William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

his body.
    “And you believe this to be Mrs. Monk’s reason for asking her somewhat unusual bookkeeper to involve himself in Mr. Taft’s affairs?” Gavinton asked with sad understanding.
    “I do,” Drew answered. “That she did so seems to be unarguable, and I can think of no other reason for it; she has never been to our church before, or since.”
    “The one occasion you refer to, some eight or nine weeks ago?” Gavinton asked.
    “That is so,” Drew agreed.
    Rathbone waited in vain for Warne to object. It seemed he had been attacked completely on the blind side and had no idea what to challenge, or how. Please heaven that by the time he came to cross-examine Drew he would have some weapon for a counterattack. Gavinton had managed to raise considerable doubt as to the veracity of any of the evidence against Taft. In fact, he had made it look like the fabrication of a rather unbalanced woman, with the help of a frankly semi-criminal former brothel keeper.
    There was a bitter irony to it that cut Rathbone deeply. It was exactly what he had done in defense of Jericho Phillips—who had been guilty of far more depravity than Abel Taft. A single look at Gavinton’s face showed that he was quite aware of it and that he savored it with relish.
    The remaining part of the day Gavinton spent in going through the facts and figures in the accounts that condemned Taft. Drew had explanations for all of it. Gavinton was careful what he chose to ask about, but there was such a mass of information that the jury began tolook glassy-eyed. Presumably that was Gavinton’s intention. You cannot convict a man if you do not understand the entirety of what he is supposed to have done.
    R ATHBONE LEFT FOR THE day disturbed by his inability to do anything except watch and listen as Gavinton reversed the whole atmosphere and flavor of the case. He had begun the day backed into a corner from which it looked as if he had no escape; he had ended it having painted Hester as a hysterical and somewhat foolish woman with a habit of meddling in affairs that were really not her concern, at times to tragic results, and that in this case she had accused a good man of a criminal fraud of which he was entirely innocent.
    Gavinton would call Taft tomorrow, as soon as Warne had had a chance to question Robertson Drew. Drew was supremely confident; it oozed out of him like sweat on a hot day. Rathbone imagined he could smell it in the air, oily and sickly sweat.
    What could Warne attack? Rathbone had no doubt that Drew’s account of Hester’s involvement was accurate in all its main assumptions. He knew Hester well enough to believe that it was precisely what she would do. He wondered for a moment why she had not mentioned it at least one of the times they had met in the past month. Of course the bookkeeper clever enough and sufficiently well versed in fraud to understand Taft’s tricks was Squeaky Robinson. Rathbone had met Squeaky a few times and recognized the description. It was Rathbone who had tricked Squeaky out of the brothel buildings in Portpool Lane, the same buildings Hester had turned into the clinic. Squeaky had had a twisted and reluctant respect for Rathbone ever since. And if he was honest with himself, Rathbone had a certain respect for Squeaky also. That alone might answer why Hester had not burdened him with knowledge of the affair.
    How like her!
    Perhaps it would be unwise to see her. She might very well be called as a witness.
    He thought about it as his hansom wove in and out of the other carriages on the road. He was still turning it over in his mind as he entered his house.
    What was there that Warne could rebut? Would it be in his interests or only make matters worse, if he were to delve into the accounts again and try to argue any of the figures? Gavinton had very cleverly seen to it that the jury’s threshold for details about numbers was crossed and left far behind.
    Rathbone gave his hat and stick to his butler and asked him to bring a whisky and soda.
    Were the proceedings Rathbone had watched play out in court, without any interference from himself, evidence of brilliant legal ability on Gavinton’s part, or somehow a sleight of hand that he ought to have been able to prevent? Did it even matter, as far as he was concerned, whether Taft was innocent or guilty? His title was “judge,” but actually he had no legal or moral right to judge the most important issue they were met to decide. He was there to make