by Anne Perry
“Did Parfitt drive him that far on purpose? An example to others of what happens if you don’t honor your debts?”
“It wasn’t a debt!” Rupert snapped back at him. “It was extortion. I told you … I didn’t know about it until afterward. Not that I could have paid it for him if I had.”
“So, what was it, a misjudgment of Parfitt’s? Is suicide good for business, or bad?”
Rupert shot him a look of utter loathing. It stung Monk more than he would have expected, perhaps because he knew the loathing was fair.
“It is a salutary reminder to pay on time instead of letting the payments mount up,” Rupert replied coldly. “And it is bad for business. But, then, murder is worse.”
“Tell me about Tadley,” Monk instructed.
“He was a family man, but unhappy, lonely, I think. I don’t know that he particularly cared for boys. I had the feeling he wanted to experience some kind of excitement, some danger, a sense of being completely alive. I know that sounds—”
“No,” Monk cut across him. “It sounds like many people whose lives are suffocated by tedium, duty. Trying so hard to live up to what other people have expected of them that they become imprisoned inside it. Without dreams, you die.”
Rupert stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I misjudged you. I thought—”
“I know.” Monk smiled bleakly. “You thought I had no devils inside, no idea of what they are even. You’re wrong.”
Rupert nodded, almost close to a smile.
Monk bit his lip. “Now tell me the names of the other men who went to the boat.”
Rupert stared at him, but the anger had gone from his face.
“Please,” Monk added.
Rupert gave him a list, and Monk wrote it in his notebook.
“Thank you,” Monk said when it was finished. “I’ll get him this time.” Perhaps it was a dangerous thing to say, almost a promise, but he risked saying it, and committing himself. It felt good.
MONK DECIDED TO RETRACE Ballinger’s footsteps on the night of Parfitt’s death. He should duplicate all the conditions as closely as possible.
The first part of his journey did not really matter. It was the return that counted. Nevertheless he went to the street outside Ballinger’s house, at the time in the evening when Ballinger said he had left.
Of course one thing he could not duplicate was the daylight. In September it would have been dusk later, and the weather would have been milder. But he did not think that would substantially alter the time. If anything, Ballinger would have found it easier, and therefore faster.
Monk caught a hansom without more than a few minutes’ wait, and settled himself for the long journey to Chiswick. It was tedious, and his mind wandered over all he had learned so far, juggling the pieces to try to make a picture that would hold against the assaults of doubt and reason. It was still all too tenuous, too full of other possible explanations.
He reached Chiswick cold and irritable, his legs cramped from sitting still. He paid the cabby and walked down across the street onto the dockside. It was fully dark now, with a gusty wind blowing off the water. This far upriver it did not smell of salt, but rather of weed and mud.
The clouds raced past, and for a few moments the moon showed, about half full, gleaming briefly on the water. There was a ferry twenty yards away. A couple of young men were sitting in it, and the sound of their laughter, happy and more than a little drunk, drifted across the distance between them.
Monk waited until they docked, then walked down and asked the ferryman to take him across. At the far side he thanked the man, paid, and walked up to the road to look for a hansom. That took rather longer, but even so he was in Mortlake by the time Ballinger had said he’d arrived at Harkness’s house.
Now he had more than two hours to wait until Harkness had said Ballinger had left. He spent it walking along the waterfront with a lantern, looking at the boats pulled up in slipways, at the moorings, judging how long it would take to get any of them waterborne, and how wet he might get doing it.
He looked ahead and saw the sign for the Bull’s Head swinging gently in the wind, creaking a little. He decided to go in and have a sandwich and a pint of ale.
Monk asked the landlord casually about hiring boats just to row a bit up and down the water, not really fishing, just being by himself and forgetting the city and its life and its noise. The man seemed to find that odd, but he told Monk of half a dozen different people who might be happy to oblige him.
Monk thanked him and left. He found one light, fast boat he could hire for a couple of shillings, and promised to return it before morning. If they thought he was eccentric, no one said so.
