Sylvestra sat like a woman in a nightmare, unable to move or speak.
Beside her on one side was Fidelis Kynaston, on the other Eglantyne Wade. Rathbone was pleased she would not be alone, and yet possibly to have to hear the things she was going to in the company of friends would be harder. One might wish to absorb such shock in the privacy of solitude, where one could weep unobserved.
Yet everyone would know. It was not as if she could cover it, as one can some family secrets. Perhaps better they heard it in court than whispered, distorted by telling and re-telling. Either way, Rathbone had no choice in the matter. He had not told Sylvestra what he expected to uncover today. She was not his client, Rhys was. Anyway, he had had no time, no opportunity to explain to her what it was he knew, and he could not foresee what his witnesses would testify, he simply had nothing to lose on Rhys's behalf.
"Sir Oliver?" the judge prompted.
"My lord," Rathbone acknowledged. "The defence calls Mrs. Vida Hopgood.”
The judge looked surprised, but he made no remark. There was a slight stir of movement in the crowd.
Vida took the stand looking nervous, her chin high, her shoulders squared, her magnificent hair half hidden under her hat.
Rathbone began immediately. He was hideously unsure of her, but he had had no time to prepare. He was fighting for survival and there was nothing else.
"Mrs. Hopgood, what is your husband's occupation?”
"E 'as a fact'ry," she replied carefully. "Wot makes shirts an' the like.”
"And he employs women to sew these shirts… and the like?" Rathbone asked.
In the gallery someone tittered. It was nervousness. They could not be any more highly strung than he was.
"Yeah," Vida agreed.
Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet.
"Yes, Mr. Goode," the judge forestalled him. "Sir Oliver, has Mr.
Hopgood's occupation got anything to do with Mr. Duffs guilt or innocence in this case?”
"Yes, my lord," Rathbone replied without hesitation. "The women he employs are profoundly pertinent to the issue, indeed they are the true victims in this tragedy.”
There was a ripple of amazement around the room. Several of the jurors looked confused and annoyed.
In the dock Rhys moved position and a spasm of pain twisted his face.
The judge also seemed unhappy. "If you are going to demonstrate to the court that they were abused in some way, Sir Oliver, that will not help your client's cause. The fact that they can or cannot identify their assailants will distress them, and give you nothing. In fact it will only damage your client's sympathies still further. If it is your intention to plead insanity, then practical evidence is required, and of a very specific nature, as I am sure you know very well. You have pleaded "not guilty". Are you now wishing to change that plea?”
"No, my lord." Rathbone heard his words drop into a well of silence, and wondered if he had just made an appalling mistake. What was Rhys himself thinking of him? "No, my lord. I have no cause to believe that my client is not of sane mind.”
"Then proceed with questioning Mrs. Hopgood," the judge directed. "But come to your point as rapidly as you are able. I shall not allow you to waste the court's time and patience with delaying tactics.”
Rathbone knew how very close to the truth that charge was.
"Thank you, my lord," he said graciously, and turned back to Vida.
"Mrs. Hopgood, have you suffered a shortage of workers lately?”
"Yeah. Lot o' sickness," she replied. She knew what he wished. She was an intelligent woman, and articulate in her own fashion. "Or more like injury. Took me a fair bit o' argy-bargy, but I got it aht of 'em wot 'ad 'appened." She looked questioningly at Rathbone, and then, seeing his expression, continued with feeling. "They do a bit o' dolly mop stuff on the side… beggin' yer pardon, sir, I mean takes the odd gent 'ere an' there teradd a bit extra… well their children is 'ungry, or the like.”
"We understand," Rathbone assured her, then explained for the jury.
"You mean they practise a little amateur prostitution, when times are particularly hard.”
"In't that wot I said? Yeah. Can't blame 'em, poor cows. "Oo's gonna watch their children starvin', and not do sum mink abaht it?
In't 'uman." She drew breath. "Like I said, some of 'em was doin' a bit on the side, like. Well, first orff they got cheated outa pay. Got no pimps ter look arter 'em, yer see." Her handsome face darkened with anger. "Then it got worse. These geezers don't on'y cheat, they started roughin' 'em up, knockin' 'em around, like. First it were just a bit, then it got worse." Her expression twisted till the anger and pain in it were stark to see. "Some of 'em got beat pretty bad, bones broke, teef an' noses broke, kicked some of 'em were. Some of 'em was on'y bits o' children their selves So I got a bit o' money tergether an' 'ired me self someone ter find out 'oo wos doin' it." She stopped abruptly, staring at Rathbone. "D'yer want meter say 'oo I got, an' wot 'e found?”
"No, thank you, Mrs. Hopgood," Rathbone replied. "You have laid an excellent foundation for us to discern from these poor women themselves what occurred. Just one more thing…”
"Yeah?”
"How many women do you know of who were beaten in this way?”
"In Seven Dials? Abaht twen'y-odd, as I knows of. They went on ter St. Giles "Thank you, Mrs. Hopgood," Rathbone interrupted. "Please tell us only your own experience.”
Goode rose again. "All we have heard so far is hearsay, my lord. Mrs.
Hopgood has not been a victim herself, and she has not mentioned Mr.
Rhys Duff. I have been extraordinarily patient, as was your lordship.
All this is tragic, and abhorrent, but completely irrelevant.”
"It is not irrelevant, my lord," Rathbone argued. "The prosecution's case is that Rhys Duff went to the area of St. Giles to use prostitutes there, and that his father followed him, chastised him for his behaviour, and in the resulting quarrel, Rhys killed his father, and was severely injured himself. Therefore what happened to these women is fundamental to the case.”
"I have not claimed that these unfortunate women were raped, my lord,”
Goode contradicted. "But if they were, then that only adds to the brutality of the accused's conduct, and the validity of the motive. No wonder his father charged him with grievous sin, and would have chastened him severely, possibly even threatened to turn him over to the law.”
Rathbone swung around to face him. "You have proved only that Rhys used a prostitute in the area of St. Giles. You have not proved violence of any sort against any women, in St. Giles, or in Seven Dials!”
"Gentlemen!" the judge said sharply. "Sir Oliver, if you are determined to prove this issue, then you had better be absolutely certain you are aiding your client's cause, and not further condemning him, but if you are satisfied, then prove your point. Proceed with dispatch.”
"Thank you, my lord." He dismissed Vida Hopgood, and one by one called half a dozen of the women of St. Giles whom Monk had found. He began with the earliest and least severely injured. The court sat in uncomfortable near-silence and listened to their pathetic tales of poverty, illness, desperation, journeys out on to the streets to pick up a few pence by selling their bodies, and the cheating, then the violence which had followed.
Rathbone loathed doing it. The women were grey-faced, almost inarticulate with fear, and in some cases also shame. They despised themselves for what they did, but need drove them. They hated standing in this handsome courtroom facing exquisitely gowned and wigged lawyers, the judge in his scarlet robes, and having to tell of their need, their humiliation and their pain.
Rathbone glanced at the jurors' faces and read a sense of different emotions in them. He watched how much their imaginations conceived of the lives that were being described. How many of them, if any, had used such women themselves? What did they feel now? Shame, anger, pity or revulsion? More than half of them looked up to the dock at Rhys whose face was twisted with emotion, but what aroused his anger it was impossible to say, or the revulsion which was so plain in his features.