Acceptable Loss wm-17

by Anne Perry

  Winchester looked as if he had been suddenly enlightened. His eyes widened. Then he smiled at his own attempt at playacting. He looked at the jury as if to apologize to them. Several of them smiled back at him.

  “Of course,” he said mildly. “There has to be a man of more sophistication, higher social connections, and possibly money to have provided him with this boat, and obviously excellent photographic equipment, in the first place.”

  “Yes.”

  Rathbone considered objecting, but a look at the jurors’ faces, and he knew he would earn only their contempt. He would seem to be making ridiculous objections by which to try to distract them, which would only lend more credence to what Winchester was saying. And if he was honest, Rathbone himself believed there was someone behind Parfitt, pretty much as Monk and Winchester assumed.

  “But you do not know who he is?” Winchester pursued.

  “I believe that I do,” Monk contradicted him. “But the proof is what I came here to present.”

  The jurors looked stunned. There was a buzz of excitement in the public gallery, rustles of movement and indrawn breath.

  Winchester himself played it for all it was worth.

  “Are you suggesting, Mr. Monk, that it was this … this investor who murdered Mickey Parfitt? Why, for heaven’s sake? Was the boat not making him a fortune?”

  Rathbone stood up at last. “My lord, this is the wildest speculation!”

  “It is indeed,” the judge answered tartly. “Mr. Winchester, you know better than this!”

  “I apologize, my lord,” Winchester said humbly. “I’m sorry.”

  It was only at that moment that Rathbone realized that Winchester had had nothing more to add anyway. Rathbone’s intervention had saved him from the jury’s realizing it.

  “Have you anything else pertinent to say, Mr. Winchester?” the judge asked with evident impatience. “For example, something tangible, such as either of the weapons used in the attack of Mr. Parfitt, or a timetable of his movements? Or for that matter, a witness to anything at all? You have so far only a handful of obscene and repulsive photographs and a web of speculation, none of which you have connected to the accused.”

  Winchester looked suitably chastened and once again addressed Monk. “Sir, his lordship has excellent points, and has graciously reminded me that I have yet to mention the weapons used to take the life of this repulsive man. Did you seek them, and did you find them?”

  “I did not find the weapon with which his head was struck,” Monk replied. “It is difficult to know what that would have been, but any strong length of branch from a tree would have served, or a broken plank of wood, or an oar. There were many such lying on the bank, or floating in the water.”

  Winchester looked faintly disconcerted, but he did not interrupt.

  “However, we did find the weapon with which he was strangled,” Monk continued. “It was a dark blue cravat with an unusual pattern on it of leopards, very small and in threes, one above the other, in gold. It was made of silk, and there were six very tight knots in it, at slightly irregular distances matching the bruises perfectly.”

  Winchester allowed the jury a few moments to absorb this information. “Really! And where did you find the cravat, Mr. Monk?”

  “The police surgeon cut it from around Parfitt’s neck,” Monk answered.

  There was a sigh of breath and a buzz of movement around the court.

  “And did you trace its owner?” Winchester asked.

  “Yes, sir. It belonged to a Mr. Rupert Cardew …” Monk could not continue because of the uproar.

  When the judge had regained control, Winchester thanked him and invited Monk to proceed.

  “Mr. Cardew said that the item had been stolen from him the previous afternoon, and we later found evidence that that was indeed so.”

  “Did this evidence implicate Arthur Ballinger?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So what did, Mr. Monk? So far, as I’m sure Sir Oliver would be quick to point out, there is nothing in the course of your investigation to suggest his name to you, much less to imply his guilt in the matter at all!”

  “A short handwritten note inviting Parfitt to meet the accused at the boat, on the evening of his death,” Monk replied.

  Again there were gasps and cries in the body of the court, and it was several moments before the judge managed to restore order.

  “And where did you find this extraordinary document?” Winchester inquired.

