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She took the oath in a steady voice and stood facing Warne, ready to begin.
Warne, dark, haggard, and clearly nervous, moved forward into the center of the floor. He cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Monk, Mr. Drew has told us that you attended a service at Mr. Taft’s Church. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Just once?”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat again.
“Why did you go? And why did you not return a second or third time? Was the service not as you had expected? Or did something happen while you were there that offended you to the degree that you did not wish to go again?”
Hester looked puzzled. Clearly Warne had not told her what he planned to say. Perhaps there had been no time.
Rathbone was so tense he had to move his position a little, consciously clench his hands then loosen them. Was Warne going to use her vulnerability to save his case against Taft?
Why not? Rathbone had done it to save Jericho Phillips, of all people! How could he now self-righteously blame Warne?
The jury was tense, staring at Hester, a mixture of sympathy and apprehension in their faces.
Hester answered, her voice even. It was too calm to be natural. “I went because Josephine Raleigh is a friend of mine, and she told me of her father’s distress,” she said. “I understood her desperation acutely because my father also was cheated out of money and found himself in debt. He took his own life. I wanted to see if there was anything at all I could do to prevent that happening to Mr. Raleigh.”
Now there was movement in the court. One of the jurors put up his hand to ease his collar. Another’s face was pinched with grief, or perhaps it was pity. Debt was not so uncommon.
In the gallery a few people craned forward, turned to one another, sighed, or spoke a word or two.
“How did you intend to do that, Mrs. Monk?” Warne asked curiously.
Hester moved her shoulders very slightly. “I had no clear plan. I wanted to meet Mr. Taft and listen to him preach.”
“To what purpose?”
“To see if there was any chance he would release Mr. Raleigh from his commitment,” she replied, choosing her words carefully. “Also to see if Mr. Taft asked me for money, and how he worded it, whether I felt pressured or not, whether he did it in front of others to embarrass me if I refused.”
Warne looked curious, but the tension still gripped his body and his hands.
“And did he do any of those things?” he asked.
She smiled bleakly. “I admit I did feel pressured-yes-and it was all carefully wrapped under the preaching of Christian duty: the safe and comfortable should give to the cold, hungry, and homeless. One cannot argue with that and then kneel to pray.”
“Did you give, Mrs. Monk?”
“To the ordinary collection, yes. I did not give more than that.” There was a faint, bitter smile touching her lips.
“And did anyone make you feel guilty?” Warne pressed.
There was not a sound in the gallery.
“Mr. Drew tried,” she answered. “But I told him all the money I could spare already went to my clinic in Portpool Lane. The women there are not only hungry, cold, and homeless, they are also sick.”
“Why did you not go back to the church, Mrs. Monk?”
“Because I already understood the pressure Mr. Raleigh, and others, must have felt,” she replied. “There is an art to making other people feel as if they should give what they can to those less fortunate. I am not good at it myself. I am far too direct. But I enlist the help of those who are good at it, in order to keep the clinic going. I know very well how it is done. Please heaven, we do not coerce anyone to give more than they can, so putting themselves into debt. We ask small amounts, and only from those who, as far as we can tell, have more than sufficient.”
Gavinton stood up, puzzled.
