William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

while.
    “You’ve studied the financial papers of the church, and of Taft personally,in great detail,” Monk began. “You found the embezzlement for which we are all very grateful …”
    “Yeah?” Squeaky asked. “Sir Oliver included, no doubt.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “He said that, did he?”
    Monk ignored the joke.
    “I’m being optimistic that if I ask you nicely, you’ll help me find even more evidence, which will eventually lead to a more comprehensive picture than the one we have,” he answered.
    “Really? Like what?” Squeaky raised his wild eyebrows and studied Monk.
    “How deeply is Robertson Drew involved in the embezzlement?” Monk said. “In your opinion, did he know the entire extent of it? And if so, what could you prove? There’s something we’ve missed, and it probably lies with the money, and maybe with where it is now. Perhaps Drew’s share. What happened to it?”
    “I can’t tell that from the books!” Squeaky said indignantly. “You think somebody wrote it all down beside one o’ the columns o’ figures, ‘Sent it all to Mr. Smith in Wolver’ampton? First house along the road from the railway station, going north!’ What do you think I am? You want one of them old biddies with a crystal ball.”
    “I want somebody who knows every crooked piece of accounting there is and smells a trick like a dog smells a rat—but whom I can trust. If that’s not you, who is it?” Monk kept his face perfectly straight with something of an effort.
    Squeaky was quite aware he was being played like a fiddle but he did not mind. Monk meant the compliment and they both understood that. He grunted.
    Monk took this for assent. “The police have looked and found nothing in Taft or Drew’s affairs. But one thought came to my mind, as I was looking for a reason why Taft would kill his wife as well as himself.”
    Squeaky pulled his face into an indescribable expression of disgust, but he did not interrupt.
    “The facts as we know them don’t give him sufficient reason,” Monkwent on. “What if he discovered not only that Drew was profiting a good deal more than he had thought from their scheme, possibly even more than he himself was, but also that his friendship with Mrs. Taft was closer than any of us had appreciated? That’s a guess with nothing whatever to support it, but it would explain a lot. Then Taft would feel beaten and doubly betrayed.”
    Squeaky shook his head slowly. “But up until Warne sprang that photograph on Drew, Drew was supporting Taft, wasn’t he? And didn’t you say Taft was set to get away with it?” he asked, his face twisted with disgust. “I mean, why not just let Taft take the blame, let him rot in prison, and get away with his share of the money? All he had to do was act all sad and sorry, like, and pretend he’d been as much took in as anybody else. Would have worked a bit better, and no risk.”
    “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.”
    A CTUALLY IT TOOK M ONK 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