  “Written above another note given to me, presumably without appreciating its importance, by Mr. Jones, one of Mr. Parfitt’s employees,” Monk told him. “Parfitt wrote down the time he wanted Jones to ferry him to his boat.”

  “Indeed. And was this note signed by the accused?”

  “No. It was written on the back of a piece of paper, on the front of which was a list of medicines to be purchased for the use of patients in the Portpool Lane Clinic.”

  Winchester’s black eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens! Are you certain?”

  “Yes. We took it to the clinic and asked those who work there to identify it.”

  “Just a moment! What made you consider the possibility that it had anything to do with them, Mr. Monk?”

  “I asked my wife, who is a nurse there, if she recognized the items on the list. She did. She also knew who had written the list and when, because of the writing and what was listed.”

  The silence in the courtroom was so thick, someone wheezing in the back row was momentarily audible.

  Thoughts raced through Rathbone’s mind as to what he could ask Monk, how he could tear this apart. And, looking at Monk’s face, he knew that he was already prepared, even waiting. Was it possible that this time he really was sure?

  “She wrote this list?” Winchester asked skeptically. “And you did not immediately recognize her hand, Mr. Monk? That strains credulity.”

  “No, she didn’t write it,” Monk replied with the vestige of a smile. “It was written by Mrs. Claudine Burroughs, a woman of good society who gives her time to helping the sick and the poor. I did not recognize her hand because I am not familiar with it, but my wife did.”

  “I see. And how did you deduce from this recognition that the subsequent note on the same piece of paper was written by Mr. Ballinger?”

  “Because Mrs. Burroughs said she gave the list to Lady Rathbone to purchase the-”

  There was another explosion of sound in the courtroom.

  The judge banged his gavel and commanded silence, on pain of people’s forcible removal from the room.

  Rathbone felt the heat sear up his face until he could hardly breathe. He did not dare look at Margaret, or her family, although he knew exactly to the inch how far he would have to turn his head to do so.

  “To purchase the medicines from the apothecary,” Monk continued. “Which Lady Rathbone did, for she gave the receipts to Mrs. Burroughs but did not return the original list. It seems reasonable, even inevitable, to assume that she discarded it where Mr. Ballinger, her father, found it and tore off a piece to use for this note to Parfitt, not knowing that what was on the back was so distinctive.”

  “I see,” Winchester said gravely. “And did you subsequently ask Mr. Ballinger to account for his whereabouts that evening?”

  “Yes, sir,” Monk replied. “He never pretended that he was not in the area, but he did say that he was in Mortlake, some short distance up the river from Corney Reach, where the body was found. He was in the company of a friend, which the friend verified. However, it is possible, if you are a strong rower, to take a boat from Mortlake to Corney Reach and come back again, then catch a hansom at the south side of the river to the ferry where Mr. Ballinger originally crossed, all in the time that he stated and his friend confirmed.”

  “Really?” Winchester affected surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I did it myself, at the same time of the evening.”

  “Remarkable. Thank you, Commander Monk.” Winchester tur
ned to Rathbone with a smile.

  Rathbone rose to his feet with a very slight tremble in his hands. He had just realized an astounding possibility. Neither Monk nor Winchester had mentioned Hattie Benson, either by name or occupation. Was that to spare Lord Cardew’s feelings? Or had she withdrawn her testimony, refusing now to take the stand? Without her, Rupert was still a prime suspect.

  Could he discredit this wretched note somehow? Suggest it had a different date, a different meaning? Even that it had originally been addressed to someone else?

  He needed time.

  “It is late, my lord,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “I have several questions to ask Mr. Monk, of fundamental importance to the whole case-things that may lead us in an extremely different direction. I would prefer, out of respect to yourself and the jury, to begin this when there is the opportunity to carry the matter to its conclusion.”

  The judge pulled out a magnificent gold pocket watch and regarded it soberly. “I hope your substance will equal your words, Sir Oliver? Very well. We shall adjourn until tomorrow morning.”

  Rathbone spent a miserable hour with Ballinger.

