Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (19 page)

“Yes …” Hester was saying uncertainly. “It sounds unbelievable. But the photographs do exist.”

“Indeed,” Warne replied, his voice almost devoid of expression, his face now pale. “I believe I might have one such photograph. Have you ever been on Jericho Phillips’s boat yourself?”

Hester was gripping the edge of the rail to the witness box, her knuckles white. “Yes …” Her voice was a whisper, but it was perfectly
audible in the silence of the courtroom, where it seemed no one else was even breathing.

Gavinton was on his feet, but wearily, no tension or sense of outrage in him, not even of apprehension.

“My lord, the prosecution has not passed over this piece of evidence to the defense. I ask that it be ruled inadmissible—on grounds of irrelevance, if nothing else. I withdraw my remarks as to the unlikeliness of their existence.”

Warne was tense, his body awkward as he stared unblinkingly back at Rathbone.

“My lord, the remarks have been heard by the jury, they cannot simply be withdrawn. I have a right to prove my witness’s truthfulness.”

“You do, Mr. Warne,” Rathbone agreed, hating having to meet Warne’s eyes. “But the defense also has the right to see the evidence.”

With a faint, bleak smile Warne passed the photograph across to Gavinton.

Gavinton took it casually, glanced at it with a look of boredom, then his body jerked and his face went so white Rathbone was afraid he was going to faint.

In the courtroom there was total silence. No one in the gallery moved. The jurors were frozen in their seats, staring at Gavinton.

Gavinton gulped, having difficulty finding his voice. “My … my lord … this evidence is …” He stopped and put his hand up to his throat as if his collar were choking him.

Rathbone’s mind raced. He must avoid a mistrial. Warne might even find himself unable to prosecute again. Without this evidence Gavinton would win.

Rathbone leaned forward. “Mr. Gavinton, would you like a brief adjournment to consider this evidence, which appears to have disturbed you intensely?”

Gavinton swallowed, and choked on his own breath.

“If I may intrude, my lord,” Warne said politely. “Perhaps we might discuss it in your lordship’s chambers?”

Rathbone adjourned the court amid a hum of excitement and confusion,
and five minutes later he, Warne, and Gavinton were in his chambers with the door closed; the usher had been told not to disturb them, regardless of the circumstances.

“Mr. Gavinton?” Rathbone asked with as blank a face as he could manage.

Gavinton was still holding the photograph.

“It is obscene, my lord,” he said, still speaking with difficulty.

“So I had assumed,” Rathbone replied. Trying to remain expressionless, he turned to Warne. “You clearly intended to show it to Mrs. Monk; did you also intend the jury to see it?”

Warne hesitated. He was saved from an immediate answer by Gavinton’s interruption.

“You can’t! She may be gullible with more goodwill than sense, but she’s a decent woman. This picture is vile—it’s repulsive.”

“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, then 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.”

H
ALF 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.

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?

7

R
ATHBONE 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.”