Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [40]
His eyes searched her face to read her reaction, afraid she would be shamed for him. But he saw only grave interest.
“And yet the hatred was so palpable in the air,” he went on. “I was afraid the man could not receive a fair hearing in that court. I tried—believe me, Vespasia, I lay awake many nights during that time, turning it over and over in my mind, but I never found any specific word or act I could challenge.” He looked down for a moment, then up again. “Pryce was excellent, he always is, and yet he never exceeded his duty. Barton James, for the defense, was adequate. He did not press hard—he seemed to believe his client was guilty, but I don’t think one could have found an attorney in England who did not. It …” He seemed almost to hunch inside himself a little and Vespasia was keenly aware that the memory of it still caused him pain. But she did not interrupt.
“It was so … hasty,” he continued, picking up his wineglass and turning it by the stem in his fingers. The light shone brilliant through the red liquid. “Nothing was omitted, and yet increasingly I had the feeling that everyone wished Godman to be found guilty as rapidly as possible, and to be hanged. The public required a sacrifice for the outrage that had been committed, and it was like a hungry animal prowling just beyond the courtroom doors.” He looked up at her suddenly. “Am I being melodramatic?”
“A trifle.”
He smiled. “You were not there, or you would understand what I mean. There was a rawness in the air, a heat of emotion that is dangerous when one is trying to pursue justice. It frightened me.”
“I have never heard you say such a thing before.” She was startled. It was unlike the man she remembered, at once more vulnerable, and yet, in a curious fashion, also stronger.
He shook his head. “I have never felt it,” he confessed. His voice dropped lower and was full of surprise and pain. “Vespasia, I seriously considered committing one injudicious act myself, so as to provide grounds in order that the whole thing could be tried again before the justices of appeal, without the hysteria, when emotions were cooler.” He breathed in deeply and sighed. “I tortured myself wondering whether that was irresponsible, arrogant, dishonest. Or if I simply let it all proceed was I a coward who loved the pomp and the semblance of the law more than justice?”
With another man she might have leaped to deny it, but it would have made their conversation ordinary; it would have set a distance between them that she did not wish. It would be the polite thing to say, the obvious, but not the more deeply truthful. He was a man of profound integrity, but his soul was as capable of fear and confusion as any other, and that he should have slipped and given in to it was not impossible. To suggest it was would be to desert him, to leave him, in a particular way, desperately alone.
“Did you ever reach an answer you knew was true?” she asked him.
“I suppose it is all about ends and means,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes—one truth is that you cannot separate them. There is no such thing as an end unaffected by the means used to obtain it.” He was watching her face. “In effect I was asking myself if I would intentionally nullify a trial because there was a passion and a haste about it of which I personally did not approve. You understand, I did not think Aaron Godman was innocent, nor do I think so now. Nor did I think that any of the evidence offered was tainted or perjured. It was simply that I felt the police had acted more in emotion than in impartial duty.”
He stopped for a moment or two, perhaps uncertain if he should continue. “I was perfectly certain Godman had been beaten while in custody,” he said at last. “He was bruised and lacerated when he appeared in court, and the wounds were too fresh to have occurred before his arrest. There was an air of both outrage and urgency which had nothing to do with the seeking of truth, nor the proof of it. And yet Barton James did not refer to it. I could not prejudice his defense by raising the matter myself. I did