Acceptable Loss: A William Monk Novel

by Anne Perry

  Rathbone smiled. “Inspector Monk has testified that he followed your route, to the minute, and discovered that he could find a small craft and row down to Parfitt’s boat at its moorings, spend the time on board that it would take to kill Parfitt, and then row back to Mortlake again. He took a cab back to the crossing opposite Chiswick Eyot, and still was there at the time you said you were. Did you do that?”

  Ballinger smiled back. “Mr. Monk is the best part of a generation younger than I am, and leads a very physical life. He is a river policeman. He probably rows a boat every day. I wish I were as young and as fit as he is, but, unquestionably, I am afraid I am not. I did not do it, nor had any desire to. But even had I wished, it would have been beyond my ability.”

  “You did not?”

  “I did not. It is my misfortune that I happened to spend that particular evening visiting an old friend in Mortlake, instead of at home with my wife, or out to dine in a public place. It is my additional misfortune that Inspector Monk has never forgiven me for acting for Jericho Phillips, insofar as I obtained your services to defend him when he faced trial. Monk appears not to believe that a man accused of evil acts is not guilty until he is proved so in law, and he is entitled to a lawyer to defend him of as high a quality as the one who accuses him. It is the very foundation of justice.”

  There was a murmur of approval from the gallery. Ballinger eased a little where he stood in the witness box, and met Rathbone’s eyes across the distance between them.

  Rathbone felt a sense of warmth himself, as if he had achieved what duty required of him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ballinger. Please wait there in case Mr. Winchester has any questions to ask you.” He returned to his seat.

  Winchester stood up and walked forward. “Oh, I have. I most certainly have.” He looked up at Ballinger.

  Rathbone had been very careful. Hattie Benson’s name had not even been mentioned. Winchester was bluffing, putting off the acknowledgment of defeat, lengthening out the tension.

  “A most moving testimony, Mr. Ballinger,” Winchester observed. “And interesting. I notice that Sir Oliver very wisely did not ask you if you were acquainted with the prostitute Hattie Benson, who was so sadly murdered in the exact manner that Mickey Parfitt was. Even to the use of the knotted rag to strangle her, leaving bruises at intervals around her throat.”

  “Because he knows that I have no knowledge of it,” Ballinger replied levelly. “I may speculate, of course, as we all may, because we know with whom she was involved, by his own admission.”

  “Ah, yes.” Winchester nodded. “Mr. Rupert Cardew. But of course since she is dead, her testimony remains unspoken.”

  “It might have remained unspoken even if she were alive,” Ballinger pointed out. “It is possible she repented of it, and told him that she could not go through with it.”

  Rathbone’s sense of ease was slipping away from him. He rose to his feet. “My lord, this is a piece of speculation that has no place here. We cannot know what Miss Benson would have said, nor can we question her to prove its truth, or otherwise. If my learned friend has something to ask Mr. Ballinger, please instruct him to do so. Otherwise, he is wasting the court’s time.”

  The judge leaned forward, but before he could speak, Winchester apologized.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. I shall proceed. Mr. Ballinger, you said that you had no direct knowledge of the trade that was carried on by Mr. Parfitt in the boat you helped him purchase?”

  “That’s right. None at all,” Ballinger replied coolly.

  “And to the best of your knowledge, you were not acquainted with any of the men who patronized it and indulged in these acts, and, as a result, were blackmailed?”

  Rathbone stood up again. “My lord, Mr. Winchester is merely repeating evidence we have already been through.”

  The judge sighed. “Mr. Winchester, is there some point to all of this?”

  “Yes, my lord. I intend to call Mr. Ballinger’s honesty into very grave doubt—in particular, with regard to this last issue.”

  “To what purpose?” Rathbone demanded. “He has said that he does not know any of these men, as far as he is aware. None of us knows what weaknesses or vices people may have, and thank God, for the most part, it is none of our business. They may be men you know! Or any of us knows.” He spread his arms in a wide gesture, to include the whole room, the jurors, the gallery, even the judge. “And since the court does not know who they are, this is futile.”

  “Sir Oliver is right,” the judge agreed. “Move on, Mr. Winchester, if you have anything else upon which to cross-examine Mr. Ballinger. Otherwise, let us put the matter to the jury.”

  “But we do know who these men are, my lord,” Winchester said clearly. “At least I do.”

  Suddenly there was total silence in the room. No one stirred. No one even coughed.

  “I beg your pardon?” the judge said at last.

