Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (10 page)

Warne looked puzzled. “And did you not admire him for that, Mr.
Bicknor? It sounds a most generous and truly Christlike attitude. Perhaps if more of us thought like that, the world would be a better place.”

There was a murmur of approval from the gallery, and some discomfort in the jury box. Several of the jurors looked intently at the woodwork, avoiding anyone’s eyes.

Rathbone wondered if Warne was really thinking about what he was saying. He seemed to be playing into Gavinton’s hands.

“If the whole world was like that, yes,” Bicknor replied, clearly distressed. He looked as if Warne’s question was unexpected. “But it isn’t, is it? My son’s going around with shoes that have holes in them, and a shirt with a frayed collar that’s already been turned once. Look at Mr. Taft. He’s got brand-new boots with a shine you could see your face in. And I’ve seen him myself in three different pairs. And I’ll wager he doesn’t have his wife turn his shirt collars so the frayed edges don’t show. He has a nice carriage and a matched pair of horses to pull it, while my son walks to save the omnibus fare.”

Warne nodded slowly. “Then Mr. Taft is a hypocrite. He does not himself do what he expects of others. But that is not a crime, Mr. Bicknor. Certainly it is contemptible, and repugnant to any decent man, but I’m afraid we find such people not only in the Church but in all walks of life.” He looked unhappy as he said it, his dark face rueful.

“We don’t give them our money!” Bicknor retorted angrily, his frustration at his inability to convey the injustice of the situation ringing in his voice. “He’s a cheat! He lied to us … in the name of God!” His cheeks were flushed and he was trembling, grasping the rail of the witness box with hands whose knuckles shone white.

Warne smiled, his lips drawn tight. “If Mr. Taft has asked for money in order to give it to the poor, and then taken it for his own use, then it is a crime, Mr. Bicknor, and we shall prove it so. It is particularly despicable if he has taken it from those who have little enough in the first place. Thank you for your testimony. Please remain there in case my learned friend has anything to ask you.”

As Warne returned to his seat, his limp a little more noticeable, Gavinton stood up. He walked across the open space of the floor as if
he were entering an arena, a gladiator swaggering out to battle. He looked up at Bicknor, a lumbering man by comparison, who now was regarding him with apprehension.

“Mr. Bicknor, you are naturally very protective of your son. It sounds as if he is an unusually vulnerable young man, desperate to have the approval of Mr. Taft. Do you know why this is?”

“No I don’t,” Bicknor replied a little sharply. “The man’s a charlatan. Mind, my son didn’t see that. He thinks a man in the pulpit, preaching the word of God, has to be honest. We brought him up to respect the Church, and any man of the cloth. Maybe that was our mistake.”

“No,” Gavinton shook his head. “It is right to respect the Church, and those who represent it. But it seems your son’s emotions were far more radical than simple respect would dictate. Did you teach him to give all he possessed, more than he could possibly afford, to anyone who asked for it?”

“Of course not!” Bicknor was angry. Rathbone could see his self-control, which Warne had guarded so carefully, already beginning to slip out of his grasp. One should not underestimate Gavinton.

Gavinton smiled, flashing his teeth again. “I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Bicknor. I imagine you are a great deal more careful with your money. You give what is safely within your means?” He made it sound somehow mean-spirited.

“Yes.” Bicknor could give no other answer.

“A pity you did not teach your son to do the same,” Gavinton shook his head. “Without offense, might I suggest it was your duty to have done that, not Mr. Taft’s?” He ignored Bicknor’s scarlet face and his hunched, shaking body. “How was Mr. Taft to know that your son was in financial difficulty? He has hundreds of parishioners. He cannot possibly be aware of the affairs of all of them. Why is it that you expect him to be? How many sons do you have, Mr. Bicknor? Correct me if I am mistaken, but is it not just the one?”

“Yes … but I don’t ask him for money to support me!” Bicknor said with a rising note of desperation. “I don’t bleed him dry and then make
him feel ashamed if he can’t give me even more. I don’t use Christ’s name to get him to do things I want him to.”

“Is that what your son told you happened? Or possibly it is simply what you assume, knowing that Mr. Taft is a man of God?” He raised his eyebrows. “I take it that you were not there while this was happening, or you would have intervened, would you not?”

