by Anne Perry
Monk was stung by the unreasonableness of it, and yet also flattered, which was ridiculous. Why did he care what Squeaky Robinson, of all people, thought of him?
“I can only keep returning to one question: Why did Taft kill himself and his family?” Monk said slowly. “What purpose did it serve?”
“Personally, I’d have wanted to kill Taft. I think he got off easy,” Squeaky responded reasonably. “There’s something big as we don’t know here, if you ask me.”
Monk stood up slowly, his back stiff. “I agree. But I don’t know how on earth we’re supposed to find it.” He indicated the papers on the table between them. “All this says to me is that Taft stole a very great deal of money over a long period of time. It would be interesting to know who else got a cut, and in what proportion. But right now I’m too tired to think. I’ll start again in the morning. Thank you for your help.”
“Ain’t finished yet,” Squeaky said grimly. “There’s something more here. But I s’pose that’s enough for tonight.”
Monk did not argue. He was so tired his body ached, and he knew that if there was any better answer to Rathbone’s guilt, he had not found it.
MONK WAS HOME AND in bed by three in the morning. He slept far later than he had intended to and woke with a start, the room full of sunlight. He sat up sharply, saw the clock, and scrambled out of bed.
Fifteen minutes later he was sitting at the kitchen table sipping hot tea. He was well aware that his hair was untidy and that he was less than perfectly shaved. Many urgent things gnawed at his mind. He was too late to have caught Scuff, who was presumably already off to school, for once perhaps needing no persuasion.
Hester was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to tell her what he had learned, and he was embarrassed that it was of so little use.
“I’ve got to find the money,” he repeated. “Even Squeaky doesn’t have much of an idea where it actually is. Taft lived well, but not well enough to account for all that’s missing.” He sipped his tea, which was still too hot to drink easily. “If we don’t find it, then the court will point out that it could certainly have gone to a different charity, that it just wasn’t properly documented.”
“If Taft has it somewhere, then it must be where he could have reached it,” Hester reasoned.
“Or he gave it to Drew,” he added.
She frowned. “Would Taft really have trusted anybody else with it?”
He sat silently for a few moments. “I doubt it,” he conceded at last.
“Do you really think it’s possible, what you said—that they gave it to another charity and just didn’t record it?” she asked skeptically.
This time he did not hesitate. “No. It’s somewhere.”
“Do you think Drew at least knows where it is?” she asked.
“Yes, probably,” he agreed. “I think that when he was testifying it was as much to save himself as to save Taft.”
Hester looked at him pensively. “If I had been in Taft’s place, I think I’d have wanted to kill Drew, if I killed anyone at all!”
“Of course you would.” He bit his lip but still failed to hide a smile. “But then you are about as like Taft as I am like Cleopatra.”
She looked him up and down, smiling herself. “I don’t see it,” she said drily. “Perhaps a slightly better shave?” Then her amusement vanished. “Even if he did want to kill himself … his poor family …”
“I know that if I were in that kind of trouble I’d want you and Scuff to go and take everything you could with you,” Monk admitted. “My one comfort would be that you would survive.”
She looked at him witheringly. “And you think either of us would go? I would never leave you, unless it would be to help somehow, and Scuff wouldn’t forgive me if I did.”
“I would want you to survive,” he repeated, refusing to think of it any more vividly. “It would be about the only thing that would salvage some honor—apart from the fact that I love you.”
Her smile was so sweet, so gentle that for a moment he felt a warmth rush up inside him and tears prickled his eyes. He felt absurd, overemotional. He was afraid to speak in case his voice betrayed him.
“But then, of course, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into the kind of mess Taft was in,” she said, as if continuing her own thought.
He knew she was speaking to fill the silence and save him from the betrayal of his vulnerability.
“There is something we don’t know, there just has to be,” she continued. She looked a touch desperate suddenly.
“It’s not your fault, you know, just because you began the investigation.” He said the first thing that sprang to his mind, or perhaps it was there already.
