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“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 know 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 me
