by Anne Perry
“Yes, of course,” Monk agreed. “So what if Taft trusted Drew until that day, the day of the photograph, when Drew changed his testimony. Maybe it was only at that point he suspected anything, when it all fell to pieces, and then Mrs. Taft somehow let it slip, and that was when Taft killed her and then himself.”
“But his daughters?” Squeaky said indignantly. “What were they then, just damage on the side?”
“Yes, probably. Maybe they knew and had to be got rid of,” Monk agreed.
“What a real pillar o’ the Church.” Squeaky shook his head.
“Is it possible? It seems a stretch.” Monk pressed.
Squeaky lifted his chin a little. “Maybe. Come back tomorrow—late! I’ll see what I can find. Still wish it were Drew guilty of all this, somehow. It would make more sense.”
Monk smiled and stood up. “Well, it can’t be,” he said, hesitating a moment so Squeaky knew that he meant it. “He’s accounted for.”
ACTUALLY IT TOOK MONK rather longer than he had expected to learn much more about Taft. Scuff’s information threw a different light on Taft’s nature, and Monk made sure to tell him how vital he had been, which made Scuff puff up with pride. Then Monk spoke with John Raleigh, who was willing to see him and discuss whatever he wished, however personal or painful, out of gratitude to Hester.
“I need to know Mr. Taft better,” Monk told him as they sat together in Raleigh’s small front parlor. “Something of his character that would explain why he not only took his own life, but that of his family as well.
Raleigh looked surprised.
“The man is dead,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Any judgment of him is in God’s hands now. I have no wish to pursue vengeance. It is unbecoming in a Christian, Mr. Monk. Or for that matter a gentleman who considers himself a man of honor, whatever his creed.”
Monk found himself with an even greater respect for this quiet, seemingly ordinary man. He marveled at how easy it was to make judgments based on a few outward details, possibly only of worldly success: money, skill, confidence. How wrong those judgments often ended up being.
“It is not vengeance I want, Mr. Raleigh,” he said gently. “I need to understand why Taft took his own life, and that of his family. I am hoping to prove that it was in no way linked to Sir Oliver’s actions during the trial, his allowing the obscene photograph of Robertson Drew to influence Drew’s testimony and thus the outcome. Sir Oliver is a longtime friend of mine, and his defense is important to me and to my wife.”
“Ah,” Raleigh said quietly. “I see. That is rather different. How can I help you?”
“Tell me something about Taft,” Monk replied. “Describe him for me, not his appearance or his dress but his manner. What drew you to him? And please be completely honest.”
“I will. I think I owe Sir Oliver, and most certainly Mrs. Monk, the most candid observation I can give.” Raleigh thought for several minutes before answering, choosing his words very carefully. “To begin with I thought him a gentleman of great honesty and a remarkable dedication to the Church, and to true Christianity.” He measured his words. “As I came to know him better I found certain mannerisms of his annoying. I considered it a weakness in myself. I am still not certain if it is not so—”
“What mannerisms?” Monk interrupted.
“What seemed to me like a degree more of self-importance than I think to be good taste. A remarkable number of conversations and discussions seemed to center on him. Even stories that held a considerable trace of humor, or of self-criticism, still were always about him. I began to find it somewhat tedious, and was ashamed for doing so. He often spoke of his humility.” Raleigh smiled, catching Monk’s eye. “So often that I began to wonder why. You understand, humility is not speaking of yourself as humble, it is not speaking of yourself at all.”
“A very good distinction,” Monk agreed sincerely.
“Thank you.” Raleigh colored faintly. “He appeared to be devoted to his wife, frequently praising her virtues. But I noticed he never allowed her to speak for herself. I compared his daughters with my Josephine, at the same age, and they seemed to me in a way crushed, uncertain of themselves, as if they dared not express an opinion of their own. They had not the fervor or the freedom of dreams that the young should have.” He stopped for a moment. “I don’t know how to express this honestly without sounding as if I am trying to damn a man who cannot speak for himself.”
“You cannot help him, Mr. Raleigh,” Monk reminded him. “Perhaps you can help Sir Oliver. What were your impressions of Mr. Taft’s relationship with Mr. Drew?”
“You are very direct,” Raleigh observed. He seemed almost amused.
“Indeed,” Monk nodded again but did not say anything further.
“I am less certain about his relationship with Mr. Drew,” Raleigh continued. “It is only an impression, but I thought Taft was the leader between the two of them. He was the one gifted with charm and easy words. Drew was more of a man to organize things, to act behind the scenes. He had no apparent hunger for the limelight.”
“Hunger for the limelight.” Monk repeated the phrase. “That is very well put, Mr. Raleigh.”
Raleigh colored. “An unkind observation of a man of the cloth, Mr. Monk. I am not proud of it.”
“Many of us do good works with something less than an ‘eye single to the glory of God,’ sir,” Monk said softly. “It does not make the works themselves less good, and it leaves us room for improvement.”
Raleigh smiled suddenly. “You make the trait sound almost—likable.”
Monk also smiled. “Aside from Drew keeping out of the limelight, did you notice anything else about their relationship?” he prompted.
