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Monk wrote it down, even though he did not fully understand it.
“You mentioned evasions,” he said gravely. “Who did you beat in business deals, or anything else: social achievements, positions they wanted, or whose wives admired you—anything, whether the hatred was justified or not? Especially if they might have known Doyle, banked with him—anything at all.” He waited with his pencil in the air, watching Exeter’s face.
Exeter was silent for several moments. Then he looked up. “Do you think you’ll find them?” he asked huskily. “Before the trial? Is it possible?” The hope in his eyes was painful to see.
“Doesn’t have to be before the beginning.” Monk fought for something to say. “All you can think of. It doesn’t matter how trivial it is: a social humiliation, a financial loss more than they could absorb. You don’t know what they might have lost by it. Anything you think of, give it to Rathbone. Anyone you threatened, even unintentionally. There isn’t time for us to do it without your help.”
Slowly the total fear faded from Exeter’s face and he breathed deeply, an attempt at a smile returning to his face. “I’ll do it. I trust you, Monk.”
* * *
—
RATHBONE WAS IN COURT all day, and Monk needed to speak to him more than the brief moments he could snatch in the middle of a case. He spent the day collecting all the paperwork he had that might be useful to Rathbone in the defense. He even found proof of the success of Exeter’s career and the envy it might have engendered. There were deals that showed great skill, high risks taken, and some resounding defeats of powerful men.
It was late in the evening by the time Monk reached Rathbone’s house, but at least he knew Rathbone would be there. Few dinner parties lasted this long, so even if he had been out, he would be home by now. Monk felt no compunction at all in getting him out of bed if necessary. Tomorrow morning would be late to start, and anyway, Monk felt the rage and compassion burning a hole in him now, and all his thoughts were clear in his mind.
It was several minutes before Monk heard the bolt withdraw. The butler, clearly hastily dressed, opened the door cautiously.
“Yes, sir?” he asked, and then recognized Monk. “Is everything all right, sir? Are you hurt?” He pulled the door wide and ushered Monk inside from the darkness and the freezing drizzle.
“No, thank you,” Monk replied, pushing the door closed behind him. “I’m sorry to get you up at this hour. Is Sir Oliver in bed yet?”
“I imagine so, sir. There are no lights on upstairs.”
“Oh. I suppose it is later than I thought. I apologize. Is it possible to wake him? Mr. Exeter has been arrested and charged with the murder of his wife—the woman who was kidnapped and…knifed to death on Jacob’s Island.”
“Oh, my…I beg your pardon, sir. I was about to take the Lord’s name in vain! This is terrible. I’ll…I’ll call Sir Oliver, sir. If you would like to take a seat in the withdrawing room, the fire will still be warm. I’ll come in and stoke it for you when I’ve woken Sir Oliver.”
“I’ll stoke it myself, thank you,” Monk replied. He did not want to usurp the man’s job, but at this time of night it was bad enough he had woken him at all.
The butler was correct. The fire was very low, but with a little poking and putting small pieces of coal on it carefully with the tongs, it soon burned up. He had just finished when Rathbone came in, wearing a thick dressing robe and obviously fully awake. He closed the door behind him.
“The butler will bring some hot tea and a drop of brandy in a minute. God, this is awful!” He sat down and gestured to the chair opposite for Monk to do the same. “You didn’t arrest him, I suppose? Who did?”
“Runcorn. He took over the Bella Franken case. It was more on his territory. Even though she was washed up by the river, she was almost certainly killed on land, and I was in no shape to act immediately.” He saw the confusion in Rathbone’s face and realized he did not know of the case in any detail, if he knew at all. “Sorry,” Monk said. “Bella Franken was Doyle’s bookkeeper at the bank. She was the one with some figures that struck her as wrong. When I went to keep an appointment with her I saw a body in the Greenwich dock, and it was her. I nearly caught my death pulling her out.”
Rathbone looked stricken. “Good God! That’s terrible! And Runcorn thinks Exeter did that? Why, for the love of heaven? Doyle was the one who helped him get the money together in time to pay the kidnappers…for…Kate.” His voice trailed off, memory of the tragedy of it all overwhelming him. “I presume you came to ask me to represent him. Of course I will, unless he has someone he prefers?”
“No, of course not! Whoever could he possibly prefer? There’s no better lawyer in England, and you know him and t
he beginning of this hideous affair already. The poor man’s distracted with grief, and now fear. He’s almost ready to give up. And who could blame him?”
There was a knock on the door, and the butler brought in a tray of tea with a small decanter of whisky on the side.
“Thank you,” Rathbone said quietly. “Now go back to bed. We can manage. I’ll let Mr. Monk out when we’ve finished. And yes, I’ll be sure to lock the bolts on the front door. Good night.”
“Yes, sir, if you are sure?”
“I am.”
“Thank you. Good night, sir.”
Rathbone poured the tea and the whisky, and as soon as the butler closed the drawing-room door behind him, he began. “What is he charged with? The murder of Doyle’s unfortunate bank clerk, or bookkeeper, or whatever? Why, for heaven’s sake? What could she know that could be any danger to him? If she was embezzling, or whatever, that’s nothing to do with him!”
“It looks as if Doyle was fiddling the books to some extent, not exactly sure how, but we have an expert on it. Bella Franken was murdered bringing those papers to me. Possibly he or Maurice Latham, Katherine’s cousin, was embezzling from Katherine’s trust. Maybe both of them. It would have come to light sooner or later, when she inherited. Doyle had to protect himself. And he took a bit of it on the side as well,” Monk replied. “We’ll need to look at Latham, but I don’t know if he has the stomach for violence.”
Rathbone was watching him intensely. “That makes sense. Then surely Doyle is the one most threatened by that, and Doyle either killed the girl himself or hired someone else to. Perhaps he was the one who contacted Lister?”