He walked back up toward Harkness’s house and reached it a few moments before the earliest he could leave and still be following Ballinger’s path. He stared around. There was no one in sight, but he had not expected anyone. A witness would have been a stroke of luck too far!
Some moments later he walked briskly back downriver toward the Bull’s Head. The wind was sharper from the west and carrying the smell of rain with it. He imagined the marshes and the fields beyond, damp earth turned by the plow. Past that, woods with heavy leaves falling, berries turning red, the pungency of wood smoke, crows in high nests for the winter.
He found the boat he had hired, and after only a few moments’ fumbling, he got it down the slip and into the water. He reached for the oars, fit them into the oarlocks, and pulled away from the shore out into the stream.
After a few more strokes he settled to row down the river to Corney Reach. Tonight, the tide was against him. It had turned while he was in the Bull’s Head and was now coming in. He must check what it had been on the night of Parfitt’s death. It would make a difference, but perhaps little enough—unless high or low water had occurred during the time Ballinger had actually killed Parfitt, which was unlikely. But it was a detail to be sure of, so absolutely nothing caught him by surprise. Anyway, since he had to row back up to Mortlake, the tide would be with him one way, and against him the other.
It was a pleasant sensation to feel the power of the boat sliding through the water. It was silent here apart from the bow wave’s whisper, and the rattle of the oarlocks as the oars turned. Now and then a small night bird called from the trees along the shore. Once, far in the distance, a dog barked.
He saw the dark hull of Parfitt’s boat before he expected to. He had lost all sense of time. He pulled over to it and rested on his oars. He imagined himself going up on deck. How long would it take to climb the ropes up the sides? An estimate?
But Rathbone would ask him. It would destroy the validity of the whole experiment if he had to admit that he had not actually done it. Damn!
He bent to the oar again and pulled the boat closer. What if there were no ropes there anymore? Then he would have to do the whole thing over again, when the ropes had been replaced.
He was right up to the boat now. He could see almost nothing. There was one riding light, simply to avoid the boat being struck in the dark. ’Orrie must have been keeping it burning. It shed no more than a glimmer onto the deck, and nothing at all on the steep sides.
Monk put out his hand and met wooden boards, overlapping. Carefully he pulled himself along, the boat moving jerkily under him. It was three yards before he found the ropes and tied the boat’s painter to one of them. Awkwardly, skinning his knuckles, he climbed up and hauled himself onto the deck.
He stood there for several moments, trying to judge how long it would take to strike someone, then loop the cravat around their neck and tighten it until they choked to death, then finally put them over the side, into a boat or straight into the water. He mimicked hurling overboard the branch that had been used to strike Parfitt as well, and remembered that it might have been even more difficult climbing up with that slung over his back. He would have to allow for that.
But since Parfitt had been expecting Ballinger, perhaps he had let down a rope ladder. There was one
inside the boat; there would have to be for the guests to climb aboard in their expensive clothes and boots. No one would be amused by falling into the water, and most certainly no one would want to be soaked, chilled, and smelling of river mud all night.
He must also check that Ballinger had no injury or muscular disability that would make it impossible for him to climb. Rathbone could, and would, nicely catch him out if that were so. He smiled grimly, imagining describing all this to the jury, and then having Rathbone produce some doctor who would swear that Ballinger couldn’t lift his arms above his shoulders.
He heard an owl hoot on the farther bank, and a small animal slipped into the water with only the faintest sound. He saw the ripple of its movement more than he heard it.
It was time to go back over the side and row back to Mortlake, then find a hansom back to the far side of the Chiswick crossing.
When he finally stood on the dockside, waiting for the ferry back, it was less than five minutes later than Ballinger had done so, as the ferryman had confirmed for him, on the night of Parfitt’s murder.
Monk had a ridiculous sense of exhilaration for the small victory that it was. He had proved that it was possible, that’s all. But he had not proved that it was so.
THE NEXT DAY HE went to see Winchester, the lawyer certain to prosecute the case against Ballinger, were it to be brought to court.
