“My lord-” Gavinton began.
Rathbone did not even look at him. “Mr. Warne,” he said quietly, “you are trying our patience. If you can show that Mrs. Monk is a reliable witness and we should take what she says more seriously, then do so. But briefly, please.”
“Yes, my lord.” Warne looked again at Hester. “Mrs. Monk, you spoke of photographs that Mr. Phillips used to blackmail the otherwise respectable gentlemen who were members of the club that indulged in pornography and the sexual abuse of small boys. I think we all find that not only obscene but also, as my learned friend said, highly unbelievable.”
Rathbone could hardly breathe. Warne was going to do it. Had he shown the photograph to Gavinton, as the rules of evidence required? If he had not, then Gavinton could ask for a mistrial and Rathbone would have to grant it. Was that what Warne intended to do? Why? It would not ensure a conviction.
“Yes …” Hester was saying uncertainly. “It sounds unbelievable. But the photographs do exist.”
“Indeed,” Warne replied, his voice almost devoid of expression, his face now pale. “I believe I might have one such photograph. Have you ever been on Jericho Phillips’s boat yourself?”
Hester was gripping the edge of the rail to the witness box, her knuckles white. “Yes …” Her voice was a whisper, but it was perfectly audible in the silence of the courtroom, where it seemed no one else was even breathing.
Gavinton was on his feet, but wearily, no tension or sense of outrage in him, not even of apprehension.
“My lord, the prosecution has not passed over this piece of evidence to the defense. I ask that it be ruled inadmissible-on grounds of irrelevance, if nothing else. I withdraw my remarks as to the unlikeliness of their existence.”
Warne was tense, his body awkward as he stared unblinkingly back at Rathbone.
“My lord, the remarks have been heard by the jury, they cannot simply be withdrawn. I have a right to prove my witness’s truthfulness.”
“You do, Mr. Warne,” Rathbone agreed, hating having to meet Warne’s eyes. “But the defense also has the right to see the evidence.”
With a faint, bleak smile Warne passed the photograph across to Gavinton.
Gavinton took it casually, glanced at it with a look of boredom, then his body jerked and his face went so white Rathbone was afraid he was going to faint.
In the courtroom there was total silence. No one in the gallery moved. The jurors were frozen in their seats, staring at Gavinton.
Gavinton gulped, having difficulty finding his voice. “My … my lord … this evidence is …” He stopped and put his hand up to his throat as if his collar were choking him.
Rathbone’s mind raced. He must avoid a mistrial. Warne might even find himself unable to prosecute again. Without this evidence Gavinton would win.
Rathbone leaned forward. “Mr. Gavinton, would you like a brief adjournment to consider this evidence, which appears to have disturbed you intensely?”
Gavinton swallowed, and choked on his own breath.
“If I may intrude, my lord,” Warne said politely. “Perhaps we might discuss it in your lordship’s chambers?”
Rathbone adjourned the court amid a hum of excitement and confusion, and five minutes later he, Warne, and Gavinton were in his chambers with the door closed; the usher had been told not to disturb them, regardless of the circumstances.
“Mr. Gavinton?” Rathbone asked with as blank a face as he could manage.
Gavinton was still holding the photograph.
“It is obscene, my lord,” he said, still speaking with difficulty.
“So I had assumed,” Rathbone replied. Trying to remain expressionless, he turned to Warne. “You clearly intended to show it to Mrs. Monk; did you also intend the jury to see it?”
Warne hesitated. He was saved from an immediate answer by Gavinton’s interruption.
“You can’t! She may be gullible with more goodwill than sense, but she’s a decent woman. This picture is vile-it’s repulsive.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Warne snapped. “She’s an army nurse, you fool! She’s seen men dismembered on the battlefield! She saw the original boat with its cargo of imprisoned and tortured children-the real ones, alive, terrified, half starved, and bleeding. What is it you imagine she can see in this photograph that she hasn’t already seen? Except perhaps the face of someone she recognizes?”
“Recognizes?” Rathbone said quietly. “Who is in this picture, Mr. Gavinton?”
Gavinton closed his eyes. When he answered his voice was hoarse and no more than a whisper.
“Mr. Drew, my lord.”
Rathbone held out his hand. Gavinton gave him the photograph. Rathbone took it and looked at it, not that he needed to; every sordid detail was already imprinted on his brain.
He cleared his throat. “Indeed it is,” he agreed. “It is obscene, as you say, and it is quite clearly Mr. Robertson Drew. I imagine, Mr. Gavinton, that you object to this being put into evidence to show Mr. Drew’s character as very far indeed from what it seems. However, you repeatedly held him up as an honorable man. Mr. Warne has the right to question that, and rebut it if he can-which, it is now abundantly clear, he is able to do. Upon what grounds do you protest, other than that you apparently did not know that your star witness, who so protected your client’s virtue, is somewhat short of virtue himself?”
The air in the room was electric, like that in the half second between lightning and thunder.
“I was given no warning of it!” Gavinton protested.
“I received it only late yesterday evening,” Warne told him. “I agree, I should have told you before court this morning. I accept censure for that.” He looked at Rathbone, then back at Gavinton. “But I will not accept the suppression of it. You called Mrs. Monk’s character into question, on the word of Drew. I call Mrs. Monk to defend herself and at the expense of Drew. Is there something unjust in that?”
“Where the devil did you get this … this filthy thing?” Gavinton demanded, the color returning to his face in a wash of scarlet.
“That is privileged information,” Warne replied smoothly. “But if you wish to have it authenticated, then of course you must do so.”
“It could be … some trick!” Gavinton was still struggling.
“I do not believe that,” Warne answered. “But I may be able to obtain the original plate, if you feel that is necessary.”
“You’re bluffing!” Gavinton was all but shouting now.
“No, I am not,” Warne snapped, lowering his voice with effort. “But if you wish to take that chance, then do so. However, I think you might be better served by consulting with Mr. Drew on the matter. He will know beyond question that the picture is genuine, and he may wish, quite voluntarily, to be more truthful in his testimony regarding Mrs. Monk’s reliability as a witness, and the strength and honesty of her general character. He may also prefer to be more moderate in some of the rather condemnatory remarks he made about the weaknesses or gullibility of the various other witnesses.”
Gavinton stared at him as he would at a poisonous snake.
“Were that his choice,” Warne continued, “then the photograph would no longer be relevant. You could merely stipulate to its veracity, and to Mrs. Monk’s character, and then at the end of the trial I would hand it over to you to destroy.”
“And the plate from which it was printed?” Gavinton said huskily.
Warne spread his hands. “I don’t have that-but I know where it is. I will see what I can do. That’s all I can offer.”
“Mr. Gavinton?” Rathbone asked.
“I’ll … I’ll have to consult with my client and with Mr. Drew …”
“Of course. You may have thirty minutes.”
Half an hour later Hester was told that she would not be needed after all, and Warne called Robertson Drew to the stand.