by Anne Perry
She pushed them across the table toward him. “I have made copies of the ledgers over the last several months. You may want to see all the numbers, but I have made small marks beside the ones that are of importance.”
“This is your writing?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He glanced down at them and, after a moment’s study of the ones she had marked, he could see what appeared to be discrepancies. But they could easily have been accidental transpositions in the copying.
He looked up at her and saw her solemn expression awaiting his response.
“What are these numbers, Miss Franken? What do they represent?”
“Movements of money in and out of Mrs. Exeter’s accounts,” she answered.
“Mrs. Exeter?” he asked. “Mrs. Exeter has an account of her own?”
Bella Franken’s expression was bleak. “It was a trust, Mr. Monk. She has no access to it, nor does Mr. Exeter. She will come into it on her thirty-third birthday, which is more than a year in the future. Until that time, it is in the stewardship of Mr. Doyle, the manager of the bank, and Mrs. Exeter’s cousin, Mr. Maurice Latham. He is a civil lawyer.” Her face was carefully empty of expression, and Monk imagined she did not like Maurice Latham.
Bella drew in her breath and continued, “At the time of her birthday, Mrs. Exeter was to have inherited the entire sum. If she should die before that time, it does not pass to her husband. The bequest is very specific. It is equally divided between the other two cousins, the sole children of Mrs. Exeter’s mother’s widowed sisters.”
“Who are?”
“Mr. Maurice Latham and Miss Celia Darwin.”
“And they are aware of this?”
“Of course.”
“Is there…?”
“No ill feeling,” she answered before he could struggle for words to frame the question with delicacy. “And Mr. Exeter has no access to it at all.”
“What are these figures, and why have you brought them to us?”
“Because someone has been very carefully removing small amounts, over three or four years, and concealing it with clever bookkeeping. I had to spend several hours going over and over the pages to find it.”
“And the only people with access to it are Maurice Latham and your manager, Mr. Doyle? Are you sure?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation in her voice at all.
“It’s all in your writing.” He felt as if he were apologizing. “He can say it was not accurate, that you have transposed numbers and there is no error in the books. I’m sorry.”
“Of course it is in my writing,” she replied. “So is the original. I am the bookkeeper. All the ledgers are in my writing. But in the original, Mr. Doyle has signed off on each page. He checks them all, but of course he does not do all the writing. That takes hours, copying from one sheet of paper, receipts, count of money, and all the tasks that go into keeping an exact accounting. This is not meant as proof, Commander Monk; it is a means for you to find the pieces yourself and see how the money is where it should not be, with no explanation.”
He looked down at the sheets again. Without her marking specific lines, he doubted he ever would have seen the pattern. “Have you shown this to the regular police? Or anyone else in the bank?”
“No. I…” She did not need to tell Monk that she was frightened. It was written in her face, the stiffness of her body beneath the black coat, and the white knuckles of her left hand clenched in her lap, while her right hand pushed more papers toward him.
He had no need to tell her she was endangering herself by bringing him this information. He wished he could tell her that she was protected, that he would see to it that she was safe, but he was filled with the dark weight of broken promises. He had promised Exeter they would follow the plan exactly and get Kate back, and he had lost both her and the money. He had found Lister, against remarkable odds. They had gone to arrest him and found his dead body. It was only because Celia Darwin had identified him that they knew for certain he was the kidnapper. But did they really know that? Would her evidence have stood up in court? She had seen him only for a few moments on the riverbank. She had been a startled and frightened woman. Later, she had been asked to look at a mutilated corpse, with a gaping wound where his throat should have been. She had said yes, that was the man, but would she have said yes whomever it had been, so wanting it to be him?
And Hooper had wanted it to be. How far had he influenced her? Usually Monk would not have doubted Hooper, but he thought Hooper wanted so badly to achieve something, as much to discover who had betrayed them as to punish Kate’s killer, perhaps he saw progress where there was none. And Monk was so keen to solve this, for exactly the same reasons, that he was slow to accept it.
“Miss Franken, have you seen or heard more than this? Any meetings you are aware of?”
“I have seen Mr. Exeter come in three or four times in the last few weeks. I have tried to remember which days exactly, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I imagine Mr. Doyle could tell you but I do not have access to his diary. I am very seldom in his office. Sometimes I take him ledgers, if he asks for them.”
“Have you worked for him a long time?”
“It seems like it. Eight years; as head bookkeeper for only three.”
“There is another bookkeeper?” He wondered if that was where the errors had crept in.
“There used to be. Mr. Ernshaw left just over two years ago. We have not found a replacement for him yet. I can manage.”
“It must stretch you considerably to do two jobs,” Monk observed.
