William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

properly documented.”
    “If Taft has it somewhere, then it must be where he could have reached it,” Hester reasoned.
    “Or he gave it to Drew,” he added.
    She frowned. “Would Taft really have trusted anybody else with it?”
    He sat silently for a few moments. “I doubt it,” he conceded at last.
    “Do you really think it’s possible, what you said—that they gave it to another charity and just didn’t record it?” she asked skeptically.
    This time he did not hesitate. “No. It’s somewhere.”
    “Do you think Drew at least knows where it is?” she asked.
    “Yes, probably,” he agreed. “I think that when he was testifying it was as much to save himself as to save Taft.”
    Hester looked at him pensively. “If I had been in Taft’s place, I think I’d have wanted to kill Drew, if I killed anyone at all!”
    “Of course you would.” He bit his lip but still failed to hide a smile. “But then you are about as like Taft as I am like Cleopatra.”
    She looked him up and down, smiling herself. “I don’t see it,” she said drily. “Perhaps a slightly better shave?” Then her amusement vanished. “Even if he did want to kill himself … his poor family …”
    “I know that if I were in that kind of trouble I’d want you and Scuff to go and take everything you could with you,” Monk admitted. “My one comfort would be that you would survive.”
    She looked at him witheringly. “And you think either of us would go? I would never leave you, unless it would be to help somehow, and Scuff wouldn’t forgive me if I did.”
    “I would want you to survive,” he repeated, refusing to think of it any more vividly. “It would be about the only thing that would salvage some honor—apart from the fact that I love you.”
    Her smile was so sweet, so gentle that for a moment he felt a warmth rush up inside him and tears prickled his eyes. He felt absurd, overemotional. He was afraid to speak in case his voice betrayed him.
    “But then, of course, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into the kind of mess Taft was in,” she said, as if continuing her own thought.
    He knew she was speaking to fill the silence and save him from the betrayal of his vulnerability.
    “There is something we don’t know, there just has to be,” she continued. She looked a touch desperate suddenly.
    “It’s not your fault, you know, just because you began the investigation.” He said the first thing that sprang to his mind, or perhaps it was there already.
    “Yes it is,” she responded immediately. “There wouldn’t even have been a case if I hadn’t listened to Josephine Raleigh and started to look into it. And then I asked Squeaky’s help, and it was he who found the financial evidence. Without that, they wouldn’t have brought anything to court.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “So we shouldn’t try to catch criminals or prosecute them in case the trial ends badly for some of the people involved? Punishment does slop over the sides sometimes and land on the bystanders as well. Sometimes they deserve it and sometimes they don’t. Mrs. Taft certainly didn’t deserve to die, but she was quite willing to live very well indeed on the profits of Taft’s embezzlement.”
    Hester stared at him, her brow furrowed in thought. “I wonder how many women bother to consider if the money they spend is honestly earned or not. I know what you do to provide for us, but then I don’t have half a dozen hungry children to clothe and feed, teach, nurse, and generally keep clean and happy. Maybe if I did, then I wouldn’t have time to wonder about much.”
    “Mrs. Taft didn’t have half a dozen,” Monk pointed out. “Added to which, she knew perfectly well what Taft did for a living because he did it in front of her. And she must have seen the clothes of the congregation and been able to have a damn good guess as to their income.” He felt the anger rise inside him. “Couldn’t you place someone pretty well by their clothes, how many times a collar had been turned, socks darned, children’s clothes patched? Don’t you know the age of a dress by its cut and color?”
    Her eyes flickered for an instant. “Yes,” she said gently. “But I care. Perhaps she didn’t want to.”
    “Perhaps?” he said with a sharp edge of sarcasm.
    She gave a slight, surprisingly elegant shrug. “It’s still not an offense worthy of death.”
    “Of course it isn’t,” he agreed. “I’m sorry, that isn’t what I meant.”