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“Without naming anyone, is there someone else you suspect?”
“Yes, sir, there is.”
“With cause, even if you cannot yet tell us what that cause is?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rathbone smiled. “Thank you for having been most helpful. That is all.” He did not even glance at the jurors. If he had, he would have been well satisfied by the smiles on their faces, the sudden sharpening of interest.
Hooper was excused as he went and sat in the gallery of the court. It was infinitely preferable to being skewered, flapping like a moth, in the stand. He sat down on the end of one of the benches. There was no space for him beside Hester, and he preferred not to sit there anyway. He did not know what Monk may have told her of the mutiny, or of anything else. Thinking of her and her judgment of him was more than he could cope with at the moment. It would too easily make him think of Celia and how she’d be affected if she knew. Her smile would leave, the steadiness of her eyes, the gratitude for his understanding, the friendship.
He forced the thoughts out of his mind as Doyle took the stand and was sworn in. He looked every inch what he was, at least professionally: a small-town bank manager dwarfed by the affairs of a very large city. In fact, the largest city in the world.
Had Doyle ever imagined this, when he set out to kidnap Kate Exeter? Had he meant just to gain her inheritance for himself, without violence, without murder after murder? Had he even meant to slash Lister’s throat, to drown Bella Franken? He was standing in the witness box now, in the Old Bailey. He should be in the dock. And if Exeter was hanged, then Doyle was guilty of his death, too. In a way, that was the most horrific aspect of the situation.
Doyle looked miserable and frightened. He kept moving his neck and jaw, as if his collar were too tight. Was he imagining what a rope would feel like?
He swore to his name, address, and occupation, and to tell the entire truth. Perhaps Ravenswood would go lightly with him. Rathbone certainly would not. Please heaven Monk was finding something—anything—to cause a reasonable doubt! A connection to an enemy that one of Exeter’s deals had ruined, a poisonous enemy.
Ravenswood led Doyle softly through his career at the bank and the years he had handled Exeter’s accounts. He touched lightly on the profits and expenses, the enormous chances Exeter had taken, and the money he had made, and occasionally lost. Yes, he was indeed a client who had earned the bank a great deal of money. And yes, Doyle’s own fortune had risen with Exeter’s. Not to the same degree, of course, but more than most men’s. A lot more.
“So, you owe much of your success to the fact that he is one of your clients?” Ravenswood asked.
“Yes, sir.” Doyle shifted his weight as if his back pained him.
“Did he come to you when his wife was kidnapped and a very large ransom was demanded of him?”
“Yes, sir. He was very distressed.”
“Did you help him realize his assets in order to have the money to hand over?”
Doyle looked uncomfortable. He answered slightly aggressively. “Yes, sir. He did not have the amount readily available in cash. Hardly anyone would. Selling property, even if you are prepared to take an immense loss, can still not be accomplished in so short a time.” He cleared his throat. “And even if the kidnappers were prepared for urgent negotiations, say a week, what man would leave his wife in the captivity of such men even an hour longer than he could help? God alone knows what they might have done to her…” He trailed off, leaving it to the imagination. A glance at the jurors’ faces made it nightmare-clear what they thought.
“Indeed.” Ravenswood nodded gravely. “So, what did you do, Mr. Doyle?”
Doyle cleared his throat again. “Mrs. Exeter had a very large trust, which she would inherit on her thirty-third birthday, which was over a year away. Mr. Exeter asked the trustee, Mr. Maurice Latham, if he would consider using it to save her life. Of course, he agreed. It was lodged in my bank. With Mr. Latham’s agreement, I had instant access to it. I gave it to Mr. Exeter, for the ransom of his wife, the saving of her life. I could hardly do less.”
“Quite so,” Ravenswood agreed. “And did Miss Franken assist you in these…preparations of yours, Mr. Doyle?”
Doyle’s face froze for a moment, as if he had not expected this question. Surely, he had been prepared by Ravenswood? A good lawyer—never mind a brilliant one—does not ask questions to which he does not already know the answers.
“I…I do not wish to speak ill of the poor young woman,” Doyle began. “But she was not as skilled or as experienced in banking as she thought. She is dead, poor creature. Can I say that she was diligent, a good student, but she had a tendency to leap to conclusions that were not justified. She had met Mrs. Exeter on a few occasions, and Mrs. Exeter had been very gracious to her. I’m afraid poor Bella took her death, and the manner of it, very hard.”
“So, she could have read into the papers things that were not there?”
Doyle looked relieved. “Yes. Indeed, looking back on her remarks, I think she did. She did not fully comprehend the situation.”
“And Miss Franken knew nothing that would harm your reputation in the bank, were she to confide in Mr. Monk?”
“If he found something amiss in it, it would be his lack of understanding of banking or figures. They can be confusing when you are not accustomed to dealing with them,” Doyle replied. “There are fees to be paid for urgent transactions, which might look to someone unfamiliar with the process like miscalculations. And when one adds up columns of figures several times, one tends to make the same error each time. A person more experienced would do it upward one time, and downward the next. Books have to be balanced every day. Errors are quickly found.” He seemed satisfied with the answer.
“And you did not confide in Miss Franken at all?”
“About the private accounts of a client? Certainly not.”
“Because you did not trust her?”
“No. I would have dispensed with her services had I not trusted her. Simply because such accounts are private, and even more so at a time like that, when a woman’s life hung in the balance. I think, sir, that much is obvious.” Doyle sounded eminently reasonable, but there was a distinct discomfort in the way he stood, altering the balance of his weight every now and then.