“Ah! So you’re Monk.” He was a tall man, maybe an inch or so taller than Monk himself, broad-shouldered with a mane of straight black hair liberally threaded with gray. He had a somewhat hawkish face with a long nose and intensely dark eyes. The most remarkable aspect of him was the humor in his features, the readiness for wit, which seemed to be always just beneath the surface.
“Winchester,” he introduced himself. “Sit down.” He gestured toward a well-worn, comfortable-looking leather chair. He himself half sat on the edge of the desk.
“Tell me your evidence,” he invited.
Monk detailed it meticulously, and only what he could prove.
“Good,” Winchester said, pursing his lips. “I can see that you’re remembering the last time you faced Oliver Rathbone, and got mauled.” He said it without apology, a rueful amusement in his eyes. “We need to do better this time.”
“I intend to,” Monk assured him. He told him detail by detail how he had copied Ballinger’s trip up to Mortlake, exactly as he had sworn to, leaving time to kill Parfitt, and then back again.
Winchester did not laugh, but his eyes betrayed that inside he was highly amused.
“Ballinger was an excellent oarsman in his youth,” Monk went on. “But of course you will need to find testimony that he is still perfectly capable of rowing the distances now, and of climbing up the rope ladder at the side of Parfitt’s boat.”
“Thank you,” Winchester said wryly. “I had thought of that.”
Monk did not apologize.
“And I have a great deal of evidence as to exactly what trade Parfitt carried on,” Monk added. He recounted that as well, hating the words, even more the pictures they conjured in his mind.
Now all the light was gone from Winchester’s face, and he looked almost bruised. His anger was palpable. “I’ll call whoever I believe may help the case,” he said grimly. “I cannot promise to spare anyone. I hope you haven’t made any guarantees, because I will not keep them.”
“I haven’t.”
“Not to your wife? Or Margaret Rathbone?”
“Not to anyone.”
“Cardew? Are you prepared to crucify Cardew, if it’s unavoidable?”
Wordlessly Monk passed him a copy of the list of names Rupert had given him, including Tadley, with a note of his suicide.
Winchester read it, his mouth pulled tight and crooked with revulsion. “Thank you. That cannot have been easy.”
“I don’t intend to spare anyone either,” Monk told him.
“For the love of heaven, take good care of Hattie Benson!” Winchester said grimly. “She is the one thing preventing them from blaming it all on Cardew. The only question I have to ask you is, are you certain in your own mind that it was Ballinger? Could it not have been a business rivalry—pure greed on the part of Tosh Wilkin, for example? He’s a particularly nasty piece of work. All Rathbone has to do is raise a reasonable doubt.”
Monk realized that Winchester was watching him extremely closely. Memory rose up in him, hot and powerful, of having lost the trial against Jericho Phillips, and how ashamed he had been, how naked he had felt as the entire courtroom had stared at him and his failure, his mistakes.
“No, I’m not certain,” he said. “I believe it was Ballinger, because Sullivan said so before he died. It had to be someone of Ballinger’s social standing to see the weakness of men like Sullivan, pander to it, and feed it until it was out of control, and then blackmail them for it. Tosh Wilkin hasn’t the imagination or the connections to do that. And if he were the one taking the blackmail money, I don’t believe he would have the self-control not to spend it. And that he hasn’t done.”
“But could he have killed Parfitt, on Ballinger’s instructions?” Winchester insisted.
“He could have. I don’t believe Ballinger, a master at blackmail, would give such power over himself into the hands of a man like Tosh, who would certainly use it.”
Winchester’s long fingers touched the list that Monk had given him. “What about someone on this list? They would have much to gain if Parfitt were dead. The end of paying blackmail has been motive for more than one murder. The jury wouldn’t have much difficulty believing that. Reasonable doubt—more than reasonable.”
“You don’t bite the hand that feeds your addiction,” Monk replied. “Then you have to find a new supplier, and where would you do that? And why?”
