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Gavinton looked skeptical. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Drew? Is it not possible that your own anxieties made you suspicious?”
“I thought so myself to begin with,” Drew admitted. He never took his eyes from Gavinton. This time he did not even try to draw in the jury. “But I made a few inquiries out of curiosity, and learned a great deal more of her reputation. She is a childless woman who seems to be prone to finding causes and then crusading for them, not always with fortunate results.”
Now he had the jury’s attention, if reluctantly.
Warne began to look worried. Rathbone wondered why he had not challenged Gavinton, who was allowing Drew to level charges that lacked specificity. Why had Warne not pointed that out, and required that he name this woman, if he could?
“So you learned a good deal about this woman?” Gavinton glanced at Rathbone, and then back at Drew.
“Yes,” Drew agreed. “She has done a degree of good running a free clinic for women of a certain sort, injured or diseased. But her compassion has become undisciplined, and led her into several rash enterprises …”
Rathbone froze. Drew had to be speaking of Hester. Did Warne know that, and that was why he had not pressed Drew to be specific?
“You hesitate,” Gavinton pointed out to Drew.
“I do not wish to damage the woman’s reputation unnecessarily,” Drew answered, his voice smooth. “I don’t think she intended harm, but at times she has totally misunderstood situations and, like an ill-trained horse, run off with the bit between her teeth.”
Gavinton smiled at the expression and shot a dagger-sharp glance at Rathbone. It was only a second’s deviation, so slight as to make Rathbone wonder if he had seen it at all or merely imagined it.
Warne stood up. “My lord, this is totally unsubstantiated imagination. A woman came to Mr. Taft’s Church and her curiosity was awakened as to its work. Surely only a guilty conscience would see harm or irresponsibility in that? No prudent person gives money to an organization, even one claiming to do the work of God, without making some inquiries.”
“Guard your tongue, Mr. Drew,” Rathbone warned. “Or perhaps I should suggest, bridle it!”
The nervous tension broke, and there was a wave of stifled laughter around the gallery.
This time Gavinton was not disconcerted. He smiled back at Rathbone, showing his considerable teeth and then inclining his head in a slight bow.
“I shall have my witness be very specific, my lord.” He looked up at Drew. “Perhaps, sir, you would oblige his lordship by telling the court exactly what you know of this woman, and showing us that your information is accurate, provable, and relevant. The jury at least has a right to this much, if they are to take it into account in their verdict.”
“Of course,” Drew conceded.
Rathbone grasped at last precisely why Gavinton had looked so smug when proceedings had opened today, and why he had glanced at Rathbone with a sly half smile on his face. It chilled him as if someone had opened a door and allowed in a bitter wind. But there was nothing he could do. It was a perfectly legitimate tactic. In fact, it was probably what he himself would have done in Gavinton’s place, and they both knew it. It was going to be a rough few days. He would have to be very careful not to make any errors or allow his emotions to dictate an action, or even a look or a word. If he did, the damage might be lasting.
No wonder Ingram York was glad not to have the case himself. It crossed Rathbone’s mind that York might also be glad he was the one who had received it, especially considering how things had gone at the dinner party. A moment later he dismissed the thought. York didn’t even know him. Why would he care, one way or the other? And what was one dinner party?
But then, one dinner party had been enough to convince him that York’s wife was one of the loveliest women he had ever seen. There was a beauty in her face far deeper than feature or coloring; he had seen the intelligence there, the humor, and a quality of gentleness that seemed to signify an ability to dream-and to be hurt. He thought of the room with yellow walls that she desired that would appear as if it were filled with sunlight. There would be no tension in such a place, he thought. No seeking to find fault. It would be a place where dreams were safe.
There was a noise of scraping wood.
He was not paying attention. He jerked his mind back. Drew was speaking.
“The clinic in question is in Portpool Lane,” Drew said. “It is run by a Mrs. Hester Monk. Her husband, William Monk, is commander of the Thames River Police, and she has been known in the past to have a considerable involvement in some of his more serious cases, ones of violence and … obscenity.”
There was a ripple of interest around the gallery and one of the jurors nodded to himself with a little shiver.
“Which is natural enough, I suppose,” Drew continued, “because she is in daily contact with much of the lesser criminal elements in the city who might have information that her husband could use in his investigations.”
Two more of the jurors nodded.
Gavinton was smiling. Warne was almost expressionless. Had he any idea what was coming?
Drew resumed his explanation. “The establishment Mrs. Monk runs is, of necessity, on the edge of the criminal underworld. Those are the people she is endeavoring to help, and as a woman of compassion, she reaches out to them. The trouble is that her judgment is rather too often swayed by her emotions.”
Gavinton held up his hand to stop Drew, and then took a step closer to the stand. His voice was smooth, placating.
“That is a sweeping statement to make, Mr. Drew. I’m afraid you need to be less general, and more specific,” he explained. “You cannot expect the court to accept what you say either as factual or as relevant, unless you can show us by an example, the truth of which my learned friend can question and test.” He looked up at Rathbone again, and this time there was clear victory in his eyes.
Rathbone would have paid a high price for the chance to retaliate effectively, but he had no weapon, and they both knew it.