She smiled, charming and full of wry amusement. “I am not overtaxed, Mr. Monk. I do not sit up by candlelight straining my eyes over columns of figures. If I organize myself properly, I can quite easily manage. And do you think that had I made an error, it would result in exactly these figures? I have a feeling, to judge by your expression, that they may mean more to you than they do to me.”
“You’re very observant, Miss Franken. What was your impression of Mr. Exeter and his trust in Mr. Doyle?”
She was uncomfortable; she looked down. “It is hardly my place to have impressions of Mr. Doyle or his clients. I am desperately sorry for Mr. Exeter. Of course, I know only what is in the newspapers, but it is one of the most dreadful stories I have heard.”
“Has Mr. Exeter visited the bank since then?”
“Yes, once. He looked like a ghost, poor man.”
“You think he obtained the ransom money with the assistance of Mr. Doyle?”
“Yes.”
“It would be natural, if Nicholson’s is where Mr. Exeter banks. Why did you fear it might be breaking your confidentiality to bring this to me?” Monk felt hesitant to ask her, but she did not seem flighty or foolish. She clearly believed that there was some information here that was not as straightforward as a ransom being paid. She was very afraid of something. If it was just the breaking of a trust, she could have avoided that very easily by doing nothing.
“I love numbers, Mr. Monk.” She was looking at him again. “That may seem to be a strange thing in a woman, but they have a beauty, when you understand them. They are utterly without emotion, and yet they have music in them, and reason, and occasionally humor. I…” She stopped, embarrassed by her own enthusiasm in front of a stranger.
“And they reveal something to you,” he finished for her. He glimpsed what she meant and for a moment he saw something of it, too: a world where reason and beauty were the same, and quirks of pattern had wit. He liked a woman who would make a lonely adventure of the mind and find pleasure in it.
“Yes,” she agreed, referring again to the papers in front of them. “The sums are nearly always right at the end of the calculation, though there have been some strange movements, things hidden. There is less money than there should be in some places, more in others. There may be an expl
anation I do not understand, but…”
“You think there is embezzlement?”
“Yes. There is something wrong. Movement that is wrong!”
“Whom do you suspect?”
She bit her lip. “It can only be Mr. Latham or…or Mr. Doyle.”
“Which do you suspect?”
“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.”
“You don’t have the right to know everything about anyone, Monk. You have to take the bits you do know and judge by them. You don’t know all of me, or even of Hester. You don’t even know all of yourself. Live with it, man. You have no acceptable alternative. Now, are those bank papers for me, or are you just carrying them around? Beata will be here with your supper any moment.”
Monk pulled the papers out of his pocket. “A young woman brought them to me this evening. They’re exact copies, she tells me, of papers from Nicholson’s Bank. They have to do with Kate Exeter’s trust account, which she had yet to come into. The woman says there is something wrong with them, small amounts taken, but over a long period of time. The bit I’ve underlined is the exact amount of the ransom. Have you got a financial expert who can tell me if there really is something wrong?”
“I’ll find out.” Rathbone took them from him just as Beata came in carrying a tray with his dinner on it. Since it was informal, perhaps he should call it supper. He could not remember if he had had lunch or not.
“Thank you,” he said with deep gratitude.
CHAPTER
11
HESTER WAS NOT AT home when Will came to see her, but at the clinic in Portpool Lane. She was standing in the store cupboard where the medicines were kept, taking stock of what they had and what they needed more of. As usual, it was more bandages, surgical spirits for sterilization of instruments, wounds, and so on, and decent wine when a sip was all people could take. Some of the knives and scissors needed sharpening, but that was easily seen to.
She turned when she felt Will’s presence behind her. She was pleased to see him, but the fact that he had sought her out here, rather than at home, caused her a quick flicker of anxiety. What was it that he did not wish Monk to overhear?
Will smiled at her. He was so much a man now, but his smile still held something of the child he had been.
“It’s not Bathurst,” he said immediately. “He disappears so often and he’s tight with money because he’s the eldest of a big family, and they’re always broke. Father’s dead, and Bathurst’s is the only regular money they get. One sister works, but women, girls, don’t get paid that much. He’s always scared she’ll get sucked into making it on the street because they need it so bad. I guess that’s why he’s nice to street women, too. He can understand how they got there.” His face reflected the pity he felt. A few years ago it might have held envy, too, for being part of a large family, even if a poor one. He was too sure of where he belonged to feel that now.
Hester smiled at him. “Thank you.” She could not help wondering how vulnerable that constant need made young Bathurst. What emergency, no matter how slight, might rock that precarious survival.
“I know,” Will said quickly.
“Do you?” She thought of covering her doubt, but she had done that once and he had seen through it, and been not only hurt, but angry.