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‘I don’t believe we should prosecute,’ Rathbone said gravely. ‘I think we may end up losing, and making Rand seem a hero . . .’
‘For God’s sake, man!’ Juster said incredulously. ‘He kidnapped a woman whom you know well, and care for. If Radnor had died, or even one of the children, he would have had to kill her. She would never have kept silent over it. I know that, you know it, and Rand as sure as hellfire knew it.’
‘But it didn’t happen, Juster,’ Rathbone pointed out. ‘She’s alive. You can’t prosecute someone for what you believe they would have done in circumstances that did not happen. You know that as well as I know it. The defence will say that the children’s parents took money . . .’
‘But they didn’t know what was going to happen to the children,’ Juster said hotly, his voice rising.
‘But what if Rand said he had told them in the beginning?’
‘He didn’t!’ But Juster’s voice wavered.
‘Of course he damned well didn’t,’ Rathbone agreed. ‘But can you prove that, if Rand swears he did?’
Juster stared at him.
‘You can only charge him with kidnapping Hester, and hope that her testimony stands up to the defence, because they’ll attack her any way they can think of.’
‘Is that really why you’re withdrawing?’ Juster asked, but his voice was softer, without blame.
‘No . . . no, I don’t think so. In fact I’m not withdrawing. I would rather be there to sit beside you and give you whatever counsel I can when the time comes, which it will. If you go ahead . . .?’
‘If I don’t, they’ll find someone else,’ Juster pointed out. ‘They’ve already told me as much.’
‘Then we are in for a battle,’ Rathbone answered him. ‘We had better prepare.’
Chapter Eleven
RATHBONE WAS filled with an extraordinary sense of both exhilaration and fear as he entered the courtroom at the Old Bailey, London’s famous Central Criminal Court. This was the opening of the case against Hamilton Rand and Adrienne Radnor, for the abduction of Hester Monk.
He was afraid for Hester, because she was the only witness against either of the accused during the major commission of the crime. If the defence could cast doubt on her word, either by fact or by the assassination of her character, then there was no case to answer.
Of course, Hooper would be called. Charles Colbert, taking the defence, could very simply raise questions as to Monk’s impartiality, as Hester’s husband, his judgement, and the need now to defend his very violent action. He could even call the surly gardener to attest to his injuries, incurred in very properly protecting his master from the intrusion of men about whom he knew nothing. They were the attackers, not he, and it was he who had received the injuries.
It would be better to call Hooper, although even his testimony could be brought into doubt. After all, Monk was his superior. Apart from loyalty, there was also the question of his future employment. It was far too easy a weapon for Colbert not to use it.
Squeaky and Scuff were equally vulnerable. Worm was not even to be considered, although, having met him, Rathbone thought he would hold his own very well. Anyone who bullied him would look brutal and earn the jury’s contempt, and even worse, their dislike. Of course, Colbert would not let it get so far. He would have him eliminated unseen, on the grounds of his age and total lack of education.
It was going to be a very difficult case. Rathbone looked across the long familiar courtroom with its magnificent carved judge’s bench, its double row of jurors’ seats. Above them, isolated from the body of the court, was the dock where the accused would sit, guarded by gaolers. He sat at his table beside Ardal Juster before the empty space like an arena, in which was the witness box, with its own little spiral stair. Charles Colbert for the defence was sitting, ostentatiously comfortable, at the other side. It was a well-learned art. He was not a comfortable man. He was lean, a little hollow-chested, with very long legs. He reminded Rathbone of a studious stork, physically ill-balanced, but when you met his eyes or heard his knife-edged tongue, you realised his intellectual brilliance.
This was Rathbone’s first appearance since being legally reinstated after his disgrace. He was second to Juster, but he was permitted to question witnesses. They had already agreed that he would not question Hester. Their history, both private and professional, was too open to innuendo.
The court was brought to order, presided over by Lord Justice Patterson, a judge Rathbone was not familiar with. Perhaps that was an advantage.
The preliminaries were the same as always. The jury took their places. They were all respectable men in their middle years, men who owned substantial property, and of course had no known blemishes on their reputations. That they were peers of the accused was seldom true, but in this instance it was. Except, of course, for Adrienne Radnor, sitting beside Hamilton Rand in the dock. Women did not meet the requirements of the law, and were not considered suitable intellectually or emotionally for such a task.
Juster rose to his feet and gave a very brief introduction to his case. He said only that it concerned an issue that some of the jury might not have had occasion to consider. The evidence would be deeply disturbing, and their responsibility would be heavy and complex, but he trusted them completely. To fail in this case would be to fail honesty not only here in the present, but far into the future as well.
Rathbone had agreed to this when they discussed it earlier. Seeing the jury’s faces now, he felt even more strongly that it was the right tactic.
Hester was the first witness called. This was the most risky tactic because in the end the case depended upon her. If she impressed them well, then the other witnesses would be believed; if not, then nothing else would work.
Rathbone sat stiff-backed, his fingers laced together, white knuckles in his lap beneath the table where they could not be seen.
Hester climbed the steps of the witness stand and stood at the top, her hands by her sides, her face calm. She was wearing a blue dress, which was softly draped and flattering. It was the colour of her nurse’s dress, but without the white apron.
Juster began. He and Rathbone had planned this in detail.
‘Mrs Monk, in August of this year, where were you working?’
