Brancaster rose to his feet. “My lord, nowhere is such a wild statement set out in the charge.”
York pursed his lips. “I think you are splitting hairs, Mr. Brancaster. Nonetheless, Mr. Wystan, perhaps you would be wiser to allow the jury to draw their own conclusions as to the motives of the accused. People pervert the course of justice for many reasons, some of them more understandable than others. Please proceed.”
Brancaster’s face flushed with anger. “Sir Oliver has been accused, my lord. He has not yet been found guilty of anything at all. I would remind the jury of that.”
“You may remind the jury of what you please, in your summation,” York said tartly. “Until then you will refrain from interrupting unless you have some point of law to make.”
“Innocence is a point of law,” Brancaster retorted instantly. “Until proven otherwise, beyond reasonable doubt, it is the whole point of the law.”
“Are you presuming to direct me in the law, Mr. Brancaster?” York said with dangerous calm.
Brancaster controlled his temper with an effort so obvious even Scuff could see it from the side of the court where he stood squashed against the wall.
“No, my lord,” Brancaster said, his voice choking.
York smiled bleakly. “Good. I would not like the jury to be in doubt as to who is the judge here. Please continue, Mr. Wystan.”
Wystan inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord. Mrs. Ballinger, just to remind you, you said Oliver Rathbone was profoundly ambitious, far more than you had previously realized. What did he do, or fail to do, that brought you to this unhappy conclusion?”
Mrs. Ballinger had regained her composure. She was now quite eager to answer.
Scuff looked to where Margaret was sitting and saw the expectancy in her also. Her shoulders were stiff. She sat so upright he could imagine the ache in his own back simply from looking at her. But it was the expression now filling her face that he did not understand. She seemed to be both afraid and excited at the same time.
“Mrs. Ballinger?” Wystan prompted.
“When he was defending my husband, we believed at first that he was doing everything he could to prove his innocence. But gradually he became less devoted to it, less … positive,” she answered.
“Really? Did he give you a reason for this?” Wystan looked puzzled.
The bitterness returned to her face, anger overtaking grief again.
“The tide of feeling turned against my husband, and Oliver went with it. It seemed he did not wish to become unpopular, or even worse, appear in a case he might lose. He had no loyalty at all, except to his own career.” She took a deep breath. “It broke my daughter’s heart. She admired her father and was convinced of his innocence. She could hardly believe that her own husband would not use every skill at his command-and his skills were great-to defend one of his own family. It made me realize that his ambition was everything to him. Nothing else mattered.”
Again Brancaster rose to his feet.
“Is this a matter of law, Mr. Brancaster?” York snapped.
Brancaster must have known that he was not going to win. Scuff saw his face tighten, and he would have told him not to bother, but of course he was much too far away, and the lawyer wouldn’t have listened to him anyway.
“Yes, my lord. Most of what the witness says is hearsay, not fact.”
Wystan smiled. “If my learned friend prefers, and your lordship feels that we have time, I can take Mrs. Ballinger through each step of the trial to see what the accused did and did not do. I am trying to spare a bereaved woman the extra grief and humiliation of having to go into detail. But should you so direct me, my lord, reluctantly, then of course I will.”
“I do not so direct you,” York replied. “If you wish to pursue it further, perhaps you will be a little more specific. It would allow the jury to make up their own minds.”
It was the worst possible answer for Brancaster. He sat down, beaten.
Wystan turned to Mrs. Ballinger and began again, picking specific points in the trial of Arthur Ballinger but never reaching the verdict, as if his guilt were still a matter to be decided.
Scuff stopped watching Mrs. Ballinger and turned to look at Margaret again. He couldn’t really see Sir Oliver very well from where he was, and he didn’t want to look at him anyway. In a situation like this, where someone had to be suffering horribly and feeling as if everybody hated him, it felt like a terrible intrusion to look at him, a bit like bursting into the bathroom when somebody was in there privately.
He knew as soon as he saw Margaret that he was not intruding by looking at her. She wasn’t really suffering at all; in fact her face was bright as if she were enjoying herself. There was something almost like a smile on her lips. She looked up once to the place where Sir Oliver was sitting, and hesitated several moments. Then she looked away again, back at her mother, who was still talking about Sir Oliver. She was saying how cold and selfish he was. Even at family gatherings his mind always seemed to be on his work. She recalled two occasions when he had simply walked out, almost without explanation.
Scuff was angry now. Sir Oliver wouldn’t be here at all or accused of anything if somebody hadn’t told on him. It seemed he had given the prosecution that horrible photograph of one of the main defense witnesses, and as far as Scuff was concerned that was fair enough. It showed what kind of a man he was. Apparently it wasn’t the photograph that was the problem; it was that he had given it to the prosecution and not the defense. It was the way he did it that was wrong; it was seen as not being fair to both sides.
And then apparently he should have told them that he couldn’t be the judge anymore. The whole trial had to stop, and then maybe start all over again with someone else. Or on the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t bother, and the man who had stolen all that money from the congregation would get away with it, and just go on stealing. That really, really wasn’t fair!
Telltales didn’t usually have to even prove their information because for a start they usually go to a person who wants to get someone else into trouble and who will take their word and run with it. Any fool knows that! There are always snitches, and everybody hates them.
So who knew that Sir Oliver had the photographs, and wanted to get him into trouble? Mr. Ballinger, but he was dead. He couldn’t tell anybody anything. Monk and Hester, of course, because Sir Oliver had told them. But they would rather have their throats cut than be snitches.
So who else knew about the photographs? The person who brought them after Mr. Ballinger died? Did he know what was in the box? Maybe. More likely he didn’t.
But Mrs. Ballinger might have known about them, and Margaret-Lady Rathbone. Scuff would be prepared to make a bet with anyone that she had worked it out-if not before, then after the photograph turned up in court.
He watched Margaret as the testimony went on getting worse and worse for Sir Oliver. She was smiling now. She wasn’t upset for him at all. The conviction settled on Scuff that it was she who had snitched.
He watched and waited until the lunchtime adjournment, then, before the general crowd rose to their feet and made their way out, he wriggled from the spot he was in and put his head down to force his way between people, as if he were on a really urgent message, pushing forward toward the hall.
When he was there, he stood to one side, looking at every person who came out. He was angry and trembling, but at least he was too full of fury for there to be any room for fear.
Several people passed him, fat people and thin, ones in fancy clothes, ones in old clothes worn nearly to rags. Some were talking to one another; some were silent.
Then he saw her. She had that shadow of a smile around her mouth, as if she had eaten something really good and she could still taste it.