“I thought they worked very closely together,” Raleigh responded. “I saw no friction between them at all. Certainly there was no visible envy or criticism.”
Monk was disappointed. “And what was your impression of Mrs. Taft?”
“A very attractive woman, very agreeable. She deferred to her husband, but then perhaps most women do, at least in public. What she said in private I have no idea. Taft seemed deeply fond of her, and of his daughters, for that matter. He might have seemed a little oppressive at times, but he took the greatest care of them. That he should descend into this madness is a terrible tragedy.”
“Could his disillusionment in Drew have brought it about?” Monk asked.
Raleigh considered for several moments. “I suppose it is possible,” he said at last. “I would swear he trusted Drew. I have no idea what was in the photograph that turned Drew’s testimony on its head. It must have been something of extraordinary power. I inferred from the look on Taft’s face that he had had no idea. It seemed a terrible betrayal.” He shook his head a little. “Yes, yes, betrayal can make a man despair, especially if he is betrayed by someone in whom he had had complete belief, both professionally and on a personal level. Poor man. What a terrible way to end.”
Monk could not stop now. “Do you suppose Mrs. Taft was as deeply trusting in Mr. Drew? What was her manner with him?”
Clearly it was a new idea to Raleigh. He stopped for several moments to consider it before replying. “It seemed to me that she followed her husband’s lead in that, as in pretty well everything else.” He shook his head again, but this time not so much in doubt as apparently trying to clear muddled or displeasing thoughts. “He was a very … dominant man. He was always pleasant about it, but he knew exactly how he wished things to be done, and he insisted that they were done that way. But I thought she was a happy woman, despite that. Was I very foolish in my judgment?”
Monk smiled slightly and tried to imagine Hester being so placid, and knew at once he would hate it. Without her occasional dissent, her agreement would be meaningless. He would miss her ideas, her laughter, her occasional mocking and teasing, the whole sense of there being someone else around, a different person, close to him but not always like him. The loneliness would be devastating.
He looked again at Raleigh to try to judge how perceptive he was.
Raleigh smiled bleakly, more out of irony than amusement. “I admit I was deceived by the man and lost a great deal of money because I believed him, so now my opinions may be colored by that. I came to see him as both domineering and manipulative, a little drunk on his own importance. But please take my judgment as that of a man hurt by experience and therefore not impartial.”
Monk assured him that he would. However, when he spoke to others over the rest of that day and during the following one, their voices built up a portrait of a man who had such a sense of his own importance at the center of God’s great plan as to depart from the reality. Anyone who challenged him was very subtly made to feel as if he or she were inspired by selfishness more than good sense, by greed more than financial responsibility. No gift had ever been enough. Always within a few months, he came back for more. Smooth words of praise concealed the implicit charge of withholding from Christ were they to refuse the next request.
Taft never seemed to doubt himself. No argument was listened to. He did not quarrel. He stated his point of view as if it were fact; he condescended to hear the opposition or the doubts and then branded them as failures of faith, which could be forgiven with repentance. More often than not, the parishioners saw the weakness of their ways and rejoined the fold. Sometimes they even paid more, to cover their sins of dissent.
Monk tried to pity him for his shallowness but found it difficult. In his own way the man both fed others and consumed them, needing their dependence upon him for his own esteem. How would he handle failure, any failure at all? Badly enough to take his own life?
It was not impossible.
It was an emotional world that Monk had never truly looked into before, and it appalled him. The innate fear woven through it was terrible. Pull out one thread and the whole thing unraveled.
Should Rathbone have seen that? Of course not! But that would make no difference to the charge against him. Taft was a prime example of a person who sees exactly what he wishes to see, whose mind distorts the evidence to prove what he needs to believe. A jury might also see what they expected to see—a judge who used evidence to which he alone had access in order to turn a trial the way he wished it to go, condemning a man of the Church.
Monk had gained understanding, but it had not yet helped his cause.
THE DAY AFTER THAT Monk spoke to Rufus Brancaster and told him what he had learned. Brancaster said exactly what he had expected him to.
“It doesn’t amount to a defense.” He looked tired, as if he were struggling to avoid giving in to defeat. “It does make sense of Taft’s actions, but only of the fact that he committed murder and suicide, where any other man would have been devastated but would have survived; perhaps drunk himself senseless, or collapsed with hysteria, but not taken his life. He thought he was necessary to the survival of his family,” Brancaster continued. “I’ve defended a few like that before. Imagine their families cannot live without them, convinced nobody else would protect and provide for their wives. I think it’s really a thinly disguised terror that they might not actually be as essential as they suppose. Can’t bear to think that anyone could manage without them. Their worst nightmare is to be forgotten.”
Monk said nothing. He had spent so much of the life he could remember alone. In the early days after his accident, what he had learned of himself did not encourage him to investigate more deeply. He had not been a necessary part of anyone’s life.
Now he was necessary to Hester in that she loved him, but it had never been that she was unable to stand on her own feet, make her own decisions, and, if need be, to earn her own living. She was independent—not a quality liked by all men. She was highly intelligent, articulate, brave, and had a very sharp sense of humor—again not qualities comfortable to all men. She was not beautiful in the traditional sense, but he could see in her a loveliness deeper and more lasting than mere prettiness. He had never deluded himself that she could not find someone else to love her, even if not as deeply or intensely as he did.