“Yes it is,” she responded immediately. “There wouldn’t even have been a case if I hadn’t listened to Josephine Raleigh and started to look into it. And then I asked Squeaky’s help, and it was he who found the financial evidence. Without that, they wouldn’t have brought anything to court.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So we shouldn’t try to catch criminals or prosecute them in case the trial ends badly for some of the people involved? Punishment does slop over the sides sometimes and land on the bystanders as well. Sometimes they deserve it and sometimes they don’t. Mrs. Taft certainly didn’t deserve to die, but she was quite willing to live very well indeed on the profits of Taft’s embezzlement.”
Hester stared at him, her brow furrowed in thought. “I wonder how many women bother to consider if the money they spend is honestly earned or not. I know what you do to provide for us, but then I don’t have half a dozen hungry children to clothe and feed, teach, nurse, and generally keep clean and happy. Maybe if I did, then I wouldn’t have time to wonder about much.”
“Mrs. Taft didn’t have half a dozen,” Monk pointed out. “Added to which, she knew perfectly well what Taft did for a living because he did it in front of her. And she must have seen the clothes of the congregation and been able to have a damn good guess as to their income.” He felt the anger rise inside him. “Couldn’t you place someone pretty well by their clothes, how many times a collar had been turned, socks darned, children’s clothes patched? Don’t you know the age of a dress by its cut and color?”
Her eyes flickered for an instant. “Yes,” she said gently. “But I care. Perhaps she didn’t want to.”
“Perhaps?” he said with a sharp edge of sarcasm.
She gave a slight, surprisingly elegant shrug. “It’s still not an offense worthy of death.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he agreed. “I’m sorry, that isn’t what I meant.” He reached forward and touched her hand. “The jury is going to say that this was Oliver’s fault, which may not be fair, but we have to deal with the fact. I don’t know where further to look for evidence of what really happened, or why. It doesn’t seem possible that anyone else killed him.”
“Then we need to find the reason why Taft killed himself,” she said intently. “Maybe if the trial had gone on, something more would’ve come out. What if he couldn’t face it?” Her voice dropped at the last few words, as if she were not sure if she believed it herself. “He was a very arbitrary, very domineering sort of man.”
He was startled. “Why do you think that? You said that in church he was charming, courteous …”
She rolled her eyes. “William! People are not always the same at home with their families as they are in public, especially men.” Her face softened, her eyes were suddenly very gentle. “If you could remember the past, going to church with your parents, you’d know that better.”
The hurt that might have caused was healed before it began by the look in her face. What did the past matter when the present held such sweetness?
He smiled, having no words for what he felt. “So what makes you say that of Taft, then?” he insisted.
“You asked Scuff to find out,” she replied. “I know it was mostly to give him something to do, to feel he was helping, but he discovered quite a lot about the family.”
Monk stiffened. “Who from? Was he—”
“No, he wasn’t in any danger,” she answered him with a slight smile. “Actually, he was very astute. You’d be proud of his detective work. He found the scullery maid who was dismissed, and a delivery boy who spent rather more time in the Tafts’ kitchen than he should have. Apparently Taft was something of a martinet in his own house. Everything ran to his rules: what they ate and when; family prayers for everybody, like it or not; what they were allowed to read; even what color their dresses should be.”
Monk was amazed, and a little doubtful. “And the scullery maid knew all this?”
“Her best friend was the tweeny. They shared a bedroom,” Hester explained. “And believe me, between-stairs maids are all over the house and observe a great deal.” She bit her lip and for a moment her eyes were bright with tears, pity, memory, and very painful laughter. “If you have a scandal in the house, the last thing you should do is let all your staff leave.”
He sat thinking for a moment, absorbing what she had told him. A very different, sad, and frightening picture was emerging of Mr. Taft.
“So he killed himself to save what?” he asked. “Not his family, obviously.”
