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“He didn’t kill his wife himself,” Runcorn agreed. “He paid Lister to do it for him. First to take her from the riverbank, where she was walking with her cousin, and Celia Darwin was the only one who knew that they were.”
“You’re not suggesting she was in it with Lister, are you?”
“No, of course not. Although
she would be…”
Monk was aware of the unlikelihood of that, even as Runcorn said it. But all sorts of people had the strangest weaknesses, doubts, fears. He should have looked further into her life, and maybe even her envy of her wealthier, more fortunate, more beautiful cousin. Hooper had expressed great regard for her honesty. But not inquiring closely about Celia Darwin was an oversight he should remedy while there was still time.
“I should look into that,” he admitted. “It’s an ugly thought, but I can’t ignore it.”
“It’s all ugly,” Runcorn pointed out. “I haven’t found out anything about her.”
“I’ll have Rathbone ask Exeter.” Monk was reluctant. “All tragedies are ugly. Someone is hurt more than they can bear. All secrets laid open hurt far more than just one person.”
“You’ll have to. I can’t get anything out of Exeter. Rathbone seems to have told him to keep quiet, and he’s doing it. So would I, if I were trying to defend him.”
“What else have you got against him?” Monk asked. “Anything more than suspicion?”
“Far more than suspicion, Monk! Do you think I arrested him just to say I closed the case?”
“No. I know his butler said that Exeter was out the day Lister was killed and the afternoon Bella Franken was killed. It sounds like a disgruntled servant. He can’t prove it.”
“None of the other servants saw him during those hours. His boots and the cuffs of his trousers were wet.”
“He went to post a letter and get a breath of air,” Monk said quickly. “He’d been cooped up in the house with his grief for days! He went out when no one would see him. He didn’t want to make polite conversation with neighbors and answer questions. ‘How are you?’ and other damn silly things. He’s feeling like hell. I wouldn’t want to answer questions either, in his place.”
“I’ve got two witnesses who say they saw him with Lister.”
“Who?”
“On a building site.”
“For God’s sake, Runcorn, he owns building sites! That’s what he does. Maybe Lister was doing a day or two of manual labor? Ever thought of that?”
“If Exeter didn’t murder Kate, who did?” Runcorn asked innocently.
“Doyle, of course! He’s the one changing around the money, taking a good bit for himself! There could be someone else involved. I’ve got some of my men looking into it, and I’ve got a list for you to try. Exeter is a very successful man. He’s bound to have enemies.”
“Doyle got the money together for the ransom. It was in his bank, and he made it available immediately. Cut all the red tape.” Runcorn ticked off the points on his fingers. “He took a part as payment—maybe not admirable, but understandable.”
Monk had no argument, at least not one that would count in court. “Reasonable doubt…? Did you look into this trustee Maurice Latham?”
“Maybe Rathbone will go with that. Unless he has a rabbit to pull out of his hat?”
“Not that I know of. Did you check Latham’s account of his time?”
“Yes. He can account for it.” Runcorn’s face tightened in unhappiness. “Do you know yet which of your men tipped off Lister and his crew?”
“No.”
“You’ll have to find out. You can’t go on knowing one of them did and not knowing who, for whatever reason, even if you understand it and might have done the same.”
Monk jerked his head up.
“Hostage to fortune,” Runcorn went on. “A man will do most things to save his family. It may not be greed or resentment, envy, revenge, any of those things. Just someone you have destroyed, someone you have a duty to protect. Or just someone to whom you owe an unpayable debt—guilt as a payment. You have to know.”
“All right! Yes, I do,” Monk said quietly. “I wish…no, of course what I wish is irrelevant. We all…wish.”