  “I’ve no idea who wrote the damn note!” Ballinger said furiously. “The Burroughs woman is lying, or is forgetful. Margaret would have given it back to her with the medicines from the apothecary, and she left it lying around. Anyone could have found it and used it. What about Robinson, the old whoremonger who runs the place for them? That’s the obvious answer. Use your brains, Oliver! Go for them. Go for him! He’ll never make a credible witness. Tear him apart.”

  Rathbone said nothing. He disliked the idea, but it was reasonable, and perhaps the only course he had.

  “I did not kill that filthy little man!” Ballinger’s voice was raised, brittle with anger and fear. “For God’s sake, do your job!”

  Margaret was already at home when Rathbone arrived.

  “How is he?” she said as soon as Rathbone was through the door, even before he had given his coat to the butler.

  “Full of courage,” he said gently, kissing her cheek. There was no point in telling her anything else.

  She pulled away from him so she could see his face, as if from studying it she could better tell if he was merely trying to comfort her.

  He looked at her steadily, lying superbly.

  Finally she smiled, her face catching some of its old calm and the loveliness that had first drawn him to her.

  “He’s brave,” she said simply. “And of course he is innocent. He knows you can get this ridiculous charge thrown out. After this, Oliver, you cannot remain such close friends with Monk.” She looked at him gravely. “He has not the honor or the integrity you thought. I know that disillusion is terribly painful, but pretending it does not exist helps nothing. It doesn’t change the truth. I’m so sorry.” She smiled slightly, a warm little gesture. “Actually I’m sorry for myself too, because I admired Hester so much, and I shall lose her friendship over this as well. I doubt it will be practicable for me to remain at the clinic.”

  He was taken aback. “Margaret, all he’s done is answer Winchester’s questions, and he has no choice in the matter.”

  The warmth vanished from her eyes. “How can you say that? He was the one who went after Papa in the first place. We wouldn’t even be answering the charge at all if he had simply followed the evidence to Rupert Cardew.”

  Suddenly he was cold. His whole fabric of certainty was tearing apart. He had drawn in his breath to say that Hattie could prove Cardew innocent, but he realized it was only her word that did, and Margaret would argue that Monk had coerced her. Rathbone knew that Monk was a man of passions and convictions, brave enough and perhaps ruthless enough to follow whatever he believed to be right.

  What if Monk were tragically wrong? What if it had been Cardew all along, and Monk had simply refused to believe it? It is so easy to believe what we need to. He had been wrong before; everyone has.

  Margaret was talking again.

  “Consider it, Oliver. Think honestly. You know that Monk is convinced Papa had something to do with Jericho Phillips, because as Jericho’s solicitor, Papa convinced you to represent Phillips. Monk doesn’t understand that that is what lawyers do! I think he has never really forgiven you for defending Phillips in court. He doesn’t like to be beaten.” She took a step closer to him. “Poor people with little education can be very proud, very stiff, unable to accept criticism, let alone defeat, especially from a friend. He admires you and he can’t bear to be wrong in your eyes. It’s an ugly trait of character, a weakness, but it is not so rare.”

  Was she right? Monk was prickly, but a bit less so since his marriage to Hester. However, victory still mattered intensely to him. Rathbone could see in his mind’s eye Monk’s rage when Rathbone had beaten him in court over Phillips. Was this his revenge, even if Monk had not been aware of it himself? Was this the old Monk reasserting himself, the man who had been so feared before his accident and the loss of memory had made him so vulnerable?

  He looked at Margaret. The gentleness was back in her face.

  “I plan to take him through all the evidence tomorrow. I’ll show the jury just how preposterous it is,” he promised. “We will not be able to protect Rupert.” He took a deep breath. “I wish he were not Lord Cardew’s son. Poor man.”

  She touched his arm with her fingers, and he felt the warmth of it briefly. “You can’t do anything about that, my dear. The exposure of the law is cruel. There is nothing we can do but bear it with dignity, and loyalty to one another.”