“I don’t know!” She clenched her fists on the tabletop.
He hesitated a moment, but honesty compelled him to speak. “Hester, we’ve got to face it—legally, Oliver was wrong. Morally, I don’t know; he meant well, but that doesn’t make it right. He shouldn’t have kept those pictures in the first place.”
“That’s like saying you want to have an army to defend us if we’re attacked, but for heaven’s sake don’t give them guns!”
“That’s a bit extreme.”
“Is it?” she demanded. “Of course power’s dangerous. Life is dangerous. I know Oliver’s not perfect. But what is ‘perfect,’ anyway? Most of the people I know who have never made a mistake are that way because they never do anything at all. If people didn’t take risks there would be no exploration, no inventions, no great works of art. We certainly won’t defend anyone accused of anything, in case they turn out to be guilty. We wouldn’t let ourselves fall in love, in case the other person hurt us or let us down or, above all, in case we saw in him some of our own weaknesses.”
“Hester …”
“What?” She faced him, her eyes blazing and full of tears.
“You’re right,” he said gently. “Don’t ever change … please.” He stood up. “I’ve got to get to Wapping. Poor Orme has been covering for me for heaven knows how long.”
CHAPTER
12
THE NEXT DAY, AS soon as he had dealt with the river-connected cases that could not be delegated any longer, Monk went to see Dillon Warne again.
Warne looked wretched. His hair was untidy, and there was a dark uneven shadow on his face and hollows around his eyes. “I have to testify in Rathbone’s trial,” he said almost as soon as the door closed behind the clerk who had let Monk in. “I hoped I’d get out of it, but they’ve called me and I have no choice. I’ve racked my brains to think of anything helpful.” He shook his head, the anger evident in his face. “They’re not prosecuting me, which makes me feel additionally guilty. I was the one who used the damn photograph!”
“Why?” Monk asked gravely.
Warne did not understand, but he was too tired to be polite. “What?”
“Why did you use that particular piece of evidence?” Monk elaborated.
“Because I was losing the case and I hadn’t any other. I already told you that.” Warne’s voice was weary.
“And was winning a case worth it to you, at any price?” Monk kept his voice level and mild, as if he were merely curious.
Warne blushed and looked at him more intently. “Not usually,” he said. “But this case I cared about very much. I’m not sorry that bastard killed himself, though murdering his family was an appalling crime. It just adds cowardice to his list of sins.” His voice sharpened. “Why are you asking?”
“Well … I imagine Rathbone also felt Taft was pretty low, and perhaps now most of those in the court, including the jury, will agree,” Monk replied.
Warne leaned forward a fraction, suddenly eager. “Are you saying somehow we can use the fact Taft was a coward? It’ll be the deaths of Taft and his family that the jury reacts to, whatever is said about legal responsibility and details of what evidence should be produced when.”
“That’s about all I can see to go for, at the moment,” Monk agreed. “But I wish we knew how Drew fit into the picture. I mean, he was the one who was so vicious toward Gethen Sawley. He made the man look like a complete fool in front of the jury.”
“To defend Taft, of course.” Warne replied, and then he drew in his breath sharply. “You think there was some other reason?”
“Could there be?”
“Of course there could be.” Warne shrugged. “But nobody’s charged Drew with being involved in the fraud. And nobody knows what was in the photograph, except Gavinton, Rathbone, and me. The jury knew it was bad, but not how bad, or of what nature. It might have been Drew with Taft’s wife, for all they knew. In fact, because Taft killed his wife, that very possibly will be what they think.” His voice was gathering speed. “It would be a fairly natural conclusion. Reprehensible, certainly, but not beyond human understanding. Drew wouldn’t be the first man who slept with his best friend’s wife.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Possibly even a juror or two would find that too close to home to condemn.”
