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an, 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.”
“Yes, of course,” Monk agreed. “So what if Taft trusted Drew until that day, the day of the photograph, when Drew changed his testimony. Maybe it was only at that point he suspected anything, when it all fell to pieces, and then Mrs. Taft somehow let it slip, and that was when Taft killed her and then himself.”
“But his daughters?” Squeaky said indignantly. “What were they then, just damage on the side?”
“Yes, probably. Maybe they knew and had to be got rid of,” Monk agreed.
“What a real pillar o’ the Church.” Squeaky shook his head.
“Is it possible? It seems a stretch.” Monk pressed.
Squeaky lifted his chin a little. “Maybe. Come back tomorrow-late! I’ll see what I can find. Still wish it were Drew guilty of all this, somehow. It would make more sense.”
Monk smiled and stood up. “Well, it can’t be,” he said, hesitating a moment so Squeaky knew that he meant it. “He’s accounted for.”
Actually it took Monk rather longer than he had expected to learn much more about Taft. Scuff’s information threw a different light on Taft’s nature, and Monk made sure to tell him how vital he had been, which made Scuff puff up with pride. Then Monk spoke with John Raleigh, who was willing to see him and discuss whatever he wished, however personal or painful, out of gratitude to Hester.
“I need to know Mr. Taft better,” Monk told him as they sat together in Raleigh’s small front parlor. “Something of his character that would explain why he not only took his own life, but that of his family as well.
Raleigh looked surprised.
“The man is dead,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Any judgment of him is in God’s hands now. I have no wish to pursue vengeance. It is unbecoming in a Christian, Mr. Monk. Or for that matter a gentleman who considers himself a man of honor, whatever his creed.”
Monk found himself with an even greater respect for this quiet, seemingly ordinary man. He marveled at how easy it was to make judgments based on a few outward details, possibly only of worldly success: money, skill, confidence. How wrong those judgments often ended up being.
“It is not vengeance I want, Mr. Raleigh,” he said gently. “I need to understand why Taft took his own life, and that of his family. I am hoping to prove that it was in no way linked to Sir Oliver’s actions during the trial, his allowing the obscene photograph of Robertson Drew to influence Drew’s testimony and thus the outcome. Sir Oliver is a longtime friend of mine, and his defense is important to me and to my wife.”
“Ah,” Raleigh said quietly. “I see. That is rather different. How can I help you?”
“Tell me something about Taft,” Monk replied. “Describe him for me, not his appearance or his dress but his manner. What drew you to him? And please be completely honest.”
“I will. I think I owe Sir Oliver, and most certainly Mrs. Monk, the most candid observation I can give.” Raleigh thought for several minutes before answering, choosing his words very carefully. “To begin with I thought him a gentleman of great honesty and a remarkable dedication to the Church, and to true Christianity.” He measured his words. “As I came to know him better I found certain mannerisms of his annoying. I considered it a weakness in myself. I am still not certain if it is not so-”
“What mannerisms?” Monk interrupted.
“What seemed to me like a degree more of self-importance than I think to be good taste. A remarkable number of conversations and discussions seemed to center on him. Even stories that held a considerable trace of humor, or of self-criticism, still were always about him. I began to find it somewhat tedious, and was ashamed for doing so. He often spoke of his humility.” Raleigh smiled, catching Monk’s eye. “So often that I began to wonder why. You understand, humility is not speaking of yourself as humble, it is not speaking of yourself at all.”
“A very good distinction,” Monk agreed sincerely.
“Thank you.” Raleigh colored faintly. “He appeared to be devoted to his wife, frequently praising her virtues. But I noticed he never allowed her to speak for herself. I compared his daughters with my Josephine, at the same age, and they seemed to me in a way crushed, uncertain of themselves, as if they dared not express an opinion of their own. They had not the fervor or the freedom of dreams that the young should have.” He stopped for a moment. “I don’t know how to express this honestly without sounding as if I am trying to damn a man who cannot speak for himself.”
“You cannot help him, Mr. Raleigh,” Monk reminded him. “Perhaps you can help Sir Oliver. What were your impressions of Mr. Taft’s relationship with Mr. Drew?”
“You are very direct,” Raleigh observed. He seemed almost amused.
“Indeed,” Monk nodded again but did not say anything further.
“I am less certain about his relationship with Mr. Drew,” Raleigh continued. “It is only an impression, but I thought Taft was the leader between the two of them. He was the one gifted with charm and easy words. Drew was more of a man to organize things, to act behind the scenes. He had no apparent hunger for the limelight.”
“Hunger for the limelight.” Monk repeated the phrase. “That is very well put, Mr. Raleigh.”
Raleigh colored. “An unkind observation of a man of the cloth, Mr. Monk. I am not proud of it.”
“Many of us do good works with something less than an ‘eye single to the glory of God,’ sir,” Monk said softly. “It does not make the works themselves less good, and it leaves us room for improvement.”
Raleigh smiled suddenly. “You make the trait sound almost-likable.”
Monk also smiled. “Aside from Drew keeping out of the limelight, did you notice anything else about their relationship?” he prompted.