  She smiled and turned. “Dinner will be ready soon. You must be hungry. I worry about you sometimes when you are in a big trial like this. Do you look after yourself?”

  Rathbone followed her, comforted, until another thought came to him. It struck him so hard, it was as if he had fallen and bruised himself almost to numbness, knowing the pain would follow. What if Monk were so desperate to stop the pornographic trade on the river that he was prepared to hang Ballinger for the death of Parfitt, not because he believed Ballinger was guilty of it, but because he knew he was the man behind the trade, and behind Phillips? One reason was as good as the other; in fact, perhaps he saw the death of Parfitt as the lesser sin?

  Maybe the actual killer of Parfitt was some petty thief or extortioner, like Tosh Wilkin, or even one of Parfitt’s victims? Even Rupert Cardew himself? But Monk chose to overlook that rather than ruin the real killer for ridding the world of a man they were all grateful to see dead-and Monk used the circumstances to frame Ballinger, because he was the architect of the greater crime?

  Was Monk capable of such twisted thought?

  Even as the question formed in his mind, Rathbone was tempted to think the same way. If Ballinger were behind it-untraceable, uncatchable, simply going to walk away and begin again-would not Rathbone also have been tempted to let him pay the price for the secondary crime?

  Who had killed Parfitt? ’Orrie? Tosh Wilkin? Any one of his wretched victims first led into fornication, then abuse, then blackmail? It was a soft path to hell, one shallow step at a time, invited-not driven, not chased, but led.

  Rupert Cardew?

  Margaret turned, aware that Rathbone was not immediately behind her.

  He moved more quickly and caught up with her. It was warm in the drawing room, comfortable to the body, and familiar to the mind. It was not cold yet outside, but the fire gave an added pleasure. It should have allowed him to relax, think of something other than the anxieties and the dangers of tomorrow, but it did not. He wanted to go to bed and pretend to be asleep. He needed to be alone, away from her fears and her loyalties. But if he did, he would have to explain it to her, and that would make it worse.

  The effort of finding small conversation now was unbearable, but he knew that she needed him, needed to draw on his strength to calm the mounting fear inside her, and he must do that. That it was difficult was irrelevant.

  In the morning the courtroom was packed. Once again there were pe
ople lining up outside, angry to be turned away.

  When Rathbone stood up to begin his cross-examination of Monk, the tension in the air was palpable. Winchester was silent, appearing at a glance to be at ease, but the constant slight movement of his head, the flexing of his fingers, betrayed him.

  Everyone was waiting, all eyes on Rathbone.

  He walked out into the middle of the floor and looked up at the witness stand.

  “Mr. Monk, let us discuss this curious note that Mr. Jones found in his pocket and gave to you. As I recall, you said he had been given it so as not to forget the time Mr. Parfitt was to go to keep his appointment on his boat.”

  “That is what Mr. Jones told me,” Monk agreed.

  “And you traced it back, with the help of your wife, to the clinic on Portpool Lane where she works, helping sick women in the area?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you trace it any further than that? By which I mean did you ask Lady Rathbone where she had left it after she’d purchased the items and given them to Mrs. Burroughs?”

  “She didn’t give the list back,” Monk replied. “There was no need. All the items that were bought had the apothecary’s receipts.”

  “So the note could have ended up anywhere,” Rathbone pointed out. “In the possession of Mrs. Burroughs, on a table somewhere, in the rubbish basket, on the apothecary’s counter, or even in the possession of Mr. Robinson, the man who keeps the financial accounts for the clinic?”

  Monk’s face became suddenly bleak, his body stiffer where he stood in the witness box. As Rathbone met his eyes, he saw that Monk knew exactly what he was going to say next.

  Rathbone smiled very slightly. “Mr. Monk, what was Mr. Robinson’s occupation before he kept the finances of the clinic?”

  Monk’s face was almost expressionless. “He ran the same premises as a brothel, which you know perfectly well. It was you who perceived his skill at bookkeeping and the use he could be if he remained.”