“If Taft had lived and gone to prison,” Monk said thoughtfully, “it would have been interesting to see what Mrs. Taft would have done—and where the rest of the money went!” Briefly he related the information that Scuff had learned from the Tafts’ scullery maid, painting a picture of their home life for Warne.
Warne listened intently, nodding as Monk finished. “I didn’t see that,” he admitted. “But it fits in with the little I saw or heard. Perhaps I should have had the wits to speak to the scullery maid or the tweeny myself. I never thought of it.” Warne was nodding now, his involvement sharp again. “But time’s very short. I’ll do what I can to help, not only for Rathbone’s sake but my own as well. I’m beginning to realize just how much I hate being beaten when I know something doesn’t add up.”
They discussed the issue for another half hour, precise details that could be pursued, possible avenues to explore. They agreed that Warne should review the evidence and exactly how each fact had emerged, so a new jury would see what little choice Rathbone had. Monk would try to learn more about Taft himself and would keep on searching for the missing money.
THE FIRST PLACE MONK went after leaving Warne’s office was the clinic in Portpool Lane. He spoke briefly to Hester, but it was Squeaky Robinson he wanted to see. He found him at his usual desk, bent over the books, a pen in his hand. He looked up as Monk came in.
Monk closed the door behind him and walked across the small floor space to the desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Robinson,” he said pleasantly, pulling out the chair opposite the desk and sitting down, crossing his legs comfortably as if he intended to be there for some time.
Squeaky did not reply, but he put his pen back in the holder and blotted his page, resigned to doing no more for a while.
“You’ve studied the financial papers of the church, and of Taft personally, in great detail,” Monk began. “You found the embezzlement for which we are all very grateful …”
“Yeah?” Squeaky asked. “Sir Oliver included, no doubt.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “He said that, did he?”
Monk ignored the joke.
“I’m being optimistic that if I ask you nicely, you’ll help me find even more evidence, which will eventually lead to a more comprehensive picture than the one we have,” he answered.
“Really? Like what?” Squeaky raised his wild eyebrows and studied Monk.
“How deeply is Robertson Drew involved in the embezzlement?” Monk said. “In your opinion, did he kn
ow the entire extent of it? And if so, what could you prove? There’s something we’ve missed, and it probably lies with the money, and maybe with where it is now. Perhaps Drew’s share. What happened to it?”
“I can’t tell that from the books!” Squeaky said indignantly. “You think somebody wrote it all down beside one o’ the columns o’ figures, ‘Sent it all to Mr. Smith in Wolver’ampton? First house along the road from the railway station, going north!’ What do you think I am? You want one of them old biddies with a crystal ball.”
“I want somebody who knows every crooked piece of accounting there is and smells a trick like a dog smells a rat—but whom I can trust. If that’s not you, who is it?” Monk kept his face perfectly straight with something of an effort.
Squeaky was quite aware he was being played like a fiddle but he did not mind. Monk meant the compliment and they both understood that. He grunted.
Monk took this for assent. “The police have looked and found nothing in Taft or Drew’s affairs. But one thought came to my mind, as I was looking for a reason why Taft would kill his wife as well as himself.”
Squeaky pulled his face into an indescribable expression of disgust, but he did not interrupt.
“The facts as we know them don’t give him sufficient reason,” Monk went on. “What if he discovered not only that Drew was profiting a good deal more than he had thought from their scheme, possibly even more than he himself was, but also that his friendship with Mrs. Taft was closer than any of us had appreciated? That’s a guess with nothing whatever to support it, but it would explain a lot. Then Taft would feel beaten and doubly betrayed.”
Squeaky shook his head slowly. “But up until Warne sprang that photograph on Drew, Drew was supporting Taft, wasn’t he? And didn’t you say Taft was set to get away with it?” he asked, his face twisted with disgust. “I mean, why not just let Taft take the blame, let him rot in prison, and get away with his share of the money? All he had to do was act all sad and sorry, like, and pretend he’d been as much took in as anybody else. Would have worked a bit better, and no risk.”