“ ’Course I weren’t there at the church.” Bicknor’s control was slipping even further out of his grasp.

Rathbone could see from Warne’s face that he longed to help him, but there were absolutely no grounds for him to object. There was nothing Rathbone could do either, whatever he felt personally. Gavinton was very possibly testing the emotional value of the testimony, but that was his job. And there was always the possibility, remote as it seemed, that he was correct. Young Bicknor might be a naïve young man who had misunderstood what was said to him. His father might be blaming Taft for faults in his son that he himself should have checked.

“Mr. Bicknor,” Gavinton continued, “is it not possible that your son sought out Mr. Taft, and became so dependent upon his good opinion, because he wished to overcome some doubt or fear within himself? Possibly it was even God’s forgiveness he sought, for some sin that burdened him heavily?”

“How dare you?” Bicknor burst out, rage and humiliation thickening his voice. He banged his closed fist on the railing. “First he was robbed blind, deceived by lies and canting ways, and now you accuse him of some terrible sin! He’s never done anything worse than dodge school a few times when he was younger. You—you’re disgusting!”

Rathbone leaned forward a little. “Mr. Bicknor, Mr. Gavinton is only putting to you a possible reason as to why your son might have been coerced so easily into giving more money than he could afford. There is nothing dishonorable in seeking to pay your debts to God by giving generously to those less fortunate.” He drew in a breath. “And we all have debts to God—the honest among us acknowledge it.”

Bicknor looked at Rathbone in silent misery. He wanted to argue, but he dared not. Rathbone represented the majesty of the law, which
Bicknor had respected all his life. The answers were in his head, but he was afraid to give them.

“Thank you, my lord,” Gavinton said, instantly turning Rathbone’s remarks to his own advantage.

Rathbone had a sudden flash of empathy for Bicknor. The result was not what he intended. He must be more careful.

“Do not thank me yet,” he snapped. “It is one of the skills of those who cheat people out of their money to make them feel guilty for nameless sins they have not committed. As I am sure Mr. Warne will point out on his reexamination of the witness.”

Warne did not bother to hide his smile.

Gavinton bit his lip in order to suppress the objection he would like to have made. He was taken by surprise. He had thought Rathbone less brave, possibly even less involved.

Bicknor’s shoulders eased and he gripped the railing again, but this time not as if he intended to break it.

“You can think what you like,” he said to Gavinton. “It’s your job to be on his side.” He glanced up at the dock, then back to Gavinton again. “God help you. You’ve got to live with yourself. My son’s got a soft heart, not a guilty one. Maybe a bit of a soft head, to believe that … that liar!” This time he only nodded toward the dock.

Gavinton opened his mouth to protest, then glanced at the jury and changed his mind. He sat down and offered the witness back to Warne.

Warne walked over to the witness stand, his limp barely noticeable now. He was smiling, in spite of an apparent effort not to.

“Mr. Bicknor, are you aware of your son having a major issue of conscience at any time in his life, of the sort or degree that Mr. Gavinton has suggested?”

“No, sir, I am not,” Bicknor said loudly.

Warne was not finished yet.

“On the other hand, have you known him to be generous to those less fortunate?” he persisted. “To share what he had, for example? To be willing, as a child, to let others play with his toys?”

“Yes,” Bicknor agreed immediately. “We taught him in that way. He has sisters, and he was always good to them. Younger, they are. He looked out for them.”

“Did they take advantage of him?” Warne went on.

Bicknor smiled. “They’re little girls! Course they did! And of me too. Some people think little girls is all weak and soft. I’ll tell you, they aren’t. Sweet and gentle, all right, but clever as little monkeys, they are. A man who hasn’t had little girls has missed out on one of the best things in life. But anyone who thinks they’re daft is in for a very big surprise.”

Warne’s smile was wide and surprisingly sweet. “Thank you, Mr. Bicknor. I really don’t think I have to ask you any more. It seems clear to me that your son is a decent man taken advantage of by those he had been brought up to trust.”

Gavinton rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Warne is making speeches; he is all but directing the jury as to their conclusions.”

