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He squinted at her suspiciously. “There ain’t nothing to spare,” he said immediately.
“I don’t want money,” she replied, keeping her patience with difficulty. “I think there might be some fraud going on in a local church … at least, I hope there is.”
His straggly eyebrows shot up. “You what?”
“Fraud,” she replied, realizing she had not phrased it in the clearest way. “I suspect and hope it is fraud. I want to find out, and then I want to do something about it.” She explained what she knew of the victim, mentioning no names, and the little she had discovered on her own visit to the church.
“Leave it alone,” Squeaky said, almost before she had finished.
That was always his first reaction, so, as usual, she ignored it. She went on to describe Abel Taft and Robertson Drew, all the time watching Squeaky’s face crease up with greater and greater distaste. Finally, she mentioned that the victim she was concerned about was Josephine Raleigh’s father. She had kept that piece of information until last intentionally, knowing it would have the most effect. She knew Squeaky could be trusted to keep his mouth shut about it.
Squeaky glared at her balefully, quite aware that he had been manipulated. He liked Josephine, and Hester knew it.
“I don’t know what you think I’m going to do!” he said indignantly. “I ain’t going to church. It’s against my beliefs.”
“I think this particular church goes against my beliefs too,” Hester agreed. “Can’t you find a way to take a bit of a look at their accounting?”
“Their books in’t going to have ‘cheat’ written across them,” he pointed out.
“If they did, then I wouldn’t need you,” she returned. “I’m quite good at reading words; it’s figures I find rather more difficult, especially when it’s all in accounting ledgers and looks perfectly honest. It will need someone cleverer than they are to catch them.”
He grunted. He would never admit that he was flattered by her trust, but he was. “I’ll try to take a look at it,” he said grudgingly. “If I can get a hold of the books somehow, that is. Can’t promise it’ll do any good.”
She gave him a warm smile. “Thank you. You shouldn’t find it difficult to gain access to the books. After all, it is a charity. You’ll think of a way. I would dearly like to see Mr. Raleigh get some of his money back. And I dislike admitting it, but I would also very much like to see Abel Taft somewhat curtailed in his actions. They are rather despicable.”
Squeaky looked at her steadily for a couple of long seconds, then he smiled back, showing his crooked, snaggled teeth.
She knew in that moment that if Abel Taft could be caught, Squeaky would do it.
A few days later, Hester sat in Squeaky Robinson’s office. Papers were spread out across the desk, covering it completely. Squeaky had a fresh cravat around his neck, perfectly tied, and he looked remarkably satisfied with himself.
“It’s all very clever,” he said, his fingers touching the top sheet. “But I got ’em! It’s all there, if you know where to look. ‘Brothers of the Poor,’ indeed!” He assumed an expression of profound disgust. “Very bad. Thieving from the rich is one thing, but gulling the poor like this, an’ in the name of religion, that’s low.”
“You’re quite sure?” Hester knew the necessity of being exact in court. She still felt a touch of ice when she remembered past times, one in particular, when she had been so certain of a man’s crime that she had not been sufficiently diligent in the proof, and Oliver Rathbone had caught her out on the witness stand. The result had been humiliating, and disastrous. Her carelessness-even hubris-had lost the case and the man had gone free. They had got him in the end, but not before other lives had been lost, very nearly including Scuff’s.
“Of course I’m sure!” Squeaky replied, his ragged eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into his hair. “Suddenly you don’t trust me?”
Hester kept her temper well under control. “I’ve made enough mistakes in taking things for granted before. I won’t let it happen again,” she replied.
He knew immediately what she was referring to. He let his breath out in a
sigh. “Right. Yeah, I’m sure. But it don’t matter anyway, since the police and the lawyers are the ones adding it all up. You just give ’em these. If they look careful, it’ll prove there’s bin thieving.”
“I will,” she said, starting to put the papers together. “Thank you.”
He snatched them from her and shuffled them into a pack, almost as easily as if they had been cards.
“You’re very welcome.” He glared at her, then all of a sudden he smiled, like a wolf. “You go get ’em. Hang ’em as high as their own church tower.”
“It’s not a hanging offense,” she corrected him.
“Well, it should be,” he said flatly. “On second thoughts, a good stiff ten years in the Coldbath Fields’d be worse. I’ll be happy with that. You just take it to the police!”
CHAPTER 2
Oliver Rathbone sat in the judge’s seat, slightly above the body of the room at London’s central criminal court known as the Old Bailey. This was possibly the crowning point in his career, to be presiding in such a place. He had been arguably the most brilliant barrister in England, and recently, after a string of notable cases, he had been offered this elevation to the bench. He had been surprised by how much it meant to him. It was recognition not only of his intellect but also of his ethical standards and his personal, human judgment.
This promotion had come at a time when other parts of his life were far less happy. His wife of only a few years had accused him of arrogance, selfishness, and of placing his own professional ambition above loyalty or honor, specifically loyalty to his family. He had tried and failed to explain to her that with Arthur Ballinger’s case he had had no choice but to adhere to the law. She could not afford to believe him. The grief of that was still burning slowly inside him, unreachable by reason or by any of the success that had followed since.