Winchester nodded slowly. “You’d better be right, Monk. And don’t imagine Ballinger won’t fight you in every way he can think of. He won’t go down easily. Rathbone will fight for him, and you don’t need me to tell you he’s a very clever man, and far more ruthless than his charming manner would lead you to believe.”
“I know.”
“Yes, of course you do. But don’t allow yourself to forget it simply because you believe Ballinger is guilty and therefore you are fighting a just cause.”
Monk looked steadily at Winchester’s curious long-nosed face, with its subtle wit, and wondered if Ballinger had already started to fight, and whether Winchester knew it.
“It will be personal,” Winchester warned. “Your reputation—perhaps your wife’s?”
Monk felt his muscles clench. “I know.”
“Are you prepared for it? He may call her to the stand, with reference to Rupert Cardew.”
“Yes. She will be prepared this time.”
Winchester offered his hand. “Then, we’ll get him, Mr. Monk. Deo volente.”
Monk rose to his feet. “Yes—God willing,” he echoed, and took Winchester’s outstretched hand.
WINCHESTER’S MENTION OF HATTIE Benson sent Monk straight to the clinic at Portpool Lane, just to assure himself that she was still safe and well, and that her courage had not failed her.
He was met in the outer hallway by a grim-looking Squeaky Robinson.
“She isn’t here,” Squeaky said flatly.
Monk’s stomach lurched, and he found it hard to catch his breath. “What happened? Where is she?”
“No need to look like I hit you,” Squeaky said reproachfully. “She’s gone to help buy some more surgical stuff. Dunno where, ’cos she had to look for it. Heard of some doctor what was selling old stuff.”
“I’m not looking for Hester!” Monk said, almost choking in relief. “I want the young woman I brought here a week or so back. Where is she?”
Squeaky looked Monk up and down, from his shiny leather boots to his elegant coat wet on the shoulders, and then he sighed. “Down in the laundry washing sheets like she should be. I ain’t bringing her up here, ’cos I’m told not to, so you’d better go down there an
d find her!” Thus dismissing Monk, he sat down to study his figures again.
Monk thanked him, a trifle sarcastically, and went along the narrow passage and down a couple of flights of steps, through the kitchen, and into the laundry beyond. A lean, dark young woman with freckles was poking a wooden pole into the huge copper, moving the sheets around. The pot was belching steam, and the air was thick with it.
“Where’s Hattie?” Monk asked.
“Dunno,” the young woman replied without turning away from the task.
Monk took a pace toward her and spoke more sharply. “That won’t do! If you want to stay here and be looked after, you’ll tell me where she is!”
She stopped poking and let the long pole slip onto the floor. She turned and looked at him indignantly, her hair damp, streaked onto her face, her skin pink. “I dunno where she is, an’ yer can call me everything you want, an’ I still dunno. She were s’posed ter be ’ere, ’cos it were ’er turn ter ’elp, an’ she in’t! So you go an’ bleedin’ find ’er!”
Monk turned on his heel and strode out of the room, taking the steps up again two at a time. Back in the scullery he found a young woman with a red face, peeling potatoes. He could smell the sharp astringency of onions, and there were strings of them hanging from the ceiling beams.
“Have you seen Hattie Benson?” he demanded.
She turned to look at him, startled by his voice. “No, I in’t seen ’er since—I dunno—yesterday. Yer tried the laundry? That’s where she is most times.”
“Yes, I have. Where else?” He controlled his rising fear with difficulty. His heart was pounding, his breath ragged already. He was being absurd; she was probably making beds, or rolling bandages, or any of a dozen other tasks.
The woman shrugged. “I dunno.”
Without bothering to press her, since she was clearly useless, he left the scullery and tried the medicine storage room, the linen closets, and then all the bedrooms one by one. He went from the far end of the three old houses joined together by a warren of passages and interlocking rooms, which had once been Squeaky Robinson’s brothel and was now the clinic. Nowhere did he find Hattie Benson, or anyone who had seen her in the last three hours, now three and a half, nearly four. The fear inside him was close to panic.
