William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

in debt. He took his own life. I wanted to see if there was anything at all I could do to prevent that happening to Mr. Raleigh.”
    Now there was movement in the court. One of the jurors put up his hand to ease his collar. Another’s face was pinched with grief, or perhaps it was pity. Debt was not so uncommon.
    In the gallery a few people craned forward, turned to one another, sighed, or spoke a word or two.
    “How did you intend to do that, Mrs. Monk?” Warne asked curiously.
    Hester moved her shoulders very slightly. “I had no clear plan. I wanted to meet Mr. Taft and listen to him preach.”
    “To what purpose?”
    “To see if there was any chance he would release Mr. Raleigh from his commitment,” she replied, choosing her words carefully. “Also to see if Mr. Taft asked me for money, and how he worded it, whether I felt pressured or not, whether he did it in front of others to embarrass me if I refused.”
    Warne looked curious, but the tension still gripped his body and his hands.
    “And did he do any of those things?” he asked.
    She smiled bleakly. “I admit I did feel pressured—yes—and it was all carefully wrapped under the preaching of Christian duty: the safe and comfortable should give to the cold, hungry, and homeless. One cannot argue with that and then kneel to pray.”
    “Did you give, Mrs. Monk?”
    “To the ordinary collection, yes. I did not give more than that.” There was a faint, bitter smile touching her lips.
    “And did anyone make you feel guilty?” Warne pressed.
    There was not a sound in the gallery.
    “Mr. Drew tried,” she answered. “But I told him all the money I could spare already went to my clinic in Portpool Lane. The women there are not only hungry, cold, and homeless, they are also sick.”
    “Why did you not go back to the church, Mrs. Monk?”
    “Because I already understood the pressure Mr. Raleigh, and others, must have felt,” she replied. “There is an art to making other people feel as if they should give what they can to those less fortunate. I am not good at it myself. I am far too direct. But I enlist the help of those who are good at it, in order to keep the clinic going. I know very well how it is done. Please heaven, we do not coerce anyone to give more than they can, so putting themselves into debt. We ask small amounts, and only from those who, as far as we can tell, have more than sufficient.”
    Gavinton stood up, puzzled.
    “My lord, I am afraid Mrs. Monk is all very righteous in her work, and in raising funds for it. Different people have their own ways of … of doing good.” He said it in such a way it sounded like some secret vice. “But what has it to do with whether Mr. Taft is guilty of fraud, or innocent?”
    Rathbone turned to Warne. “This is a somewhat circuitous route to wherever you are going. A little more direct, if you please, Mr. Warne.”
    Warne bowed, his face carefully expressionless; then he turned back to Hester.
    “Mrs. Monk, what did you do as a result of your visit to Mr. Taft’s Church?”
    “I went to see Mr. Robinson, who keeps the accounts for me at the clinic,” she answered, her voice low and a little hoarse. “I asked him if he knew of any way of determining if all the money raised by Mr. Taft actually went to the causes he claimed it did. Mr. Robinson told methat he would endeavor to find out, and then later gave me the results of his inquiries.”
    Gavinton was on his feet again.
    “My lord, the court is already aware of all this. Mr. Warne is wasting our time. We know who Mrs. Monk is, and something of her past interference in cases she believed deserving. I am sorry to embarrass her; no doubt she is a well-intentioned woman, but past cases have made it tragically evident that she is also undisciplined.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “She comes with incomplete evidence, interpreted by her emotions, no doubt out of compassion, but nevertheless, emotions are not evidence. You yourself are only too aware of this. Tactless as it may be of me to remind you, but when you were a prosecutor, my lord, you totally destroyed her on the stand. Your friendship for her did not prevent you from doing your duty, however repugnant to you.”
    Rathbone waited for Warne to fight back and was met with silence. He felt the heat burn up his own face. What in hell was Warne doing? He had left Rathbone no choice.
    “Mr. Gavinton is right, Mr. Warne,” he said between his teeth. “This