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Warne was brief. After what had gone before, anything now would be anticlimactic.
“Mr. Drew, you represented yourself to the court as a man of the utmost propriety, of honor, diligence, and dedication to the work of Christ. In light of the change in circumstances of which Mr. Gavinton has made you aware, you may wish to reconsider some of your condemnation of other witnesses as to their honor and their worth.”
In the dock Taft’s face was hidden, bent forward almost to his knees.
“Mr. Drew,” Warne continued, “was … Mr. Taft … aware of all your private, very personal … tastes? And, by the way, did any of the money paid by the parishioners you appear to despise make its way into your own pocket? That would account for why we find it so difficult to trace it to the charities whose books seem-to put it kindly-chaotic.”
“No!” Drew said furiously. “If anyone took it, it was Taft!”
Warne’s dark eyebrows rose. “And the little digression into Mrs. Monk’s testimony in the Phillips case-which, incidentally, she later solved to the satisfaction of the law, and of society’s need for justice-would you agree that was irrelevant, except as a means of trying to invalidate her testimony in this case?”
Drew glared at him. “Yes.” The word was barely audible. The jury strained forward to hear him.
“Might the same be said of your attempts to discredit Mr. Gethen, Mr. Bicknor, and Mr. Raleigh?” Warne continued.
“Yes.” It was the snarl of the desperate man cornered.
Warne shrugged and turned to Gavinton. “I doubt you will want to pursue it, but the witness is yours, sir.”
Gavinton declined. He looked like a beaten man, stunned with shock, reeling from blow after blow.
It remained only for each of them to present their closing arguments. In fairness to Gavinton, to give him an opportunity to collect his thoughts and attempt to recover at least something to say for his client, Rathbone adjourned the court for the day. Warne made no objection. Perhaps he also wanted to collect his thoughts and make certain that between them they had allowed Gavinton no cause for appeal.
Rathbone walked out into the afternoon sun in something of a daze, oblivious of the crowds around him on the footpath.
Warne had used the photograph after all, cleverly-if at some risk to his reputation. He might well be censured for not having given Gavinton the picture at the beginning of the day. He had called Hester, something Rathbone had not foreseen, and then used her courage and dignity, her honesty in admitting her own error with Phillips to his advantage. It was as if Gavinton had pulled the entire edifice of his case down on top of himself.
The crowd was still pouring out of the Old Bailey behind and around him into the late afternoon heat, bumping into one another, jostling for space on the burning pavements. Two well-dressed men were arguing vociferously, voices raised. A fat woman in black struggled with a parasol, muttering to herself in frustration. Another woman’s hat was knocked off in the jostling, and several people reached to retrieve it. They would all be back tomorrow for the summations and the verdict. They would not be content to read about it in the newspapers, they would want to hear the words, see the faces, and taste the emotions of it.
Rathbone walked briskly along Ludgate Hill toward St. Paul’s, passing in the shadow of the great cathedral and into Cannon Street before hailing a hansom and giving the driver his home address.
He sat back inside, and even before the driver had turned westward he was lost in thought.
Was it justice? If so, what had been the price?
CHAPTER 7
Rathbone did not sleep well but was at last resting dreamlessly when his valet woke him. He was startled to see the warm sunlight through the gap in the curtains. He sat up slowly, his head heavy.
“Damn!” he said miserably. “What time is it, Dover? Am I late?”
“No, sir.” Dover’s face was very grave. “It is still quite early.”
Rathbone heard the seriousness in his voice. “What is it?” he asked a little sharply. “You sound as if someone had died.” He meant it with sarcasm.
“Yes, sir, I’m very much afraid so,” Dover replied.
Rathbone blinked, straightening up. Then suddenly he was ice cold. His father! His chest tightened and he could not breathe. The room seemed to disappear, and all he could see was Dover’s white face. He tried to speak and no sound came.
“The case you were presiding over, sir.” Dover’s voice came from far away. “The man accused … a Mr. Abel Taft, I believe …” He went on speaking but Rathbone did not hear him.
The room steadied itself, and the warmth flooded back into his body, which was tingling with life. Dover was still talking and Rathbone had not heard a word of it.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
Dover swallowed and began again. “Mr. Taft, sir. The police left a message for you. I’m afraid he has taken his own life. Shot himself. But before doing so it appears that he suffocated his wife and his two daughters. I’m very sorry, sir. It is most distressing. I thought you should know immediately. It is bound to be in at least some of the daily newspapers. I do not know what is the correct procedure in court, but no doubt there will have to be an alteration in the arrangements.”
Rathbone swung his legs out of bed and stood up slowly, swaying for a moment before regaining his balance. “I shall shave and dress,” he said. “And consider what would be best to do. The only part of the trial remaining was the summations. His suicide would make them appear redundant … as indeed a verdict would be. Society will make its own judgment now.” He took a shaky breath. “But in God’s name, why kill his poor family?”