“You suggested Mr. Bicknor was a guilty man seeking to buy off his conscience with money,” Rathbone pointed out. “This seems a fair rebuttal. It is an alternative explanation for a piece of behavior that is crucial to the case.” He turned back to Warne. “Please call your next witness, Mr. Warne.”

The prosecution continued for the rest of the day. Warne had enough wisdom to choose a variety of people, old and young, men and women, those who had given from wealth and those who had offered almost all they had. In each case they had done so believing it would be used to help those in desperate need. It became very apparent that Cuthbert Bicknor was one of very many.

John Raleigh was also among them. He looked gaunt and worried, a man prematurely old for his years as he mounted the witness stand. He was no more than Rathbone’s own age, and yet he looked pale and beaten. It was clear that Warne found it difficult to question him at all, so sensitive was he to the man’s deep unhappiness and shame.

And yet Raleigh was exactly who he needed to make the case. He was so obviously an honest man, harrowed by the fact that he was now
deeply in debt. Gavinton would have been a fool to attack him. Not only was he sincere, he was articulate.

Warne treated him with respect. He walked out slowly to the center of the floor and looked up. His voice when he spoke was quiet and clear.

“Mr. Raleigh, would you please explain to the court why you went on donating to Mr. Taft’s causes when it stretched your means beyond what was wise? Some people may not understand why you did not simply tell him that you could not.”

Raleigh looked embarrassed. It was so apparent in his face that even Rathbone, long used to the acute distress of witnesses, found himself uncomfortable, as if he were intruding into some private issue that he should have had the sense and the good taste not to observe in the first place.

“Mr. Taft told us the most pitiful stories of the plight of those he intended to help,” Raleigh said, his voice soft but clear. “I was very moved by it,” he went on, lifting his chin and facing Warne and the court as if he were walking into battle. “I … I gave more than I should have, and then found myself facing the choice of paying one bill, or another. One has certain expenses that one deals with so regularly they become invisible. And then, as always, there’s the unexpected thing. I …” He took a deep breath.

Rathbone looked at him with concern. “Are you able to continue, Mr. Raleigh?” he said gently. “If you would like a few moments to collect yourself, you may take them.”

“No, thank you, my lord,” Raleigh answered. “If I am man enough to do it, I must have the honesty to explain myself. I am far from being the only one so … embarrassed for means. Mr. Taft asked me how much I had in the bank, and if I would not trust in God to provide for me if I gave all I could to fellow human souls who were perishing for lack of food or shelter. What answer could an honest man give, except that of course I would?”

“And what happened, Mr. Raleigh?” Warne asked, his face filled with pity.

“A slate came off my roof, then several more,” Raleigh replied. “I
asked the roofer to replace them for me, otherwise the first rains would come in, and the rafters would begin to rot. Before long I should have irreparable damage.”

“But you had insufficient means to pay him?” Warne asked.

“I had sufficient funds for the damage I could see. But when he climbed up there, he found other slates were broken and the lead was inadequately laid around the chimney. It cost twice as much as I had anticipated, and I no longer had the funds set aside against such things.” There were tears in his eyes, and he blinked them away rapidly. “Perhaps the Lord expects rather more prudence than I exercised.”

“Did you consider asking Mr. Taft to return some of your money to you?” Warne asked. “I know the answer, but the court may wish to hear.”

“I did.” Raleigh’s face was scarlet with humiliation, and he stumbled over his words. “He accused me of asking him to rob God. He told me I would forfeit the grace I had obtained, and that I should strengthen my faith if I wanted to be among those in whom God was pleased.”

Warne’s own face was white now, his voice suddenly rough-edged. “Did you believe that Mr. Taft had the power or the right to tell you whom God would favor, and whom he would not?”

Raleigh looked down at the floor, away from Warne’s eyes. “He is an ordained preacher, sir. He was very persuasive. And do I need two coats, when my neighbor has not even a shirt? ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ ”

“Mr. Raleigh, how many coats do you think Mr. Taft possesses?” Warne said softly.

Raleigh sighed. “I have seen him in at least a dozen, at one time or another. I didn’t think of that at the time. I admit it, I was gullible, extremely foolish. I really believed that what I was giving would go straight to some poor soul who had not even that night’s supper, and I knew I had mine, and to spare.”