William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

terrible punishment that exposure of that photograph would bring? No, of course he hadn’t. There was no question about that.
    “How long have you known Abel Taft, Mr. Drew?” Gavinton began.
    Drew considered for several seconds before replying. “Seven or eight years, as closely as I can recall.”
    Interesting, Rathbone thought. The photograph had been dated. He had known Taft during the time of his membership in Phillips’s club. So his joining the Church was not an act of penance? He must be sure.
    He leaned forward and interrupted.
    “And have you been a member of his congregation all that time, Mr. Drew?” Rathbone asked.
    Drew looked slightly surprised. “Yes, my lord. I met him as I joined. I heard him preach and recognized immediately a voice of conviction rather than the voice of a man merely earning his living by the cloth.” He bowed his head a little. “I apologize if that seems critical of the clergy. I don’t mean it to be so. I’m sure there are many churchmen who have given their lives to the service of others, and done it with a whole heart. I simply believe that Mr. Taft has given more.”
    “To charity?” Rathbone questioned mildly. He kept his hands below the level of the ornate bench, where his slightly trembling fist could not be seen.
    “Precisely,” Drew agreed.
    Rathbone let out his breath and leaned back again, indicating to Gavinton that he should continue.
    There was little more to add, just a reaffirmation of the amountpassed to charity and the denial that any of the papers Hester Monk’s bookkeeper had given Mr. Sawley were of any worth or validity at all.
    Gavinton excused Drew, with thanks, and called Abel Taft to testify in his own defense.
    There was a moment or two of restless silence while Taft was brought from the dock, down the stairs, and back into the courtroom. Previously Rathbone had been able to see only his shoulders and face, and not even that unless he had deliberately turned his head to look up. Now Taft was far more visible. He was a striking man in appearance, of good posture, and with commanding features. His thick, fair hair was streaked with silver at the temples. It was not difficult to see why he commanded attention.
    He climbed to the witness stand with confidence. One could not blame the jury if they believed he was an innocent man who trusted that the court, in its honesty, would find him so. Rathbone knew Taft might well leave the courtroom vindicated, more famous than before, and with the sympathy deserved by one who had been falsely accused and had to endure the strain and indignity of a public trial.
    He swore to his name and address, and that he was a preacher of the gospel of Christ. Gavinton asked for all of this in a tone of great respect.
    He was standing in the middle of the floor, like a gladiator in the arena. Rathbone had stood exactly there himself more times than he could count. He knew the feeling, the rush of excitement, the heart racing—and he knew the effect it had on the jury.
    No one coughed or rustled as Gavinton began.
    “Mr. Taft, you have been accused of a wretched, devious, and deceitful crime. Many of your erstwhile parishioners have given evidence against you. Loyal friends and colleagues, like Robertson Drew, have defended you with passion, and in detail. Your faithful wife is sitting here day after day, with you in spirit during this ordeal.” He made a slight gesture to indicate to the jury where Felicia Taft was sitting white-faced and desperately miserable. At the mention of her name she tried to smile, and the effort only made her distress all the more obvious.
    Rathbone considered her. She was a pretty woman, but there was no life in her face, no vitality. Happiness would have made her attractive. All he could feel for her now was a growing pity as he became more and more convinced that, previous to the charges, she had had no idea of any kind of fraud in her husband’s ministry. She seemed half numb from the shock. Perhaps for the first time in her married life she was contemplating the possibility that he was not the ideal man she had supposed. What connection had she had with his reality, day by day?
    For that matter, how easy is it to dupe anyone who loves and wants to believe? How much had he seen in Margaret that was rooted in his own mind, not in hers? If you truly love someone, should you not bring out the best in them, rather than the worst? And wouldn’t you yourself strive to be the best? Was