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CHAPTER 6
The following day the trial resumed. Rathbone had slept badly, his dreams full of chaos. Now he sat in the high-backed chair and watched the proceedings, feeling as if the air in the room were as thick as that before an electric storm. His chest was tight and his neck so stiff that he could barely turn from side to side.
The gallery was less than full but the atmosphere was heavy. There was going to be no dramatic end. As far as the law was concerned, all was well, but as drama it had failed. Taft was clearly going to be found “not guilty,” which meant that everything was going to remain as it had been. It was not worth watching. Those left now were the few with a personal interest in the outcome.
Felicia Taft looked more composed than in earlier days. Perhaps she knew that the worst was past. And yet she did not look happy. If she were exhausted, one could hardly blame her. The pallor of her face, the droop in her expression might be no more than that. She had endured all she was able to. With the end in sight, she had allowed herself to relax.
Gavinton was jubilant. He all but strutted out onto the floor. Abel Taft was on the witness stand again. He was not smiling exactly, but it was as if he felt he no longer had anything to fear, or to apologize for.
Rathbone was so tense his whole body ached. No matter how he moved in the seat, the tension did not let up. He feared he had left it too late. Even with the photograph, there was nothing Warne could do. What was it Rathbone ever imagined he might accomplish anyway? Did he think Warne would show the photograph to the jury and tell them this was the man they were believing rather than the witnesses he had so carefully mocked and belittled?
He could see Gethen Sawley sitting in the gallery, stubborn, white-faced, his body hunched forward as he waited for the ultimate defeat. Why was he here? Why was he punishing himself by watching as Drew and then Taft picked him apart, humiliating him gently, acting as if they were reluctant to say each word.
John Raleigh was still here too, dignified and silent, waiting for his ruin to be complete.
Rathbone could not see Bicknor, but he was probably here somewhere.
What did they expect? Did the desperation of their faith make them think there would be some miracle to make the trial just after all? Rathbone wished that he had the power to produce that miracle for them.
What a horrible irony. Gavinton was asking Taft once again if he believed in Robertson Drew, so the last thing he left in the jurors’ minds was the image of Taft as an innocent, trusting man. Nothing was his fault. Because Drew was not charged, in a sense he was invulnerable.
Was Warne going to use the photograph? How would he introduce it? Had he even brought it?
Gavinton was handing over the witness to Warne.
Warne rose to his feet. He looked haggard. There were dark shadows on his face, as if he had not shaved, but as he moved and the light caught him it was clear it was only the hollows of his cheeks. He had probably been up all night pacing the floor, wondering what to do with the terrible picture.
Warne regarded Taft cautiously, but no politeness in his words could mitigate the intense dislike in his face.
“Mr. Taft, it seems you are ill served in your congregation, and indeed by everyone except Mr. Drew,” he observed. His voice was gravelly with strain. “Would it be fair to say that that is because your congregation is self-selecting? They come because they have tried other churches, and possibly found them wanting? Your message is the one they wish to hear, for whatever reason or hunger of their own?”
“Yes,
you might say that,” Taft agreed. There was no visible tension in his body, no strain in his voice. If he were the least afraid he was a master at concealing it.
“Do you ever turn anyone away?” Warne inquired.
“Of course not.” Taft made the question sound ridiculous. “The doors of any church are always open. We would ask someone to leave only if he was causing turmoil or distress among the rest of the congregation. I’m pleased to say that hardly ever happens.” He gave a slight shrug, and his expression was rueful. “Once or twice someone did take too much to drink. Sober, he would be welcomed back.”
“Very commendable,” Warne said drily. “It is easy to see how, in these circumstances, you quite often take in the emotionally unstable, and those not to be relied upon. Such people will make errors of judgment, misunderstand, even on occasion do things that are morally, or even legally, wrong.”
Taft’s expression tightened so slightly it was barely visible. “That is unavoidable,” he conceded.
Warne continued to stare at him. “But your friends, your associates in the ministry, and most particularly those who deal with money and the charities you help-you will choose these with great care and diligence, I imagine? You will, with the utmost discretion, of course, find out all you need to know about their financial honesty, and competence, and their moral character?”
There was a rustle of awakened interest in the gallery, a stiffening of attention in the jury.
Taft frowned. “Of course,” he agreed.
Warne nodded. “Exactly. To do less would be irresponsible.”
“Indeed it would,” Taft said a little sharply.
“And I assume you take the same care with the charities to which you give this exceedingly generous amount of money?” Warne went on.
Taft swallowed, hesitated a moment, then answered. “I do the best I can, Mr. Warne. There is no way in which I can make inquiries regarding their staff. I do not always know them, and they change, but they are good and honorable people who give of their own time freely.”
Warne nodded. “Quite so. But you have never had cause to doubt either their honesty or their competence?”
