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Rathbone looked at Gavinton. “Mr. Gavinton, please phrase what you
have to say in the form of questions. We also require that you make them relevant to the case. Be precise. The prosecution has spoken of very exact sums of money given by specific people. That is what you must speak to, if you are to prove Mr. Taft’s innocence.”
Gavinton stiffened in annoyance, but it was only momentary. He believed he had a winning hand, but he did not take kindly to being told how to play it.
“Of course, my lord,” he said a little sharply, then looked up at the witness stand again. His manner altered completely, respectful again. “Mr. Taft, are you aware of the individual sums given by your parishioners?”
“No, sir,” Taft said courteously. “I preach, and I ask the congregation to donate when they can in general terms. I am concerned with overall principles. I make it my business to thank people, when I am aware of their gifts, but I leave the details to others.”
“Specifically to Mr. Robertson Drew?” Gavinton’s eyebrows rose.
“Yes.”
“Have you known him a long time?”
“Yes.” Taft offered a rueful smile. “More years than I care to remember.”
“You trust him?”
“Of course. I would hardly leave something of such importance in the hands of a man I did not trust. That would be not only foolish but morally quite wrong.”
Gavinton considered for a moment. Every man in the jury was watching him. He looked up at Taft. “You have heard several men testify in this case saying that they were pressured into giving more money than they could afford and that they therefore fell into financial difficulties themselves, they turned to you for help, and you did not give it. Is that true?”
Taft bit his lip and shook his head very slightly. He gave the impression of confusion and regret. “As Mr. Drew explained, we no longer had the sums in our possession,” he said sadly. “We pass over money almost as soon as we have it. The people to whom we give it are in desperate need. Had I known at the time that it was more than the givers could afford I would have declined to take it.”
“But you didn’t ask if they could afford it?” Gavinton queried.
Taft looked horrified. “Of course not! If a man offers you money to give to the poor, you don’t ask him if he can afford it. It is at best patronizing, as if you thought him incapable of managing his own affairs.” He gave a little shiver. “At worst it is downright insulting.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t either,” Gavinton agreed. “I dare say no one in this court would. I am going to ask another question that I would not, were this not a trial in which reputations are at stake. Do you trust Mr. Drew absolutely in matters of money?”
“In all matters,” Taft said instantly. “I would not have him in the position he is if I didn’t.”
“Is he responsible for the finances of your Church?”
“He is.” Taft straightened even a fraction more. “But if you are implying that any of this misfortune is his fault, then you are mistaken. I placed him in charge. The fault, if there is one, is mine.”
“Nobly spoken, sir,” Gavinton said warmly.
Rathbone felt a wave of revulsion wash over him, but he saw the respect in the jurors’ faces and knew that Gavinton, for all his unctuousness, was striking exactly the right note for them. The disgust in Rathbone, if it were misread in his expression, would reflect badly on him. Whatever it cost him, he must appear to be completely neutral. Above all else, he must not give the defense grounds for appeal because he appeared to be biased.
Warne’s frustration was visible not only in his face but also in the angles of his body; yet there was nothing for him to object to in legal terms.
Gavinton continued with Taft, drawing out details of his relationship with the men who had testified against him, first Bicknor, then John Raleigh, and lastly Gethen Sawley. His questioning dragged on until the luncheon adjournment and resumed afterward. Delicately, as if with great reluctance, Taft displayed the weaknesses of each one, exactly as Drew had.
Bicknor was made to sound petulant, emotionally vulnerable, a young man desperate for attention to the point where his judgment was warped. He seemed unable to handle rejection and turned it into blame.
Warne was desperate to refute it. It was plain in his face and in the obvious discomfort with which he shifted position, but there was no legal fault in the line of questioning.
When it came to John Raleigh, Taft was more careful. He spoke of him respectfully; in fact so respectfully it all but overbalanced into sarcasm. Again he echoed the testimony of Robertson Drew.
Rathbone sat watching and listening intently. Had there been the least issue over which he could have challenged Gavinton he would have done so, but the man was clever, well prepared, and meticulously careful. He made no mistakes. He teetered on the edge of irrelevance, even of slander, but he never lost his balance. His only danger was perhaps in drowning the jury in so much information that they became bored. Taft’s charm probably compensated for that. Ten years of practice in the pulpit had taught him how to woo an audience.
Gavinton was winning, and he knew it.
Rathbone tried to quash his emotions and think of the facts of the law, but his anger was too great for him to concentrate on the kind of detail that would outwit Gavinton. Innocent, trusting, hopeful people were being picked apart and destroyed as he watched, and there was nothing he could do about it. Taft would walk away not only vindicated but more powerful than before.
It was only as he was looking around the faces in the gallery, not because he expected to see anything of value but simply to calm his mind by momentarily taking it away from Taft’s mellifluous denials, that he saw Hester. For a moment he was uncertain if it really was her. Then she moved, lifted her head, and looked straight at him. Even across the space of the open floor and four or five rows of other people, he could see the distress in her eyes. As clearly as if she had spoken, he knew the strength of her wish that he should do something to stop this smooth, choking tide of self-righteous destruction, the painted charade of half lies.
