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His Honor Judge Ullswater brought the court to order and Mr. James Hillyer opened for the prosecution. “Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury,” he began easily. He was a man of about forty, unremarkable except for his most beautiful hair and the deep lines in his face that suggested a considerable sense of humor. “I am going to show you a man accused of a trivial, and so far as we are aware, completely unnecessary crime. It is a series of comparatively petty thefts. A few pounds here and, days later, another few pounds there. A steady bleeding away, if you like, of his employer’s funds, amounting altogether to one hundred pounds. And this concerns you deeply, because the employer concerned is His Majesty’s Government, your government. Specifically, the British Embassy in Washington, the capital of the United States of America. The disgrace and embarrassment to this country is vast, compared with the amount stolen. Of course, he could pay back the money within a little while. It is not a serious loss to the government. It would be ridiculous to portray it as such.”
He smiled ruefully and gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders. It was an elegant gesture. “But it is a devastating loss to our honor, our national pride. I even considered whether to plead with my superiors not to prosecute the case and draw attention to it. Let it die in ignominy. But others know of it. Are we a people who hide our sins away from others, and so let them breed, and let others see that we are willing victims, afraid of the truth, favoring a lie? A fit subject for mockery. As it is said, you can pull the lion’s tail with impunity, in fact he has no teeth!”
There was a stir of anger in the gallery, a nerv
ous giggle toward the back. Daniel saw several jurors stiffen in their seats. One even shook his head sharply.
“I perceive you see this as I do,” Hillyer said softly. “Justice is not partial, and is not in fear of any man, or people, or nation. I will show you the accused as a well-bred young man, carrying a name that used to be honored in the noble tales of our history. But a man who also carries with him a sense of entitlement, to do as he pleases without answering to the law, as lesser men do.”
What on earth was Daniel going to say that could undo that picture drawn in the jury’s mind? He wished that Kitteridge were doing this, not him. It was his turn at last, and he stood up reluctantly. He cleared his throat and began.
“Good morning, Your Honor, gentlemen.” He smiled very slightly, only a patch of light crossing his face. “My learned friend may succeed in showing some of these things, but you will see for yourself, and judge for yourself. It is your duty, and I trust your nature, not to prejudge a man because of the way he speaks, or dresses, or what name his mother chooses to give him.”
He felt ridiculous. Was anybody listening to him? He cleared his throat again. “I could bring you any number of witnesses to tell you Philip Sidney is an honorable man, that he is not extravagant, nor does he live beyond his means. They can show you no proof that he has debts, because there are none. But there are papers, financial documents, showing the transfer of a few pounds in payments for expenses, some of them highly questionable. Some of them we will prove to you are forgeries.”
Now the jurors were all upright, their faces alert. In the gallery there was rustling and shifting of feet.
Daniel continued, “You will find it fascinating how that can be demonstrated with a microscope. That, at least, shows that there was someone else involved, with dishonorable intent.”
Though Daniel had spoken for only a few moments, when he sat down, his heart was beating hard in his chest, almost choking his breath.
The first witness Hillyer called was a quiet, nervous-appearing young man with soft, fair hair that kept flopping over his brow. He identified several pieces of paper, which were solemnly passed around the jury for them to look at. They were letters of authorization to pay small sums of money to certain tradesmen, restaurants, hotels, and so forth. The total amount was approximately one hundred pounds.
“And do these letters of authorization to pay all carry the same signature, sir?” Hillyer asked with interest.
“Yes, sir, they do.” He sounded very certain. “Mr. Philip Sidney’s.”
This looked as if it were going to be a solid and tedious presentation of the case against Sidney. Surely Hillyer, whose reputation was high, was going to do something more than this? Daniel began to feel far less comfortable. He had no idea what to expect. Of course, he had studied several of Hillyer’s recent cases. And what they had in common were surprises, sudden and unforeseen turns in the line of evidence, entirely different conclusions suggested, and then supported. It made it impossible to know what to expect or prepare for.
He looked at Sidney in the dock and saw the same intense concentration on his face, as if he were not aware of what to expect. If he really did not know, how frightening for him! No wonder he looked so white. Would the jury take that for guilt?
The next witness was a clerk from the Foreign Office in London who had once held the office that Sidney held in Washington.
“Mr. Partington,” Hillyer began pleasantly, “please describe, briefly, the position you held in our embassy in Washington, just sufficiently for us to understand Mr. Sidney’s duties, his responsibilities. Especially, we would like to know what trust he enjoyed from his superiors.”
“Yes, sir.” Partington relished his importance in explaining the workings of the office to the jury. He was simple, lucid, and just short of being an utter bore. It was exactly what anyone who had ever worked in an office would have expected.
Hillyer held up his hand and stopped him at the perfect moment. He turned to Daniel. “Your witness, sir,” he invited. He sat down with a pleasant, slightly satisfied smile. He knew the jury had heard everything they wished from this witness. Anything more would be lost in confusion and boredom.
Clever bastard, Daniel thought. If the jury heard much more of this, they would fall asleep. He stood up and spoke to both Hillyer and the judge. And then turned to the court. “Thank you, but I think that is as clear as anyone could be.” And then he turned to the witness. “Just one thing, Mr. Partington. Did you know Mr. Sidney? Personally, I mean?”
“No, sir, I have never met him.”
“I thought not. You are merely telling us what his job was. I think the gentlemen of the jury will already understand that, insofar as it is necessary at all. I assume that you never wrote a letter of authorization for payment that was…erroneous?”
“No, sir!” Partington said stiffly. “I never took anything that was not mine!”
“We have not yet established that anyone has,” Daniel said, and then before Hillyer could object, he sat down.
Hillyer called his next witness, another clerk, who kept similar ledgers in some British embassy somewhere else.
Daniel sat silent, only half listening. It was difficult to concentrate on anything so infinitely tedious. But he knew that the one thing that might matter, if he caught it, could change the course of the trial, and he could miss it through a slip in attention.
Suddenly he became aware of someone standing in the aisle beside him. For one bright moment, he thought it might be Kitteridge. But it was not. It was someone darker, and more naturally coordinated.
The judge was staring at them.
The man kneeled down in the aisle, next to Daniel, to appear at the same level as if he were sitting. It was Patrick.
