William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

minutes.”
    H ALF AN HOUR LATER Hester was told that she would not be needed after all, and Warne called Robertson Drew to the stand.
    “My lord, in light of this remarkable turn of events, I should like to ask Mr. Drew if he wishes in any way to reconsider his testimony. He may now prefer to lend more credence to the witnesses he previously condemned. Mrs. Monk, in particular …?” His expression changed almost imperceptibly, and he turned to Gavinton.
    Gavinton struggled to find some ground to protest and failed. He sank back into his seat, looking as if he had aged a decade in the last hour.
    Several turbulent minutes passed as Robertson Drew made his way back to the stand and climbed the steps, fumbling as if he were partially blind. A bristling silence filled the room, hostile, angry, disturbed.
    Rathbone brought the court to order and Warne approached Drew, who clung on to the rails, not as if for support, rather more as if he would exert all the force he had to bend them to his will. He was clearly in the grip of some violent emotion.
    Rathbone looked at the jurors. Their faces reflected an intense confusion. They seemed to have been taken entirely by surprise.
    Drew was reminded that he was still under oath.
    Warne was brief. After what had gone before, anything now would be anticlimactic.
    “Mr. Drew, you represented yourself to the court as a man of the utmost propriety, of honor, diligence, and dedication to the work of Christ. In light of the change in circumstances of which Mr. Gavintonhas made you aware, you may wish to reconsider some of your condemnation of other witnesses as to their honor and their worth.”
    In the dock Taft’s face was hidden, bent forward almost to his knees.
    “Mr. Drew,” Warne continued, “was … Mr. Taft … aware of all your private, very personal … tastes? And, by the way, did any of the money paid by the parishioners you appear to despise make its way into your own pocket? That would account for why we find it so difficult to trace it to the charities whose books seem—to put it kindly—chaotic.”
    “No!” Drew said furiously. “If anyone took it, it was Taft!”
    Warne’s dark eyebrows rose. “And the little digression into Mrs. Monk’s testimony in the Phillips case—which, incidentally, she later solved to the satisfaction of the law, and of society’s need for justice—would you agree that was irrelevant, except as a means of trying to invalidate her testimony in this case?”
    Drew glared at him. “Yes.” The word was barely audible. The jury strained forward to hear him.
    “Might the same be said of your attempts to discredit Mr. Gethen, Mr. Bicknor, and Mr. Raleigh?” Warne continued.
    “Yes.” It was the snarl of the desperate man cornered.
    Warne shrugged and turned to Gavinton. “I doubt you will want to pursue it, but the witness is yours, sir.”
    Gavinton declined. He looked like a beaten man, stunned with shock, reeling from blow after blow.
    It remained only for each of them to present their closing arguments. In fairness to Gavinton, to give him an opportunity to collect his thoughts and attempt to recover at least something to say for his client, Rathbone adjourned the court for the day. Warne made no objection. Perhaps he also wanted to collect his thoughts and make certain that between them they had allowed Gavinton no cause for appeal.
    Rathbone walked out into the afternoon sun in something of a daze, oblivious of the crowds around him on the footpath.
    Warne had used the photograph after all, cleverly—if at some riskto his reputation. He might well be censured for not having given Gavinton the picture at the beginning of the day. He had called Hester, something Rathbone had not foreseen, and then used her courage and dignity, her honesty in admitting her own error with Phillips to his advantage. It was as if Gavinton had pulled the entire edifice of his case down on top of himself.
    The crowd was still pouring out of the Old Bailey behind and around him into the late afternoon heat, bumping into one another, jostling for space on the burning pavements. Two well-dressed men were arguing vociferously, voices raised. A fat woman in black struggled with a parasol, muttering to herself in frustration. Another woman’s hat was knocked off in the jostling, and several people reached to retrieve it. They would all be back tomorrow for the summations and the verdict. They would not be content to read about it in the