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Rathbone had studied juries all his professional life. He knew that most of this jury had lost interest now.

York was becoming quite openly restive when Brancaster drew to a close.

Rathbone knew that this was the moment when Brancaster gave up. After all the hope, absurd as it was, and the brave promises, he had nothing.

Wystan rose to his feet. He looked infinitely satisfied. Not that he must have ever doubted that in the end he would win.

“No questions, my lord,” he said simply, and sat down again. Apparently he did not feel he needed to add anything more. Victory was in his hands. He could afford to be casual.

“I call Richard Athlone,” Brancaster said loudly.

A couple of the jurors stirred to attention. Several of the others looked embarrassed, as if decency required that the end be swifter than this.

York sighed.

The usher repeated the call, and after a few more seconds a tall, lean man with receding hair emerged from the doors into the hall, walked across the floor, and climbed to the witness stand. He was duly sworn, and he faced Brancaster.

The man had a thin, intelligent face, deeply lined but good humored. Rathbone tried to place him, and failed.

Brancaster walked out onto the floor and looked up at Athlone with a slight smile.

“You are a professor of law, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Athlone agreed.

“And as well as the law itself, you have made a speciality of studying most of the more famous cases that are recent-shall we say, within the last thirty years?”

“Yes, sir,” Athlone replied.

York shifted his position and glanced at Wystan.

Wystan rose to his feet. “My lord, the prosecution is happy to stipulate that Sir Oliver has been an outstanding lawyer and won remarkably many cases. Indeed, we would state it positively. It is part of our own case that his extraordinary success has led to his arrogance, and is at the very least a witness to his supreme ambition. He must win at all costs, even the cost of loyalty to his wife and her family and, beyond that, to honor and to the principles of the law. That is the heart of the case against him.”

“If you believe the law is as important as you say,” Brancaster retorted instantly, “then you will allow that the accused is entitled to the best defense he is able to find.”

Wystan rolled his eyes, unusually expressively for him. “If this is the best defense you can find, then by all means, make it, sir!”

Brancaster bowed. “Thank you.” He turned back to Athlone.

“Professor, perhaps we might pick two or three of Sir Oliver’s most remarkable cases and mention, very briefly indeed, some of the truths that he uncovered in court, so that justice was done where it had previously appeared that the truth was the exact opposite of what had actually transpired. Shall we say one for the defense, one for the prosecution? And so that we do not exhaust the patience of the court, let us keep it to not more than five minutes each?”

“By all means,” Athlone agreed. Then he proceeded to tell the story of how Rathbone had defended a man who appeared to be unquestionably guilty but, by brilliant questioning, Rathbone had left no doubt at all, either with the jury or with the public in general, that another completely different person was in fact to blame.

Athlone recounted it with wit and a considerable flair for drama. Not a single member of the jury moved his eyes from him while he spoke. The people in the gallery sat motionless, silently staring at the witness box.

Athlone started with the second account, this time a case where Rathbone had appeared for the prosecution. The crime was particularly unpleasant and the proof slight. The defense was brilliant, and it seemed inevitable that, at least legally, there was reasonable doubt. This time Rathbone had found a witness who was able to discredit the accused totally, and within the space of minutes the entire trial turned the other way. The man was convicted.

At the end of his account several people in the gallery actually cheered. Even the jury looked impressed.

“That is an excellent example, Professor Athlone, but I rather expected you to cite the case of Mr. Wilton Jones.”

Athlone looked slightly puzzled. “Wilton Jones? Remind me, sir.”

“A man of great skill, and villainy,” Brancaster replied. “But his violence was always well concealed. Frequently he corrupted others to do his worst work. He presented himself as a gentleman, but he was greedy, cruel, and totally ruthless. That case was one of Sir Oliver’s greatest victories.”

“Ah. Yes.” Athlone smiled. “I believe I recall the case now. Was that not the one where another gentleman of excellent family, and rather a lot of influence, swore to Wilton Jones’s innocence, how he was misunderstood, misrepresented by lesser men envious of him …?”

Brancaster nodded and smiled.

“Yes, indeed,” Athlone picked up the thread. “Sir Oliver turned this witness against Wilton Jones. As I recall, he tripped him on a statement as to where he was at a particular time, and suddenly the witness changed his entire testimony. Instead of defending the accused, he condemned him. I believe Jones was found guilty and must still be in prison.” Athlone smiled, as though he were pleased to have been of use. “A brilliant piece of work,” he added.

“Justice was served.” Brancaster apparently could not resist adding the point. Then he turned to offer the witness to Wystan.

Wystan rose to his feet and all but swaggered out onto the floor before looking up at Athlone.

“I don’t recall the case myself, Professor, but you have described it particularly well-with a little prompting from my learned friend. You say that this witness-rather like Mr. Drew, come to think of it-suddenly changed his testimony. Was there any reason for it that you are aware of?”

Athlone looked slightly puzzled.

Rathbone could see what was coming. His mind was completely numbed. He couldn’t remember the case. Even the name Wilton Jones meant nothing to him. It seemed as if his mind was paralyzed.

“Professor?” Wystan prompted.

“He did change his mind absolutely, as I recall,” Athlone agreed. “Because Rathbone caught him out during his testimony. If I have the right case, of course?” He made it a question.

“Oh, I expect you do,” Wystan said, his tone lofty. To Rathbone, it seemed as if satisfaction oozed out of him. “You see, Sir Oliver did exactly the same thing recently, as a judge presiding over a case-he managed to change the sworn testimony of a witness, turning the verdict toward the side he personally had concluded to be right.” Wystan swung away from the witness stand, took a few steps, and then spun around again. “Professor, as the law is the subject upon which you are an expert-is it a judge’s task to decide whether the accused is guilty or innocent?”

“Of course not,” Athlone replied with just the slightest edge to his voice. “That is the duty of the gentlemen of the jury. The judge’s task is to preside over the proceedings and make certain that all is conducted fairly and according to the law.”

“Thank you, Professor. Now, if you please, tell us, how would counsel, or anyone else, make a witness suddenly recant his entire testimony-given under oath and therefore making him liable to charges of perjury-and then swear to the exact opposite?”

Athlone shrugged. “Catching him in a lie, making him see an error, making him fear reprisal, bribery … there are several possibilities.”

“Threat of ruin?” Wystan asked.

Athlone sighed. “Of course.”

Wystan smiled for the first time, so widely that he showed a flash of white teeth. “Thank you, Professor. You have been a perfect witness yourself.” He swiveled a little to Brancaster on a gesture of invitation.