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“I don’t know. If it could be Mr. Exeter, I would suspect him to have done it to raise the money for the ransom. But these figures predate the kidnap of Mrs. Exeter by a long time. There are small amounts over the years, and they are very carefully hidden. I found them only because I noticed one error, and then I looked for more. Also, of course, Mr. Exeter has not access to these accounts, and…and, taken individually, they are trifling compared with the sum of the ransom.”
“You know how much that was? How?”
“The money appeared in Mr. Exeter’s account, and then disappeared, in the space of a few hours—on the day of the…the attempt to pay.” Her face was pale, as if she were weighing the tragedy of the event as she said the words.
Monk knew he would not have blamed Exeter if he had embezzled the money to save Kate’s life. He himself would have taken it if he thought of Hester and the nightmares she lived through on the battlefield, the scores, maybe even hundreds, of men she had seen die. She had helped those she could. He knew at times she had been overwhelmed. He had held her in his arms on those rare occasions she still had nightmares. She was worth that.
He returned to the bank papers and the reason the bookkeeper had come. “Miss Franken, you know about what money you moved. You have done what you can, and it must have taken some courage. Please take care not to reveal that you have given me this information, and do not look for any more. Keep your own counsel. I will take care of this, and find out if it helps us. Please…”
She rose to her feet. “I will, Commander.”
“I will walk with you to the main street and see you get a hansom,” he replied. “And thank you.”
* * *
—
MONK DID NOT KNOW an expert in fraud or embezzlement in the River Police, at least not one capable of distinguishing the complexity of the bank’s papers. But Rathbone would know someone. And he owed Rathbone a call anyway. It was something he had been putting off, because he dreaded it. Bella Franken’s visit gave him the impetus he needed.
He arrived at Rathbone’s home at a quarter to eight. It was an inappropriate hour, and he was aware of it. But since Rathbone’s marriage to Beata, he had gone out far less often. His ideal evening was spent at home with her. He was fortunate that it seemed to please her just as much. Perhaps she had had her fill of social events when she had been married to the arrogant and, in the end, also violent judge, most of whose friends had been in high society. Any evening out had been preferable to an evening at home with his uncertain temper. When he had finally driven himself into a paroxysm of rage and had an apoplectic fit, he had been incapacitated for over a year before he died. He was brutal and determined to live as long as possible, to deny her the freedom to marry Rathbone. During that long and difficult time, Rathbone had refused to compromise her reputation or his own. There must have been several people who knew of his love for her, and he was not without enemies either. He had appeared in many controversial trials and defeated most of the leading lawyers on both sides of the court, not all of whom took it well. He had made mistakes, for which he had paid dearly. He had been a friend to Monk when few others had.
Monk would have said no others, until he realized that he had had more friends than he had at first thought. His former superior, Runcorn, in his own way had been a friend, and then an enemy, and then a friend again. The enmity had been at the very least as much Monk’s fault as Runcorn’s. Orme had been a friend, and Hooper, too—a far more complex man than Monk had originally given him credit for.
And there were others, people who had come into his life with a brief, bright light, and then gone again for their own reasons.
And there was Hester. No truer friend existed. Had Harry Exeter lost a friend like that in Kate?
At Rathbone’s home he was welcomed in. Within five minutes he was sitting beside the fire with a glass of brandy. Beata was in the kitchen preparing a dish of pork sausages, with some apple and mashed potatoes, and later possibly a dish of hot sponge pudding with syrup.
Rathbone had read what the newspapers reported about the death of Lister, which was very little. They had said nothing about his possible involvement with Kate Exeter’s death.
“Well?” Rathbone asked, sitting back and crossing his legs, attentive, interested, but supremely comfortable. He was home in all senses, possibly for the first time in his life.
“Lister was the man who actually took her,” Monk told him. “At least we think so. The cousin who was with her at the time, Miss Darwin, identified him.”
“Do you doubt her?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows.
“Not her honesty,” Monk answered. “But she may wish to help so much that she sees more than is there. It’s easy to do.”
“But if she’s right?” Rathbone asked, searching Monk’s face. “Does it help?”
“I don’t know. Some satisfaction, I suppose. Ironic, if he had the money, or most of it, he was so careless that he gave himself away. Or he was just killed by a couple of thieves, unrelated to the kidnap. Then we’ll probably never find them, unless by chance.”
“Not entirely satisfactory,” Rathbone agreed. Then there was a softness in his voice, an awareness of pain: “What about the man among your own that you suspect gave away your plan?”
Monk froze. He stared at Rathbone as if he had suddenly turned into a monster. Nausea washed over him like a wave, suffocating, stopping his breath.
“Monk!” Rathbone’s voice came from far away. “Monk! Are you all right?”
He felt Rathbone’s hand gripping his wrist, hard enough to hurt. He concentrated his mind again. “I never even thought of that,” he said in a hushed voice. “God help us.”
“Thought of what?” Rathbone demanded. He was leaning forward now, his face showing unmistakable fear. “What? You know it was one of your own men who betrayed you! You told me.”
“That one of my own men killed Lister to keep him from naming the betrayer.” Monk’s voice was so choked he did not recognize it as his own.
“Right,” Rathbone said firmly. “You know when Lister was killed? It was a very narrow frame of time. Find out where all of your men were, and you’ll exclude some of them, if not all. And pull yourself together! You’ve been through worse than this.”
“I’d never suspected my own men of betrayal before Kate Exeter’s murder,” Monk said steadily now. “And I realize now how little I really know them—and perhaps they know me as little.”
