William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

wrong.”
    Taft’s expression tightened so slightly it was barely visible. “That is unavoidable,” he conceded.
    Warne continued to stare at him. “But your friends, your associates in the ministry, and most particularly those who deal with money and the charities you help—you will choose these with great care and diligence, I imagine? You will, with the utmost discretion, of course, findout all you need to know about their financial honesty, and competence, and their moral character?”
    There was a rustle of awakened interest in the gallery, a stiffening of attention in the jury.
    Taft frowned. “Of course,” he agreed.
    Warne nodded. “Exactly. To do less would be irresponsible.”
    “Indeed it would,” Taft said a little sharply.
    “And I assume you take the same care with the charities to which you give this exceedingly generous amount of money?” Warne went on.
    Taft swallowed, hesitated a moment, then answered. “I do the best I can, Mr. Warne. There is no way in which I can make inquiries regarding their staff. I do not always know them, and they change, but they are good and honorable people who give of their own time freely.”
    Warne nodded. “Quite so. But you have never had cause to doubt either their honesty or their competence?”
    “No, never.” Taft’s voice was losing a little of its smoothness.
    Warne gave a slight gesture of denial.
    “They are not of the emotionally uncertain nature of your own well-meaning parishioners—”
    He was not allowed to finish. Gavinton shot to his feet.
    “My lord, Mr. Taft is not accountable for the morality or errors of any charity he might donate to. And may I point out that the emotional fragilities of his own parishioners have extended to false accusation, but in no case whatever, in any circumstances at all, to the misuse of money.”
    Rathbone was caught. He could feel his stomach knot and his breath catch in his throat. Was Warne about to introduce the photograph at last? He had just maneuvered Taft into endorsing Drew once again, swearing he knew him and all his motives and activities.
    Rathbone felt the sweat prickle on his body, and in the heat of the room, the color flush in his face.
    “Mr. Warne …” he began, and then had to stop and take a deep breath and cough. “Mr. Warne, you seem to be stating the obvious. Is there a question or purpose in what you are saying? Mr. Taft has already very thoroughly, several times over, sworn to the honesty, diligence,and general virtue of Mr. Drew. He has also sworn that this is from his personal knowledge, not hearsay or a charitable judgment. What is your purpose in raising this yet again?”
    “I wish to give Mr. Taft every opportunity to clear himself of these charges,” Warne said demurely. “If in some way the fraud were—”
    “There has been no fraud proved, my lord!” Gavinton cut across him. “My learned friend is—”
    “Yes, Mr. Gavinton,” Rathbone in turn interrupted him. “He is wasting time. You wasted a good deal of it yourself.” He turned to Warne. “I think we have established to the jury’s satisfaction that Mr. Taft trusted Mr. Drew in all things both moral and financial and that he did so after a long personal acquaintance and with all due care and foresight in making certain that his good opinion was based upon fact, not upon convenience or friendship.” He looked at Taft. “Is that a just and true assessment, Mr. Taft?”
    “Yes, my lord.” Taft could do nothing but agree.
    Rathbone studied his face to find even a shadow of reluctance, and saw nothing. If he had any idea of danger, he was a master at concealing it. Or was he so supremely arrogant that the possibility of his own failure never entered his mind?
    Rathbone looked at Warne and could not read him either. Warne looked like a man facing impossible odds, preparing for the bitter taste of defeat and yet still seeking some last-minute escape. Perhaps that was exactly what he was. Perhaps he despised Rathbone for having even kept the photograph, let alone descending to its use. Perhaps, Rathbone thought, he had earned Warne’s lifelong contempt for no purpose at all, and Warne would rather lose the case than filthy his hands with such a ploy.
    “My lord,” Warne said gravely, “much of the evidence in this case seems to be believed or discarded based on the reputation for honesty and for soundness of judgment of the person offering it. It does seem, regrettably, as if some of the Crown’s