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“Don’t be ridiculous!” Warne snapped. “She’s an army nurse, you fool! She’s seen men dismembered on the battlefield! She saw the original boat with its cargo of imprisoned and tortured children-the real ones, alive, terrified, half starved, and bleeding. What is it you imagine she can see in this photograph that she hasn’t already seen? Except perhaps the face of someone she recognizes?”
“Recognizes?” Rathbone said quietly. “Who is in this picture, Mr. Gavinton?”
Gavinton closed his eyes. When he answered his voice was hoarse and no more than a whisper.
“Mr. Drew, my lord.”
Rathbone held out his hand. Gavinton gave him the photograph. Rathbone took it and looked at it, not that he needed to; every sordid detail was already imprinted on his brain.
He cleared his throat. “Indeed it is,” he agreed. “It is obscene, as you say, and it is quite clearly Mr. Robertson Drew. I imagine, Mr. Gavinton, that you object to this being put into evidence to show Mr. Drew’s character as very far indeed from what it seems. However, you repeatedly held him up as an honorable man. Mr. Warne has the right to question that, and rebut it if he can-which, it is now abundantly clear, he is able to do. Upon what grounds do you protest, other than that you apparently did not know that your star witness, who so protected your client’s virtue, is somewhat short of virtue himself?”
The air in the room was electric, like that in the half second between lightning and thunder.
“I was given no warning of it!” Gavinton protested.
“I received it only late yesterday evening,” Warne told him. “I agree, I should have told you before court this morning. I accept censure for that.” He looked at Rathbone, then back at Gavinton. “But I will not accept the suppression of it. You called Mrs. Monk’s character into question, on the word of Drew. I call Mrs. Monk to defend herself and at the expense of Drew. Is there something unjust in that?”
“Where the devil did you get this … this filthy thing?” Gavinton demanded, the color returning to his face in a wash of scarlet.
“That is privileged information,” Warne replied smoothly. “But if you wish to have it authenticated, then of course you must do so.”
“It could be … some trick!” Gavinton was still struggling.
“I do not believe that,” Warne answered. “But I may be able to obtain the original plate, if you feel that is necessary.”
“You’re bluffing!” Gavinton was all but shouting now.
“No, I am not,” Warne snapped, lowering his voice with effort. “But if you wish to take that chance, th
en do so. However, I think you might be better served by consulting with Mr. Drew on the matter. He will know beyond question that the picture is genuine, and he may wish, quite voluntarily, to be more truthful in his testimony regarding Mrs. Monk’s reliability as a witness, and the strength and honesty of her general character. He may also prefer to be more moderate in some of the rather condemnatory remarks he made about the weaknesses or gullibility of the various other witnesses.”
Gavinton stared at him as he would at a poisonous snake.
“Were that his choice,” Warne continued, “then the photograph would no longer be relevant. You could merely stipulate to its veracity, and to Mrs. Monk’s character, and then at the end of the trial I would hand it over to you to destroy.”
“And the plate from which it was printed?” Gavinton said huskily.
Warne spread his hands. “I don’t have that-but I know where it is. I will see what I can do. That’s all I can offer.”
“Mr. Gavinton?” Rathbone asked.
“I’ll … I’ll have to consult with my client and with Mr. Drew …”
“Of course. You may have thirty minutes.”
Half an hour later Hester was told that she would not be needed after all, and Warne called Robertson Drew to the stand.
“My lord, in light of this remarkable turn of events, I should like to ask Mr. Drew if he wishes in any way to reconsider his testimony. He may now prefer to lend more credence to the witnesses he previously condemned. Mrs. Monk, in particular …?” His expression changed almost imperceptibly, and he turned to Gavinton.
Gavinton struggled to find some ground to protest and failed. He sank back into his seat, looking as if he had aged a decade in the last hour.
Several turbulent minutes passed as Robertson Drew made his way back to the stand and climbed the steps, fumbling as if he were partially blind. A bristling silence filled the room, hostile, angry, disturbed.
Rathbone brought the court to order and Warne approached Drew, who clung on to the rails, not as if for support, rather more as if he would exert all the force he had to bend them to his will. He was clearly in the grip of some violent emotion.
Rathbone looked at the jurors. Their faces reflected an intense confusion. They seemed to have been taken entirely by surprise.
Drew was reminded that he was still under oath.
