William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

than whispered, distorted by telling and retelling. Either way, Rathbone had no choice in the matter. He had not told Sylvestra what he expected to uncover that day. She was not his client, Rhys was. Anyway, he had had no time, no opportunity to explain to her what it was he knew, and he could notforesee what his witnesses would testify; he simply had nothing to lose on Rhys’s behalf.
    “Sir Oliver?” the judge prompted.
    “My lord,” Rathbone acknowledged. “The defense calls Mrs. Vida Hopgood.”
    The judge looked surprised, but he made no remark. There was a slight stir of movement in the crowd.
    Vida took the stand looking nervous, her chin high, her shoulders squared, her magnificent hair half hidden under her hat.
    Rathbone began immediately. He was hideously unsure of her, but he had had no time to prepare. He was fighting for survival and there was nothing else.
    “Mrs. Hopgood, what is your husband’s occupation?”
    “ ’E ’as a fact’ry,” she replied carefully. “Wot makes shirts an’ the like.”
    “And he employs women to sew these shirts … and the like?” Rathbone asked.
    In the gallery someone tittered. It was nervousness. They could not be any more highly strung than he was.
    “Yeah,” Vida agreed.
    Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet.
    “Yes, Mr. Goode,” the judge said, forestalling Goode’s objection. “Sir Oliver, has Mr. Hopgood’s occupation got anything to do with Mr. Duff’s guilt or innocence in this case?”
    “Yes, my lord,” Rathbone replied without hesitation. “The women he employs are profoundly pertinent to the issue. Indeed, they are the true victims in this tragedy.”
    There was a ripple of amazement around the room. Several of the jurors looked confused and annoyed.
    In the dock, Rhys moved position and a spasm of pain twisted his face. The judge also seemed unhappy. “If you are going to demonstrate to the court that they were abused in some way, Sir Oliver, that will not help your client’s cause. The fact that they can, or cannot, identify their assailants will distress them and give you nothing. In fact, it will only damage your client’s sympathies still further. If it is your intention toplead insanity, then practical evidence is required, and of a very specific nature, as I am sure you know very well. You have pleaded ‘not guilty.’ Are you now wishing to change that plea?”
    “No, my lord.” Rathbone heard his words drop into a well of silence, and wondered if he had just made an appalling mistake. What was Rhys himself thinking of him? “No, my lord. I have no cause to believe that my client is not of sane mind.”
    “Then proceed with questioning Mrs. Hopgood,” the judge directed. “But come to your point as rapidly as you are able. I shall not allow you to waste the court’s time and patience with delaying tactics.”
    Rathbone knew how very close to the truth that charge was.
    “Thank you, my lord,” he said graciously, and turned back to Vida. “Mrs. Hopgood, have you suffered a shortage of workers lately?”
    “Yeah. Lots o’ sickness,” she replied. She knew what he wished. She was an intelligent woman, and articulate in her own fashion. “Or more like injury. Took me a fair bit o’ argy-bargy, but I got it aht of ’em wot ’ad ’appened.” She looked questioningly at Rathbone, and then seeing his expression, continued with feeling. “They do a bit o’ dolly mop stuff on the side … beggin’ yer pardon, sir, I mean takes the odd gent ’ere an’ there ter add a bit extra … w’en their children is ’ungry, or the like.”
    “We understand,” Rathbone assured her, then explained for the jury. “You mean they practice a little amateur prostitution when times are particularly hard.”
    “In’t that wot I said? Yeah. Can’t blame ’em, poor cows. ’Oo’s gonna watch their children starvin’ and not do summink abaht it? In’t ’uman.” She drew breath. “Like I said, some of ’em was doin’ a bit on the side, like. Well, first orff they got cheated outa pay. Got no pimps ter look arter ’em, yer see.” Her handsome face darkened with anger. “Then it got worse. These geezers don’t on’y cheat, they started roughin’ ’em up, knockin’ ’em around, like. First it were just a bit, then it got worse.” Her expression twisted till the anger and pain in it were stark to see. “Some of ’em got beat pretty bad, bones broke,teef an’ noses broke—kicked, some of ’em were.