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“I have no idea, sir,” Dover said quietly. “It seems a very terrible thing to do. I assume the verdict would have been against him?”
“Yes. But it was only for fraud, not murder. He could have faced prison, but that is survivable. Difficult, unpleasant, but far from a death sentence.”
“Yes, sir. Would you like kippers for breakfast, sir, or eggs?”
Rathbone felt his stomach clench.
“Just toast, thank you,” he replied.
“It may be a difficult day, sir. It is better not to face it on an empty stomach.”
Rathbone looked at him and saw the concern in his face. He was doing his job.
“You are quite right. Scrambled eggs, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Half an hour later Rathbone sat at the dining-room table. The scrambled eggs had been excellent, the tea was hot and fresh and the toast crisp, the marmalade just as sharp as he liked it. But all he could think of was Abel Taft shooting himself. Why? Was the disgrace really more than he could bear? Could he not face his wife and daughters’ disillusionment in him?
Or was it his own disillusion in Robertson Drew? Had he really trusted him and had no idea of the man’s secret indulgences? Could he have known of them, and perhaps believed that Drew had repented and changed? Did something of his own value depend on his ability to bring others to redemption?
No, that was a foolish thought. Taft was charged with fraud, with taking money given for a specific purpose and diverting it to his own use. Squeaky Robinson had found ample proof of his guilt. This had nothing to do with Drew’s proclivities.
Maybe his death had been an act of momentary despair, perhaps after a heavy night of drinking, an indulgence he might well not be used to. But to kill his wife and children as well!
Had Rathbone driven him to that? Was this his fault?
No! He had driven himself to it, first by fraud, then by believing in a man like Drew, and either using him, or trusting him without any care or responsibility.
It would have to be declared a mistrial. The police would be left to clear up the tragic deaths of his family.
Dover was sta
nding in the dining-room doorway, his face still as grave and shocked as before.
“Yes?” Rathbone asked. Had time slipped by so it was already half past eight and he should be going?
“The police are here, sir. They wish to speak with you,” Dover said.
That was a trifle prompt. Of course, they would be here to inform him officially of Taft’s death. They would hardly rely on his servants to tell him. Rathbone folded his napkin and stood up.
The police were waiting in the hall. There were two of them, the younger one in uniform. That seemed more than was necessary to pass on a fairly simple message, even a tragic one.
“Oliver Rathbone?” the elder of the two asked grimly.
Rathbone noticed the omission of his title and thought it a trifle rude, but it would be petty and self-important to correct the man.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Inspector Haverstock. I’m afraid I must arrest you, sir, for perverting the course of justice in the case against Abel Taft. I don’t want to handcuff you, but if you offer any resistance I will be obliged to. It would be best for us all if you were to make no resistance. I’m sure you don’t want to be seen struggling with the police in front of your household staff.” His voice was polite but there was no mistaking the threat in his words.
Rathbone froze. This was preposterous. It made no sense at all. Arrest him? They couldn’t. It …
“Sir!” Haverstock said warningly.
The other man, a constable, came a step closer, his young face flushed with embarrassment.
Rathbone drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting to compose himself.
