“If you would give us the facts and figures as clearly and briefly as you can, please,” Warne requested.
Knight swallowed, wiped his brow with a rather small handkerchief, then swallowed again.
“Begin at the beginning,” Warne prompted.
Gavinton smiled, looking down at the papers in front of him. It was a simple gesture, and yet to Rathbone it conveyed a certain smugness, as if Gavinton were awaiting his opportunity to destroy the young man.
Knight must have felt the same because when he began his voice was a squeak. First he listed sums of money, reading from a ledger that had been produced in evidence and of which the jurors had copies.
It was all very tedious, and Rathbone had only to look at the jurors’ faces to see that they were already bored. The figures had no meaning to them at all.
Mr. Knight himself must have realized it. He hurried up until he was practically gibbering.
Warne heard him out as if he were interested. Finally he held up his hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Knight. I think this is sufficient for us to have the idea that these sums of money, added together, amount to a very considerable total. You have mentioned dates, but possibly in all the figures, we missed them, or we’ve forgotten. Will you give us the total sum for the year ended last 31 December?”
“Yes, sir. Two thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings and sixpence.”
“Is that typical of a year? How does it compare, for example, to the year before?”
“It increases slightly every year, sir, by about a hundred pounds, or maybe a hundred and fifty.”
“So always sufficient to purchase several very agreeable houses?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And is this year set to reach a similar amount?”
“If it continues like this, more, sir.”
“And is it made up of similar random amounts?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gavinton stood up wearily. “My lord, the defense will stipulate to the amounts mentioned being the sums donated by the parishioners to the charitable endeavors of Mr. Taft’s Church. I think it is something to be proud of, not a cause for shame.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gavinton,” Rathbone said drily. “I imagine Mr. Warne is establishing the amount, and its source, in order to pursue exactly where it ended up, not to question your skill in assessing it.” He turned to Warne. “Please come to your point, before we are so numbed by these figures we forget that they represent the life savings of many people.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Gavinton’s face, but he sat down again.
Warne inclined his head in acknowledgment. “My lord.” He turned to Knight. “Those sums must represent pennies and shillings collected over every week of the year, to have reached such an amount.”
“Yes, sir,” Knight agreed.
Gavinton rose again. “My lord, this is pointless. We agree that many people gave generously. It is a waste of the court’s time, and these gentlemen’s indulgence.” He waved to indicate the jury, who all looked bored and impatient.
“Mr. Warne, is there some point you wish to make?” Rathbone asked. “So far you have not shown us anything a simple statement of account would not have done.”
Warne smiled bleakly. “My point, my lord, is that these individual figures show a pattern.” He turned to Knight, who was looking more and more wretched, as if Gavinton’s objections were his fault. “Mr. Knight, what conclusion did you draw from these figures, sir?”
Knight swallowed yet again. “That these people had given money to Mr. Taft every week, sir. The amounts are random, often including odd pennies, as if they had turned out their pockets and given all they had. And because the number of donations every week corresponded pretty clearly with the number of adults attending the service, it seems as if they all gave … sir.”
“Thank you,” Warne said with a bow. “Your witness, Mr. Gavinton.”
Gavinton rose to his feet. The satisfaction still gleamed in his face.
“Mr. Knight, do you go to church, sir?”
“Yes.”
“And do you give an offering?”
“I do.”
“And does it compare roughly to any of the amounts you found in these records?”
“Yes, sir. I give what I can.”
Gavinton smiled. “I imagine everyone in your congregation does. And in every other congregation in London, indeed in England.” He looked a little wearily at Warne. “I don’t understand your point. And forgive me, Mr. Knight, I haven’t any idea what you think you are testifying to! Other than the perfectly obvious fact that Mr. Taft has a more generous flock, and perhaps a larger one, than most congregations of rather more orthodox faith!”
Knight leaned forward in the witness stand, his plump hands gripping the railing. “You could if you understood figures, sir,” he said distinctly. “These people are giving all they can, pennies and ha’pennies, whatever they have left at the end of the week. All of them-every week.”
“All you are saying is that they are noble and generous,” Gavinton pointed out with a faint smirk. “And possibly that Mr. Taft is a better preacher than most. Thank you, Mr. Knight!” The smirk was wider.
“No!” Knight said loudly as Gavinton walked away from him. “It shows that they believed with all their hearts that Mr. Taft was going to do something with it that they cared about, so much so they were willing to go cold and hungry,” he said angrily.
“Willing to make do with less, you mean?” Gavinton suggested. “Did he ask anyone to go into debt? To fall short on their own commitments?”
Warne rose to his feet. “We shall show that that is exactly what he did.”
“If he did, that is not a crime,” Gavinton shot back. “He could ask, but he couldn’t force anyone to do anything against their will. You are wasting the court’s time and bringing a righteous man’s name into disrepute by making those frankly absurd charges.”
“Gentlemen!” Rathbone demanded their attention. “It is you who are wasting our time. We are here to provide evidence and test it on exactly these matters. Please continue to do so, with facts, however tedious they may be to unravel. Mr. Gavinton, have you anything more to ask Mr. Knight?”
“I don’t think Mr. Knight can tell me anything at all,” Gavinton said ungraciously.
Warne raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think anyone can,” he responded.
There was a titter of amusement from the gallery, and one juror laughed outright.
Gavinton was far from amused.
Rathbone kept his face straight with something of an effort. “Have you anything to ask or redirect, Mr. Warne?”
“Thank you, my lord,” Warne said. “Mr. Knight, you deduce from these figures that a number of people, almost the same number every week, gave random amounts to Mr. Taft’s Church. The numbers vary from a few pence to many pounds, in fact whatever they could possibly manage. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in what way is that a crime?” His voice was very light, curious, no more.
“It’s not, sir,” Knight replied. “So long as Mr. Taft used the money for exactly what it was given for.”
“Ah …” Warne breathed out slowly. “That is rather a big condition, is it not? If … it was used for that purpose, all of it, and that purpose alone.”
For the first time there was attention in the gallery. People moved, exchanged glances. Journalists were busy scribbling on their pads.
In the jury box more notes were made. Suddenly faces were grave, showing sharp interest. Several of them looked up at Taft with the beginnings of doubt and even dislike.
In her seat in the gallery, behind Gavinton, Mrs. Taft was clearly anxious.
The trial went on like that for three days. The facts and figures were boring even to the jurors, who were paying as much attention as they could manage. Many wrote things down, but there was far too much detail for anyone to record, and even then it would have meant little. It was the conclusions that mattered. Rathbone had thought at first that the detail would have affected them. There were no crushing boulders, only endless grains of sand, and the sheer volume of their assumed and monstrous weight. The figures all tallied at first glance, but time-consuming evidence showed again and again that they did so only through sleight of hand, duplicity, and shifting of the boundaries and the terms of reference.