help you?” Warne asked, with an edge to his voice like an open blade.
“No, sir,” Raleigh whispered.
Warne thanked Raleigh for his evidence and said nothing more.
Gavinton had the sense not to make his situation even worse. He could see in the jurors’ faces, and when he glanced behind him in the gallery also, that if he attacked Raleigh in any way, he would lose even the small hope he had left.
T HE FOLLOWING DAY , F RIDAY , Warne called his final witness. Gethen Sawley was a quiet, rather studious young man with horn-rimmed glasses, which kept sliding down his nose. He was bony, as if somehow in the making of him the sculptor had been interrupted before he was finished. Sawley took the oath nervously and faced Warne, appearing as though he had to struggle to hear him.
“Mr. Sawley,” Warne began gently, “what is your occupation, sir?”
“I’m a clerk at Wiggins & Martin, but mostly I do the bookkeeping since Mr. Baker left.” Sawley pushed his glasses back up his nose.
“Are you a member of Mr. Taft’s congregation?”
“I was. I don’t go there anymore. I can’t take being badgered for more money all the time.” He said it apologetically. Clearly he felt as if such a thing should not have bothered him so deeply.
“Is that your only reason, Mr. Sawley?” Warne pressed.
“Er … no.” Sawley colored. “I … er …” He stopped again. He fiddled with his glasses, gulped, and then continued. “I was embarrassed because I’d been inquiring into their finances behind their backs, and … and I couldn’t look them in the eye, for what I thought of them.”
The jurors appeared mildly interested.
“We do not want to know your thoughts, Mr. Sawley,” Warne said gravely. “Only what you did, and what you discovered that led to your opinions. The gentlemen of the jury will come to their own conclusions. How did you obtain access to these accounts?”
“I know how much I gave to the church,” Sawley said carefully,watching Warne all the time. “I had a fair idea how much other people did. Some who gave were not always discreet, if it was a large amount. Not that I believe everything I’m told.”
“That is hearsay, Mr. Sawley. What can you tell us that is fact?”
“The name of the main charity that the congregation’s money was to go to, sir. Brothers of the Poor. They minister to people in desperate straits, especially in parts of Africa. That is where Mr. Taft said our money was going. Because they are a charity, their accounts are open to inspection, if you know where to go.”
Several of the jurors straightened a little in their seats. One rather large man leaned forward.
“And you looked into their affairs?” Warne pressed Sawley. “To what degree? Are you qualified to do this?”
Sawley blinked. “I have no qualifications, sir, but I can do arithmetic. The Brothers of the Poor have sent less to Africa in all their time than our congregation gives them in a month.”
“Perhaps they had certain expenses to meet in handling the money?” Warne suggested.
“You weren’t listening, sir!” Sawley was becoming agitated, his glasses wobbling down his nose. “In the whole ten years of their existence, the Brothers of the Poor have sent only a few hundred pounds to Africa, or anywhere else. The poverty referred to in their title is their own. They are simple men who labor and pray.”
“Are you sure you have the right people?” Warne would not be easily put off. “It seems a simple name. Perhaps theirs is not the only group that uses it?”
Sawley jammed his glasses up his nose again.
“Yes, I am sure. They take some money from Mr. Taft, and they are in regular touch with him.”
Warne kept his voice calm. “Then how has this not come to notice before, Mr. Sawley? It would appear rather a gaping hole in Mr. Taft’s accounting.”
Sawley shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It isn’t there right now so as you can see it. It’s all very
“No, sir,” Raleigh whispered.
Warne thanked Raleigh for his evidence and said nothing more.
Gavinton had the sense not to make his situation even worse. He could see in the jurors’ faces, and when he glanced behind him in the gallery also, that if he attacked Raleigh in any way, he would lose even the small hope he had left.
T HE FOLLOWING DAY , F RIDAY , Warne called his final witness. Gethen Sawley was a quiet, rather studious young man with horn-rimmed glasses, which kept sliding down his nose. He was bony, as if somehow in the making of him the sculptor had been interrupted before he was finished. Sawley took the oath nervously and faced Warne, appearing as though he had to struggle to hear him.
“Mr. Sawley,” Warne began gently, “what is your occupation, sir?”
“I’m a clerk at Wiggins & Martin, but mostly I do the bookkeeping since Mr. Baker left.” Sawley pushed his glasses back up his nose.
“Are you a member of Mr. Taft’s congregation?”
“I was. I don’t go there anymore. I can’t take being badgered for more money all the time.” He said it apologetically. Clearly he felt as if such a thing should not have bothered him so deeply.
“Is that your only reason, Mr. Sawley?” Warne pressed.
“Er … no.” Sawley colored. “I … er …” He stopped again. He fiddled with his glasses, gulped, and then continued. “I was embarrassed because I’d been inquiring into their finances behind their backs, and … and I couldn’t look them in the eye, for what I thought of them.”
The jurors appeared mildly interested.
“We do not want to know your thoughts, Mr. Sawley,” Warne said gravely. “Only what you did, and what you discovered that led to your opinions. The gentlemen of the jury will come to their own conclusions. How did you obtain access to these accounts?”
“I know how much I gave to the church,” Sawley said carefully,watching Warne all the time. “I had a fair idea how much other people did. Some who gave were not always discreet, if it was a large amount. Not that I believe everything I’m told.”
“That is hearsay, Mr. Sawley. What can you tell us that is fact?”
“The name of the main charity that the congregation’s money was to go to, sir. Brothers of the Poor. They minister to people in desperate straits, especially in parts of Africa. That is where Mr. Taft said our money was going. Because they are a charity, their accounts are open to inspection, if you know where to go.”
Several of the jurors straightened a little in their seats. One rather large man leaned forward.
“And you looked into their affairs?” Warne pressed Sawley. “To what degree? Are you qualified to do this?”
Sawley blinked. “I have no qualifications, sir, but I can do arithmetic. The Brothers of the Poor have sent less to Africa in all their time than our congregation gives them in a month.”
“Perhaps they had certain expenses to meet in handling the money?” Warne suggested.
“You weren’t listening, sir!” Sawley was becoming agitated, his glasses wobbling down his nose. “In the whole ten years of their existence, the Brothers of the Poor have sent only a few hundred pounds to Africa, or anywhere else. The poverty referred to in their title is their own. They are simple men who labor and pray.”
“Are you sure you have the right people?” Warne would not be easily put off. “It seems a simple name. Perhaps theirs is not the only group that uses it?”
Sawley jammed his glasses up his nose again.
“Yes, I am sure. They take some money from Mr. Taft, and they are in regular touch with him.”
Warne kept his voice calm. “Then how has this not come to notice before, Mr. Sawley? It would appear rather a gaping hole in Mr. Taft’s accounting.”
Sawley shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It isn’t there right now so as you can see it. It’s all very
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