by Anne Perry
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 people 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.”
“Indeed,” Rathbone conceded, his smile a little wider. “He had many acquaintances in the district, and an excellent knowledge of where to buy things at a good price. And since the patients are largely prostitutes, he would be familiar with their associates, their lives and habits. He would be hard to deceive. However, unfortunate as it may be, is it possible that Mr. Robinson could have reverted to his original profession and be involved with the trade in prostitution on the river?”
Monk hesitated. Rathbone had caught him exactly as he’d meant to. To say it was not possible would be ridiculous and would leave Rathbone the way open to make Monk seem absurdly naïve.
“Of course it’s possible,” Monk said harshly. “It is possible almost anyone could invest in such a trade. By its very nature, it is well hidden.”
“Naturally,” Rathbone agreed. “No one is likely to admit to such a vile thing. Would it be true to say that you have been looking, with some diligence, for this mysterious investor for some time?”
“Yes.”
“Might you have failed to find him precisely because he has been under your nose the whole time?”
There was a ripple of laughter around the courtroom, tense, a trifle high-pitched as nerves were stretched in both horror and excitement.
Monk smiled wolfishly, with no pleasure. “The deepest sin is too often right under the noses of good people,” he replied. “It remains hidden precisely because good people cannot imagine that those they trust could do such things. Perhaps I am so blinded. On the other hand, perhaps you are?”
Winchester put his hand over his face to hide his expression.
George rose to his feet in the gallery, and was sharply pulled back by Wilbert.
A sigh of horror, stifled laughter, and apprehension swept around the gallery.
A juror had a fit of coughing and could not find his handkerchief. Someone lent him one.
Rathbone had a choice, and he had to make it instantly. He could either attempt to defend himself—and there was no defense; Monk’s shot had been deadly—or he could retreat with dignity. He chose the latter. It had the virtue of grace.
“Indeed,” he said with an inclination of his head. “But considering the comparative history of your bookkeeper and my client, my assumption is more reasonable than yours.”
“My bookkeeper is not in the dock,” Monk pointed out.
“Not yet,” Rathbone agreed, now smiling also.
The judge glanced at Winchester, but Winchester made no objection. He was enjoying the battle.
Rathbone took a deep breath and steadied himself. “The point at issue, Mr. Monk, is whether this note could have fallen into the hands of Mr. Robinson even more easily than into the hands of Mr. Ballinger, who, after all, has never even visited the clinic.”
“That depends upon whether Lady Rathbone left the list at the clinic, or at her home, or her parents’ home,” Monk replied. “Since the accused is her father, and she is your wife, her testimony has to be compromised. Or it is possible that she simply does not remember.”
Now Rathbone really had nowhere to turn, except to abandon that line of question. He started again.
“Mr. Monk, you said in your testimony yesterday that you discounted Mr. Rupert Cardew as a suspect in the murder of Mickey Parfitt. This was in spite of the fact that it appears to b
e absolutely undeniable that his cravat, which he was seen wearing earlier in the day, was the ligature used to strangle Parfitt. You gave as your reason for this a witness who swore that this highly individual cravat had been stolen from Mr. Cardew late in the afternoon of the same day. I am sure the jury wonders, as I do, how a man can have a cravat stolen from around his neck, and we wait eagerly for Mr. Winchester to call this person, so that we may hear.”
Rathbone could see the sudden misery in Monk’s face, in spite of his attempt to disguise it. The previous moment’s triumph had vanished. He stiffened a little and his shoulders altered almost indefinably, pulling the fabric of his excellent jacket a little more taut. Did the court see it also? Winchester would, surely?
Monk did not speak.
Winchester did not rise to his feet and ask if there was a question in all this preamble. That in itself was indicative of danger, complexity, something hidden.
“How did you find this witness, Mr. Monk?” Rathbone went on.
