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“What did you find?” the surgeon asked, waving at a hard-backed leather-seated chair as an invitation for Monk to sit down. He leaned against the table piled with papers and cocked his head slightly to one side, his eyes sharp.
“When you found the bodies of the Taft family, what was your estimate as to time of Abel’s death?” Monk inquired.
The surgeon pursed his lips. “Not a great deal of skill needed. The shot was heard and reported by neighbors, on both sides, actually. Just after five in the morning.”
Monk nodded. “I read that. But could it have been earlier, medically speaking?”
The surgeon frowned. “What are you getting at? He killed himself with the gun that was found at the scene, and the shot was heard at just after five.”
“Yes, but is there anything to prove that the gun at the scene was the same one that fired the shot that the neighbors heard?” Monk asked.
The surgeon narrowed his eyes and his body stiffened. “I presume you have more to do with your time than play silly games. What the devil are you driving at?”
“From the medical evidence,” Monk said patiently. “Could he actually have died as early as … say, three o’clock-never mind the shot?”
“Yes,” the surgeon agreed cautiously. “In fact, it would suit the medical evidence rather better. Now would you please explain yourself?”
Monk told him about the attic, the open window, and the contraption designed to fire a gun at a considerable delay. He saw the surgeon’s attention, saw his face light up with perception, and finally saw a smile, as the man nodded slowly several times.
“Clever,” he said appreciatively. “Very clever. Yes, that fits perfectly. He was a little cool for having shot himself at five. Not beyond possibility, but enough to make me notice it. I didn’t think to question it, though, with the neighbors hearing the gun and all.” He shook his head. “What a hell of a thing to do. Do you know who did it?”
“An idea,” Monk replied. “Can’t prove it yet. But your evidence will help.”
“Get the man,” the surgeon said simply. “It was a vile thing to do. If you’d seen those girls, and the woman, you’d not stop till you hanged the bastard.”
“I don’t intend to stop,” Monk promised him, rising to his feet. “I’ve more against him than just this, and this is bad enough. Thank you.”
Next he went back farther into the city and caught Dillon Warne just as he was about to leave his chambers and go home.
“Sorry,” Monk apologized. “I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need an hour or so of your time.”
A flash of hope lit Warne’s dark face. “Something happened?”
“Yes. And I’ll tell you after you’ve answered a question that is still outstanding,” Monk promised. “I’m still trying to fit the final pieces together.”
Warne told his clerks they could go and went back into his office. He closed the door and stood facing Monk. “I still don’t know where the missing money went, if that’s what your question is,” Warne said unhappily. “I’ve had people go over it again and again. I would dearly like to have proved it in court, but it was done extremely cleverly.”
“That isn’t what I need,” Monk told him. “I think I can account for a good deal of it, actually. The paintings on the walls of Taft’s house-they’re framed slightly off-center, not from side to side, but up and down. The artists’ names are blocked out, and a new, slight scrawl is on them, mostly half hidden by grass blades, or fence posts, that kind of thing.” He saw Warne’s puzzled look. “I think they’re pretty valuable works of art, disguised as pleasant copies,” he explained.
“Good God!” Warne breathed out. “We saw no papers on them. But how does it help now? What is it you want from me?”
“I need to know-is there a way to see whether they were registered as owned by Taft? Are they in his will, for example?”
Warne straightened up. “I don’t know. I’ve got a copy of it, but I hadn’t looked over it very carefully. Let me find it.” He went over to the safe in the corner and came back holding papers in his hands. His eyes were bright, and there was excitement in his voice. “This is a copy, as I said-but it appears the paintings are owned by Drew-lent to the Tafts and to the Church. They’re marked as of no particular value, but definitely they belong to Robertson Drew. Do you think Taft was taking the blame for both of them, then?”
“A sort of great sacrifice for the good of the Church?” Monk said with a twist of irony. “No, I don’t. I think Drew was the prime mover. I think he gave most of the orders and took most of the stolen money. Taft was the man with the golden voice, and Drew used him.”
“And poor Taft killed himself when he was thrown away …” Warne’s voice was full of a sudden dark pity.
“Actually-no,” Monk replied. “Drew betrayed him more terribly than just giving him up in court when Rathbone left him no choice.” He told Warne what he and Hester had found in the attic of Taft’s house.
Warne sank back and slumped into the big chair a couple of steps behind him. “What a totally evil man. God, what a mess!” He looked at Monk with intense emotion in his face. “What are we going to do about it?”
“I’m going to give all the evidence to the police,” Monk replied. “And we’ve got to save Oliver Rathbone, if possible. He in no way is to blame for these deaths. I’m going to see Brancaster right away.”
Warne hauled himself to his feet, his face pale. “And do what? Ask for an adjournment? Believe me, York won’t give it to you.”
CHAPTER 16
