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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 wha
t 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?”