“At the time, we suspected Mr. Rupert Cardew of having killed Parfitt,” Monk replied levelly. His voice sounded emotionless, belying the tension in his body. “That was from having found the cravat, and having identified it as being his. In following his actions on the day Parfitt died, we learned where he had been, and of the loss of the cravat.”
“And exactly how did you find out that it was Rupert Cardew’s?” Rathbone affected innocence, even admiration.
“There was a reasonable assumption that it belonged to someone who knew Parfitt,” Monk replied. “Since it was clearly expensive, that suggested one of his wealthier patrons. Such people do not fall within Parfitt’s social circle, nor could he seek them out. It is far more likely that his reputation spread by word of mouth, and by suggestion from his patrons. Since we could not go to them—”
Rathbone interrupted, “Because you do not know who they are?”
“Exactly,” Monk was forced to agree. “Therefore we started at the type of place where word of mouth would spread, or gentlemen with such tastes might be easily found.”
“Which is?”
“Cremorne Gardens, among others.”
There was a flicker of recognition in the faces of the jurors, and a rustle of indrawn breath in the gallery. The reputation of the place was known to many.
“What led you to Cremorne Gardens?” Rathbone asked.
“Common sense,” Monk replied with a quiver of his lips that might almost have been a smile. “It is a natural place to seek clients for a trade such as Parfitt’s.”
Rathbone nodded with satisfaction. “I imagine so. And did you find Mr. Cardew there?”
“No, I found someone who could identify the cravat,” Monk answered him.
“And shall we hear their testimony?”
“If Mr. Winchester wishes it, although I can see no reason. Mr. Cardew does not deny that it is his, nor does he deny that it was stolen from him that afternoon. The police surgeon will confirm that he took it from around Parfitt’s throat.”
“And this elusive witness, whose name I have not yet been told—Curiously enough, Mr. Winchester has not spoken of him, or her. Are you aware of why that is, Mr. Monk?”
Monk breathed in deeply. “He will not be calling Miss Benson.” His voice was quiet, rough-edged. Even the judge leaned forward to hear him.
Rathbone affected amazement, but his pulse was racing, his mind suddenly filled with excitement.
“Indeed? This Miss Benson would appear to be key to your case, Mr. Monk? If you do not call her, you leave speculation in the minds of the jury either that she does not exist or that, if she did testify, she would not say what you wish her to. Can you explain such a decision to the court?” He made a slight, elegant gesture with his hand to include the rest of the room.
Monk was pale. “Yes, I can. Fearing for her safety, I had Miss Benson moved from her lodgings in Chiswick into the clinic in Portpool Lane. I believed she would be safe there. However, she chose to leave without telling anyone where she was going. I assume that she was afraid.”
“Ah, yes—the clinic where the dubious Mr. Robinson keeps the books. Are you saying that you now do not know where she is?”
“Yes.” There was something tight and strained in Monk’s face, a pain that possibly only Rathbone knew him well enough to recognize.
The look that passed over Monk’s face troubled Rathbone, but he did not know why. He had the feeling that he had missed something. “Then, we must draw our own conclusions, both as to why Miss Benson came up with her original story and why she now has taken flight and refuses to come forward and repeat it to us. Thank you, Mr. Monk. I do not believe I have anything further to ask you.”
Monk moved to leave the stand.
“Oh! Just one more thing!” Rathbone said.
Monk stopped and turned back, his face bleak.
“Will Mr. Winchester be calling Mr. Cardew to explain this … theft? I have no notice that he will be a witness.”
“I don’t know. Quite possibly.”
Rathbone inclined his head, satisfied. He waved dismissal graciously and returned to his seat.
Winchester rose and called Mr. Horrible Jones to the stand.
The judge frowned. “Is that his lawful name, Mr. Winchester?”
“It appears to be the only one he knows, my lord,” Winchester responded.
“Very well. I suppose we have no choice. Proceed.”
’Orrie climbed awkwardly up the winding steps to the stand and stood clutching the rail as if the whole edifice were swaying like a ship at sea. One eye swiveled dangerously; the other looked with grave apprehension at the jury, who either stared back at him or painfully avoided his gaze.
