charge him with?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But he could argue that he only realized it was Drew in the photograph when the case was about to close. But yes, of course he should have stepped down.”
“William, he hated what Drew and Taft were doing to those people,” she said grimly. “It revolted him as much as it did us. He did it to ruin Drew’s testimony because he didn’t want those slimy men to get away with it. People are going to know that. But he should have introduced the evidence some other way, so it wasn’t sprung on Gavinton.”
“That is true, and that is what the prosecution will say,” he conceded. “But if Gavinton had had time to prepare a defense, he might have had the picture disallowed, and then its value would have been nothing. As it was, no one else saw it, but they all saw the look of revulsion on Gavinton’s face, and they knew damned well that Drew knew what it was.”
“But Rathbone was still wrong,” Hester concluded.
“Yes.” Monk was not yet satisfied. “But if Taft took his own life because he was guilty, it’s a hell of a lot more than just suicide. If he’d killed only himself Oliver might be seen as to blame. There’s no way anyone could foresee he’d kill his wife and daughters as well. That puts him right outside anybody’s understanding, or sympathy.”
“So how are you going to find out why he killed them too?”
“Learn everything I can,” he replied. “And I’d still like to know what happened to the money. Everyone’s forgotten that, in this mess.”
Hester reached for the marmalade, then realized she had already put some on the side of her plate. “They spent it,” she replied. “That’s obvious.”
“Is it?”
She pulled a little face, just a twitch of her lips. “William, have you any idea what Mrs. Taft’s gowns cost? Or those of her daughters?”
“No.” He was puzzled. “I know what yours cost, and it doesn’t amount to the sort of money that’s missing from the congregation’s donations to charity.”
She sighed. “I suppose, in a backhanded sort of way, I should be pleased that you didn’t notice how beautifully they fitted, or how very up to date they were.”
“But that sort of price?” he said with disbelief.
“A good portion of it. Calfskin boots-kid gloves-silk fichus and guipure lace.”
“So Mrs. Taft knew about the money too,” he deduced.
“Maybe. But not if she simply took delivery of the clothes and never saw the bills. I dare say she never had to manage the household accounts herself and wouldn’t have had the faintest idea.”
“Could she be so-” He stopped as Scuff came into the kitchen, looking at him, then at Hester. He was scrubbed pink, his skin still damp, his shirt collar crisp and blemishless. He drew in breath to say something, then changed his mind. He looked anxious.
Hester never failed to see an expression, and seldom misread it. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.
Scuff cut himself two slices of bread and took the piece of bacon she had left for him on the griddle. He made himself a sandwich and came to sit at the table before answering. He drew in a deep breath, putting off the moment of biting into the fresh bread and the crisp, savory bacon.
“How are we going to help Mr. Rathbone … I mean, Sir Oliver?” he asked. “I could do something …” He glanced down at his plate then up again quickly.
Hester nearly answered, then left it for Monk.
“We were just talking about it,” Monk answered. “I’m going to see if I can find out exactly why Taft killed himself, and why on earth he killed his family. I think there’s something important to that that we don’t know.”
“ ’E was a thief an’ ’e couldn’t take it that everybody would know.” Scuff said what to him was obvious. “Some people are like that. Truth don’t matter; it’s what people think that they care about.”
“The photograph was of Drew, not Taft,” Monk pointed out.
Scuff shrugged and bit into the sandwich. He could no longer resist it. “Maybe there was one of him too,” he said with his mouth full.
Hester started to correct him but changed her mind.
Scuff saw it and gulped down the mouthful, then looked at Monk.
“We are pretty certain there wasn’t. Though we can’t know for sure. It isn’t among the ones Sir Oliver had, anyway.”
Hester poured tea for Scuff and passed him the mug, but he did not touch it; instead he kept staring at Monk. “Oh. Well, what can I do?” he asked again.
Monk saw the eagerness in his face. Scuff needed to help, for Rathbone’s sake, but even more he needed to be part of what they were doing. To shut him out would brand him in his own mind as excluded, and of no use. Perhaps to someone who had always belonged that would be ridiculous, but Monk understood exclusion. His own slow recovery of bits and pieces of his life from before his amnesia had shown him that he had once been a man who did not have a family or a place in other people’s emotions. He had been respected, feared, and disliked. The loneliness he remembered from that life, the absence of warmth that comes from being liked for yourself, not for your achievements, had never totally left him. He could so easily recognize the echo of it in Scuff.
He must find something for Scuff to do, something that mattered.
“You ought to be at school,” he said slowly, to give himself time to think.
Scuff’s face fell. He struggled to hide his hurt and failed.
On the other side of the table Hester stiffened.
“But this is too urgent,” Monk went on, scrambling for an idea. “First I’m going to see Warne, the lawyer Sir Oliver gave the photograph to. Hester says that Mrs. Taft probably spent a lot of the missing money on clothes for herself and her daughters. I think that’s true, but I need to know for certain. The money doesn’t seem to have gone to the charities they named. In fact, we can’t find anyone at even the main charity who admits to getting more than a few pounds from them.” He kept his expression one of concentration, without the shadow of a smile. “Hester, can you see what is known of the Brothers of the Poor? But be careful. On the slight chance they took the money and put it to their own purpose, they won’t welcome inquiries.” He turned a little. “Scuff, Taft’s daughters were a little older than you are. See if you can learn anything about them, or the family. But you also must be very careful! We can’t afford to warn anyone off. Taft is dead, but Drew is very much alive, and he may be dangerous and have some dangerous friends.”
Scuff’s eyes were bright, his face flushed with excitement. “Yeah,” he said with elaborate casualness. “ ’Course I can.”
Warne had no hesitation in seeing Monk; in fact he seemed relieved that he had the opportunity. His office looked chaotic, piles of books and papers on every surface, even one of the chairs. Clearly he had been researching something with a degree of desperation. Monk wondered if Warne, privately, was just as worried as he, Hester, and Rathbone were.
He forced his mind to focus; these piles of law books and references might be related to a completely different case. The law did not stop because Rathbone was in trouble. Hundreds of people were, all over England.
“Sit down, Mr. Monk,” Warne said quickly, picking up a pile of papers to make the best chair available. “I am rather taking it for granted that you are here regarding the Taft case.”
“Thank you.” Monk sat down as Warne took his own seat on the other side of the desk, which was also piled with papers. “Yes. I need to find as much information as I can. There seem to be one or two things that don’t entirely make sense.”
Warne bit his lip. “I wish it didn’t make sense to me. Of course the police have already spoken to me. I couldn’t lie to them. They know perfectly well I didn’t find the photograph myself, nor could I say it had been sent to me anonymously. If it had, I doubt I would have used it.” He sighed. “Added to which, Sir Oliver didn’t lie.”
“Who reported the issue to the Lord Chancellor?” Monk asked bluntly.
Warne was pale and clearly unhappy. “I don’t know. I’ve wondered that myself. Not that it makes a great deal of difference. Even if we could prove that it was done entirely maliciously, it wouldn’t alter the facts. It might
