The hearing at the Unicorn Court today had been an eye-opener for the gentlemen and ladies in the gallery.
First, a witness had recanted on the stand. Then a spirit had appeared as the victim, accusing the defendant of murdering her.
When the half-transparent girl floated above the witness stand, even the clerk's pen slipped from his hand in shock and splattered ink across the parchment.
"Order! Order!"
The judge nearly broke his gavel, but his shouts were drowned out by the sudden uproar in the gallery.
The commotion spread like a rising tide.
There were cries as a noblewoman fainted, the dull thud of a cane hitting the parquet floor, and, more than anything, wave after wave of disbelieving gasps.
Lestrade's knuckles had gone white as he gripped the railing.
He stared at the ghostly figure on the witness stand. The girl's golden hair still shone like a field of wheat in the sun, but now it was veiled in a hazy glow.
With the courtroom in chaos, the sweating judge had no choice but to suspend the hearing again.
Lestrade hurried over to the girl's spirit.
"Daphne... you..."
He had so many questions for her, questions he had turned over in his mind night after sleepless night.
About her pain, her resentment, and the promises left unfulfilled. They all caught in his throat, leaving only one trembling question: "Do you still remember me, Daphne?"
The girl's spirit tilted her head, and the familiar gesture drew several stifled sobs from the gallery.
"Daphne, my poor daughter."
An elderly woman with snow-white hair stumbled toward the girl. Twenty years had etched deep wrinkles around her eyes, and they seemed especially pronounced now. She tried to raise her arms and embrace the ghostly figure, but froze halfway.
She could no longer embrace her daughter.
"You're Mommy!"
Daphne's spirit suddenly brightened, her voice brimming with unconcealed joy.
She floated a step closer to the old woman.
Just as their fingers were about to touch, the woman burst into tears, watching helplessly as the girl passed right through her. A look of confusion and helplessness came over her face.
"It's all right, Daphne."
A flicker of pain crossed the old woman's face, but she soon managed a trembling smile.
As she had when Daphne was little, she gently brushed a hand over her daughter's head, as tenderly as if touching morning dew on a rose. But there was no longer the feel of silky hair beneath her hand. "God bless, I'm so happy I got to see you again."
The sight moved several sensitive ladies to turn away, wiping tears from the corners of their eyes with their handkerchiefs.
The girl's ghostly lashes fluttered.
She turned to Lestrade, memories glimmering in her mismatched eyes like schools of fish flashing in the deep sea.
At last, she recognized him in Lestrade's familiar features.
"Are you... Brother Greg?"
"It's Greg," Lestrade corrected instinctively, but as soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes grew moist.
When they had first met twenty years ago, the girl, who could never remember names, had called him that too.
He quickly added, his voice so soft it seemed he feared waking a fragile dream: "But you can call me Gray, too."
Meanwhile, the mood at the other end of the courtroom was tense as Holmes engaged in a heated argument with the judge.
"The law has never said that spirits can't testify. If the existing law has a loophole, then it should be amended."
"But there's never been a precedent!"
"Then let's write one into the law!"
The judge trembled with rage, his white beard quivering. He had no desire to argue with an insolent man who held the law in contempt. "I am the judge presiding over this trial!"
Holmes, having anticipated this, tapped the jury's table and continued, "In that case, why don't we first hear the cases against the other people involved?"
Seeing his opponent back down, the judge gave a cold snort and sat back down. He had to admit that Holmes had made a good suggestion.
The court couldn't simply stop halfway through, but there was no way to continue with the trial as it stood. Hearing the cases against the other people involved was a reasonable way around the problem.
"Fine. Then let's hear the case against Scarface."
When Scarface from Red Lion Lane was brought in, he bared his teeth in a hideous grin. "Heh heh, now this is what a courtroom should look like. It's worthy of a gentleman like me!"
His shameless words set the gallery ablaze.
"Damn human trafficker! You greedy parasite!"
"You don't deserve to call yourself a gentleman!"
Oliver, sitting in the corner, didn't join in the chorus of abuse. For some reason, the angle at which Scarface tilted his head and his irreverent, rebellious tone made Oliver feel as if he were looking at someone else he knew.
[Your Honor, this courtroom is too shabby. It's not worthy of a gentleman like me!]
Smarty's taunt from the defendant's stand all those years ago overlapped eerily with the scene before him.
"Order!" a guard shouted.
Once the courtroom had quieted down again, the prosecutor, Sir Hawkins, eagerly rose to his feet.
This bulldog of the legal profession was portly, but his voice was surprisingly shrill. "Your Honor, under the Vagrancy Act of 1824 and the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1837..."
As he grew more excited, his double chin quivered.
"The evidence against Scarface is as plain as rats in an empty house. This man must be hanged!"
The other gentlemen on the jury nodded in unison. Only Holmes remained seated and still.
"Your accusations are laughable."
Scarface let out a mocking sneer.
"I didn't hurt those children. On the contrary, without me, they'd have starved to death! They'd have been ground up in factory machines or left to rot in the gutters!"
His voice suddenly dropped.
"Under my protection, those children weren't bullied to death while working in the factories. The scum in the slums knew those street children belonged to me, Scarface. If they killed or maimed one of them, I'd make sure they paid in kind."
"That's sophistry!" the judge roared.
"Sophistry?"
Scarface's furious gaze swept across the jury, and every gentleman he fixed it on instinctively shrank back.
"It was your laws that left those children homeless. If I, the man who gave them shelter, deserve the gallows, then every single person sitting up on that dais should be dragged to the scaffold!"
"You scoundrel! How dare you show contempt for the judge!" one of the jurors cried, leaping to his feet. "I say we stop giving him a chance to defend himself and sentence him to hang!"
"Ha ha ha! How ridiculous!"
Scarface suddenly let out a piercing burst of laughter.
He soon stopped, turning his gaze toward Oliver in the gallery. "I doubt even the philanthropists among you who've helped the most street children have saved as many as I have."
He looked away, a mocking curve tugging at his lips. "And now you're putting me on trial?"
Oliver unconsciously clenched the hat in his hand, crushing the soft felt between his fingers.
It was him!
It really was him!
But why? What on earth had happened? How could Smarty have become like this after being deported?
"And as for making street children steal?" Scarface suddenly raised his voice. It echoed beneath the stone vault. "I was just teaching them how to make a living."
"You want to know why?"
"Because you lucky ones were born lying in golden cradles." His voice rose sharply, making everyone's ears ring. "And we unlucky ones were wrapped in shrouds from the moment we were born!"
At that moment, the courtroom fell silent.
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