He was sworn in, and Winchester asked him with considerable courtesy to state his occupation and describe his relationship with Mickey Parfitt. When that was answered, Winchester asked him about finding Mickey’s body with Tosh Wilkin, calling the police, and later the arrival of Monk and Orme.
It was all very predictable, and there was nothing for Rathbone to object to, and nothing for him to add.
Winchester obtained an account from ’Orrie of the entire evening of Parfitt’s death, complete with reasonably accurate times. ’Orrie had an extensive knowledge of tides, and that was included, as well as the skills of rowing and general management of all river craft.
The jury’s attention might have been lost, were it not for ’Orrie’s remarkable appearance and the occasional wry observation that Winchester put in, which made people laugh.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” he said at length. “You have given us an excellent account.” He invited Rathbone to question the witness.
Rathbone looked up at ’Orrie. “So you were deeply involved in Parfitt’s affairs? He relied on you for much, especially personally. You rowed him when he was on the river. Was that necessary because of his withered arm?”
“Yes, sir,” ’Orrie replied, his tone indicating his contempt for such a foolish question.
“Was it always you, or did other people row him also?”
’Orrie looked indignant, grasping on to the rail till his knuckles gleamed.
“It were always me. Wot for’d ’e want anyone else?”
“No reason at all,” Rathbone assured him. He did not care what ’Orrie thought, but he was aware already of antagonizing the jury. Winchester had been scrupulous in avoiding any mention of Parfitt’s occupation, as if ’Orrie could have been unaware of it. If Rathbone raised it now, he would prejudice the jury against ’Orrie, and therefore his testimony.
“Mr. Jones, in the course of your assistance to Mr. Parfitt, did you ever meet Mr. Arthur Ballinger?”
“No, I didn’t,” ’Orrie said vigorously.
“Or hear his name mentioned?” Rathbone suggested. “Perhaps Mr. Parfitt might have had other meetings with him?”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Did you ever hear any of your colleagues speak of him?”
“No! ’Ow many times
do I ’ave ter tell yer? I in’t got nothin’ ter do wif ’im at all!” ’Orrie said indignantly.
“I quite believe you, Mr. Jones,” Rathbone assured him. “I am certain your path and Mr. Ballinger’s never crossed, as neither did Mr. Parfitt’s. Thank you.”
Winchester next called the police surgeon, who testified to all the more lurid details of the corpse, the injuries, exactly what had caused Parfitt’s death and how it was most likely that it had been accomplished, including the surgeon’s removal of the cravat imbedded in the swollen flesh.
“Struck on the head with a blunt instrument, such as a log of wood, a piece of a branch?” Winchester repeated.
“Yes.”
“And then when he was lying there unconscious, his killer looped Mr. Cardew’s silk cravat around his neck—”
“After having tied the knots in it,” the surgeon corrected him.
Winchester looked as if he had been caught in an error, although Rathbone knew that he had done it on purpose. “Of course. I apologize. After having tied the knots, either then or earlier, the assailant looped the cravat around Mr. Parfitt’s neck and then tightened it until he choked to death.”
“Yes.”
“Why the knots, sir?”
“To exert a greater pressure on the windpipe, I assume,” the surgeon replied. “It would be much more effective.”
“But take time?”
“Not if you did it in advance.”
“Of course. Then hardly a crime of impulse, would you say?”
“Impossible. Vandalism to do that to a good piece of silk.”
Winchester nodded. “A premeditated act. Thank you, sir.”
There was nothing Rathbone could do except not call more attention to the doctor’s testimony by going over it again. He declined to cross-examine.
AFTER LUNCHEON WINCHESTER CALLED Stanley Willington, the ferryman who had taken Ballinger from Chiswick to the Lonsdale Road on the south shore and then back again at about twelve-thirty in the morning. All the times were exactly as Ballinger had told Rathbone, and there was nothing to add, nothing to doubt.