Brancaster interrupted his thoughts.
“You and I might see that Taft was self-obsessed, and deluded enough to kill himself rather than face the loss of his fame. But the jury is going to see a man driven—by evidence they have not seen and don’t understand—to the point of despair where he took not only his own life but that of his family. They have to blame someone for that.” His face was sad, his eyes hollow. “A judge who perverted justice for his own reasons is an easy solution. Nobody cares what those reasons might be. Possibly the prosecution will offer them a few choices.”
“Can’t we prove …?” Monk began, then saw the exhaustion in Brancaster’s face and realized the pointlessness of the question. The law had broken down. A judge had shown his partiality in a way that was extremely visible. If the law could fail, what protection had anyone? The jury would be, by definition, upstanding citizens who did not consider themselves vulnerable to just prosecution, only to injustice. For any argument to work, it must not only be true, it must be something they would have no choice but to believe.
“What can we do?” he asked. “What could help?”
“Something to prove that when Rathbone did this it was in the service of justice and that it was the only course open to him to avoid a severe miscarriage in this case,” Brancaster replied. “And believe me, I’ve been up most nights trying to think of the solution. It’s too late now for Taft to tell his side. And it’s not Drew on trial.”
“The possibility of exposure exists, for every man who posed for one of those photographs, and they must all be aware of that,” Monk said. “Not just Drew.”
Brancaster chewed his lip thoughtfully. “You have a point there, perhaps one we could use.”
Monk was puzzled. “How could we use it?”
“Play on the fear of how deep the corruption is,” Brancaster replied, meeting Monk’s eyes. “Rathbone has told me that there is a deep cesspit here. We have a very reasonable argument on our hands: if he had gone to any authority with that photo, or any of the photos, they might simply have covered it all up, and possibly destroyed Rathbone in the bargain, just to avoid the monumental scandal.”
“But this is going to destroy Rathbone,” Monk pointed out.
Brancaster smiled a trifle wolfishly. “Precisely.”
Slowly a whole new picture opened up in Monk’s imagination: full of unguessable risks and pitfalls. It might be necessary to travel down that road to save Rathbone. Was it possibly also justified? It would be a final and terrible end to the whole issue of Ballinger’s photographs. Brancaster, Rathbone, and Monk himself could have no idea who they might bring down in the process because they could not know every man’s connections.
“Are you prepared to do that? Use the photographs in that way?” he asked, his voice catching in his throat.
Brancaster’s face was unreadable. “I’m thinking about it. Perhaps it’s time.” He gave a very slight shrug. “By the way, I’ve saved an important piece of information for last. Drew wants to have access to Taft’s house to get the papers pertaining to the church.”
Monk jerked his mind to attention. “No!” he said simply. “Not yet. He can have access eventually, but not yet.” Even if Drew’s request was innocent—which he doubted—he still wanted to go through the house himself before he allowed anything to be removed.
Brancaster nodded. “I thought you’d say that. I already told him so.”
Monk felt a very slight, inexplicable ease run through him. “Thank you. I’ve got to get into that house. And now that you told me this, I’m even more eager. The church papers can’t be all that important. There must be something there. And I’m going to look till I find it.”
CHAPTER
13
OLIVER RATHBONE HAD SPENT some of the most exciting and challenging hours of his adult life in a courtroom. It was where he excelled, where his victories and his defeats occurred. It was the arena for his ski
lls, the battlefield where he fought for his own beliefs and other men’s lives.
Today it was utterly different, still as familiar as his own sitting room but as alien as a foreign country where the people had the faces of those you knew, but the hearts of strangers.
Brancaster had spoken to him briefly. It was too late to discuss tactics. It had been simply a word of encouragement. “Don’t lose heart. Nothing’s won or lost yet.” Then a quick smile and he was gone.
Rathbone had never seen the courtroom from the dock before. He was high up, almost as if in a minstrels’ gallery, except of course he had jailers on either side of him, and he was manacled. He was acutely aware of these things now as he looked down at the judge’s high seat, where he himself used to sit, and at his peers, the jurors, on their almost church-like benches—two rows of them!
The witness box was small, as a pulpit might be, and was reached by climbing a curving stair. He could see it all very clearly. It still looked different from before. But then it was different. Everything was. For the first time in his life he would have nothing to say, nothing to do until he was called by Brancaster. The trial was about his life, and he could do nothing but watch.
He could see Brancaster standing below him, his white lawyer’s wig hiding his black hair, his gown over his well-cut suit. They had planned and discussed every possible move, but all that was over now. Rathbone was helpless. He could not object, he could not ask any questions or contradict any lies. He had no way of contacting Brancaster until the luncheon adjournment, and perhaps not even then. He couldn’t lean forward and tell him the points he should make, alert him to errors or opportunities. His freedom or imprisonment, his vindication or ruin, hung in the balance, and he could not intervene, let alone take part. It was like something out of his worst nightmare.