Lives had been ripped apart here; dreams shattered, guilt and tragedy exposed, and, please God, justice done.
He should never forget that sometimes it could be the opposite. Lies had covered truth, oppression had crushed freedom, and violence beyond the walls had reached inside and silenced protest.
He looked at the participants today. As he already knew, Blair Gavinton represented the accused. He was slender, graying a little. Everything about him was smooth, immaculately tailored. He smiled easily, as if he believed it were charming. To Rathbone, he seemed to have too many teeth. He was sitting very calmly today. The expression suggested that he knew something that the rest of them did not.
On the other side of the room Dillon Warne represented the prosecution. He was a good height, perhaps an inch or two taller than Gavinton, and his hair was dark. He had an elegance that did not look as if he had struggled to attain it. Indeed he gave one the feeling that he was not even aware that he had a certain grace. Rathbone was always surprised to notice that when Warne walked he did so with a slight limp. He had never mentioned, in the few times he and Rathbone had spoken, what had occurred to cause it, nor did he ever say whether it gave him any pain.
He was sitting pensively, no indication in his face as to what he might be thinking.
The dock where the accused sat between two jailers was raised above the rest of the room, and entered separately, from a stairway apart from the main court. The accused could see and hear all the proceedings, but was removed in a sense.
Abel Taft sat there now, a calm, handsome man with magnificent hair. He looked patient rather than afraid. He might almost have been preparing for the room to come to order so he could begin his sermon. Was he a superb actor, or was he really so very confident that he wouldn’t be found guilty?
Warne rose to his feet and began to address the court as to the nature of his case against the accused, and what he intended to prove. Rathbone looked at Taft’s wife sitting in the gallery behind Gavinton. Mrs. Taft was a pretty woman, but today she looked as if she kept her composure only with considerable difficulty. Her husband might not be afraid, but she most certainly was. Another woman, rather older, sat next to her, leaning a little toward her as if to offer comfort.
Once, Blair Gavinton turned round and gave Mrs. Taft a reassuring glance. Rathbone could not see his face, but he could well imagine his expression. Hers softened into a hesitant smile, and Gavinton looked toward the front again, and listened to Warne, who now called his first witness.
Mr. Knight was a very ordinary young man, rather overweight, and at that moment extremely nervous.
Warne tried to set him at ease. Obviously he would have done all he could to prepare him, because if Warne himself did not know the testimony he could hardly present it to the court.
“If you would give us the facts and figures as clearly and briefly as you can, please,” Warne requested.
Knight swallowed, wiped his brow with a rather small handkerchief, then swallowed again.
“Begin at the beginning,” Warne prompted.
Gavinton smiled, looking down at the papers in front of him. It was a simple gesture, and yet to Rathbone it conveyed a certain smugness, as if Gavinton were awaiting his opportunity to destroy the young man.
Knight must have felt the same because when he began his voice was a squeak. First he listed sums of money, reading from a ledger that had been produced in evidence and of which the jurors had copies.
It was all very tedious, and Rathbone had only to look at the jurors’ faces to see that they were already bored. The figures had no meaning to them at all.
Mr. Knight himself must have realized it. He hurried up until he was practically gibbering.
