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He thought about it as his hansom wove in and out of the other carriages on the road. He was still turning it over in his mind as he entered his house.
What was there that Warne could rebut? Would it be in his interests or only make matters worse, if he were to delve into the accounts again and try to argue any of the figures? Gavinton had very cleverly seen to it that the jury’s threshold for details about numbers was crossed and left far behind.
Rathbone gave his hat and stick to his butler and asked him to bring a whisky and soda.
Were the proceedings Rathbone had watched play out in court, without any interference from himself, evidence of brilliant legal ability on Gavinton’s part, or somehow a sleight of hand that he ought to have been able to prevent? Did it even matter, as far as he was concerned, whether Taft was innocent or guilty? His title was “judge,” but actually he had no legal or moral right to judge the most important issue they were met to decide. He was there to make sure that the law was observed, to the letter and to the spirit. The verdict was the jury’s alone.
But surely there was something he could do?
He chose to sit in his study rather than the withdrawing room. The withdrawing room was beautiful, but it had been so much Margaret’s room as well as his that memories of her haunted it. These were not happy thoughts intruding into today’s loneliness; they were a sad recognition of things he should have better understood, futile now because he could not go back.
He sipped the whisky and let the flavor and the fire of it roll around in his mouth.
Eventually he put the glass down and went outside to walk through the garden in the twilight and listen to the soft sounds of the oncoming night.
The following day Gavinton recalled Robertson Drew to the stand. They did not refer to Hester again but instead directed the attack at Gethen Sawley, the witness who had produced the crucial papers, the only physical evidence of fraud.
Rathbone wondered i
f Gavinton intended to produce anyone from the charity that supposedly had received the money. Warne had not. Surely, if such a person existed, that would put an end to the matter? Perhaps they did not exist, and Warne would tell the jury so in his summation; that would be the best time to do it. They could not possibly forget!
He returned his attention to the proceedings.
Gavinton was asking Drew about Cuthbert Bicknor.
Drew was very composed today. He shrugged casually. “A pleasant young man, but-I have to be honest-very easily influenced. Desperate to be liked, approved of.” He sighed. “It is not a fault. I’m sure we can all understand the need for the regard of our fellows. And if you want friends, where better to look for them than in a church?” He raised his hands in a gesture of inclusion, and smiled toward the jury. “You will meet good people, well spoken, sober, generous, seeking to become even better. But”-he let out his breath in a sigh-“it is possible to mistake a politely friendly manner for something deeper. I think Cuthbert read meaning into people’s words that his interlocutors may not have intended. Because of that, he gave away his money too easily and realized afterward that he had overstretched himself, and then he didn’t know what to do about it.”
“But he was willing for his father to testify on his behalf against Mr. Taft,” Gavinton pointed out. “Quite powerfully, in fact. That doesn’t sound like the act of a young man so devoted to the church and its congregation that he would bankrupt himself.”
Drew waved his hand with a slightly impatient dismissal. “I did not say that he was devoted to the church, sir. I said he was looking for friendship and that approval mattered to him rather out of proportion to … I don’t want to be unkind, but to an emotional balance. I am sure that if a lawyer as skilled and charming as Mr. Warne were to pay him attention and court his … his desire to be important, then he would find some way of obliging him, no matter the request.”
This time Warne did rise to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Drew is all but accusing me of suborning perjury, and Mr. Bicknor of being of less than sound mind. Mr. Bicknor is not here to refute that, but I most certainly am. If Mr. Drew believes that I coerced Mr. Bicknor’s father’s testimony, then I require that he provide proof. And if I were to call him a liar, as I would dearly like to, I still require proof, or I myself will stand condemned.”
“Your point is well taken, Mr. Warne,” Rathbone said with some relief. “Mr. Drew, you are not free to say whatever you like because you are in the witness stand. If you are suggesting that Mr. Warne has acted inappropriately, or that Mr. Bicknor is emotionally unstable, we require evidence to that end, not just your conjecture. If not, I advise you to be careful, Mr. Drew. I see several journalists in the public gallery, and your parishioners would be less loyal to you, I think, if they fully appreciated the extent, or lack, of your loyalty to them.”
Gavinton was furious. His face lost its smooth control. “My lord! Mr. Drew’s words may have been a little … ill chosen … but he is only attempting to tell the court the truth. Cuthbert Bicknor, through his father, has attempted to slander Mr. Taft and accuse him of a most despicable fraud. Mr. Taft has the right to defend himself, and for others to defend him, from this charge. It is not only his livelihood that is at stake-it is also his good name, which is of far more importance to him, as is true of many of us.”
“Indeed,” Rathbone agreed. “As is Mr. Warne’s. Perhaps this problem can be answered by allowing Mr. Warne a certain latitude in questioning this witness, so as to establish what grounds Mr. Drew has for making such an allegation.”
Gavinton frowned. He turned to Drew again.
“Let us leave the subject of Mr. Bicknor. The main evidence of a material nature, something more than hearsay and supposition, is this large sheaf of accounting papers Mr. Sawley says he obtained from the man with the long gray hair and apparently without name. Mr. Sawley claimed not to know him, but you have told us that you believe he is a former brothel keeper by the name of Robinson. Mr. Sawley says that he had not met this man before-this Mr. Robinson-that he simply turned up on his doorstep and offered him these papers.”
The jury’s attention had been captured again by Rathbone’s interjection. One rather rotund gentleman took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Their eyes moved from Drew to Gavinton and back again.
Warne still looked slightly unhappy.
Gavinton was deliberately, exaggeratedly careful.
“I do not ever imply that Mr. Sawley was telling us less than the exact truth. The story is so extraordinary, how could he have imagined it?” Drew looked up at Rathbone, challenge and loathing in his face, open and unmistakable.
“Indeed.” Gavinton swiveled very slightly to face the jury. “Gentlemen, I assume my client to be innocent, as I am sure the court does, unless and until proved otherwise. That is every man’s right, is it not? That is the basis of the law. His lordship, you may not know, was the lawyer who so brilliantly defended Jericho Phillips-not because he admired the man, or wished him to escape justice, but because above all other things, he serves the law. He holds it sacred that everyone, no matter who, no matter the crime, is entitled to defend himself.”
Warne closed his eyes, his face tight, lips drawn into a grimace. Rathbone realized that Warne had not known it was Rathbone who defended Phillips. And why should he! Why would he study the past cases of a judge, from a time before that judge was on the bench? Surely only his decisions since appointment were relevant?
Or did everything matter?
Rathbone was furious. He felt so cornered that for a moment he lost his temper. “What are you looking for, Mr. Gavinton? A round of applause? Please continue to your point, which I believe had something to do with Mr. Sawley and how he acquired the evidence of fraud-other than by simply opening the door to Mr. Robinson.”