  “I know who they are,” Winchester repeated.

  Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his skin and a prickle of fear sharp inside him, although he did not even know why. He stared at Winchester.

  “Were you aware of this, Sir Oliver?” the judge asked.

  “No, my lord. I would question its veracity, and why Mr. Winchester has not referred to it before.”

  “I came by it only this weekend, my lord,” Winchester replied to the judge.

  “From whom?” the judge demanded.

  Rathbone knew the answer the moment before it was spoken.

  “From Mr. Rupert Cardew, my lord,” Winchester said. “In the interests of justice, he provided it—”

  Rathbone lurched to his feet. “How can that possibly be in the interests of justice?” he demanded. “It has nothing to do with the case, except possibly to prove that there were a large number of men who may well have had motive to wish Parfitt dead. And who is to say that this list is accurate? It could be the complete fabrication of a man who has an intense interest in seeing Mr. Ballinger convicted, in order to remove all suspicion from himself!”

  “He will testify to the names, if necessary,” Winchester replied. “And with diligence, it should be possible to prove that all of them have visited the boat, at some time or other, most of them fairly regularly.”

  “A long and tedious job,” Rathbone rejoined. “And irrelevant to this case, my lord!”

  “Not irrelevant, my lord,” Winchester said. “I mention it to throw extreme doubt on Mr. Ballinger’s innocence in this matter. Sir Oliver paved the way for me in his own examination by asking the witness about his knowledge of the boat, and Mr. Ballinger replied that he did not know its business, nor was he aware of knowing any of the men who patronized it. I have the list of names, my lord. I regret to say that I myself am acquainted with two of them—”

  The judge was rapidly losing patience. “Mr. Winchester, you appear to be behaving in the worst possible taste, titillating the most vulgar aspect of public curiosity, in a matter that is repellent and does not further your case in the least.”

  “My lord, every one of the men on this list is personally acquainted with Mr. Ballinger! Every one of them, without exception. Why would he lie about it to this court, under oath, if it were not something he wished to—indeed, needed to—conceal?”

  There was a gasp, a rustle of movement right around the room, then a terrible stillness.

  Rathbone felt his muscles clench like a vise. He would like to have believed that it was Rupert Cardew making a desperate move to save himself from the suspicion that would inevitably follow Ballinger’s acquittal. He turned and looked at the gallery, and saw Rupert immediately, ashen-faced and perfectly steady. This would ruin him. Society would never forgive him for betraying the names of those who had soiled the honor most of them aspired to but had not the courage to defend.

  Winchester broke the silence. “I will call Mr. Cardew to the stand to name them. Should anyone doubt him, Sir Oliver can, naturally, question him on the issue, and require him to pr
ove what he says. But I shall not do it unless your lordship insists. This knowledge would ruin many families, and call into question legal decisions, possibly even Acts of Parliament. The possibilities for blackmail are so momentous that the damage would affect …” He stopped, leaving their imaginations to fill in the rest.

  “Sir Oliver?” the judge said a little huskily.

  It was defeat, and Rathbone knew it. He would not bring down the whole order of society to save Ballinger, even would such a thing have done so. And it would not. He could see in the jury’s faces that the balance had tipped irrevocably against him. They knew Ballinger had lied, possibly about everything. And strangely enough, even if Rupert had turned on his own social class, for which he would never be forgiven, the jury believed him, possibly even admired him. He had chosen the honorable thing to do, at a terrible price to himself.

  “I … I have nothing to add, my lord,” Rathbone answered. Only as he sat down again did he even consider that perhaps he should have demanded that the names be made public. Then in the instant afterward, he knew he should not. Winchester had them. If there was anything to be done, he would do it. He would investigate, examine, and if necessary prosecute any corruption. It did not occur to Rathbone, even as a fleeting thought, that Winchester was bluffing. Cardew’s face and Ballinger’s denied that.

  He made a desperate final summation, but he knew he could not succeed. The tide was against him, and he had no more strength to turn it.

  The jury was out for an hour, which seemed like eternity. When they came back, their faces told the verdict even before they were asked.

  “Guilty.” Simple. Final.

  Rathbone was in a daze as the black cap was brought to the judge. He put it on his head and pronounced sentence of death.

  Mrs. Ballinger cried out in horror.

  Margaret slipped to the ground in a faint.

  Without thinking, Rathbone scrambled from his seat and went to her just as she was stirring. Gwen was with her, holding her. Celia and George were trying to support Mrs. Ballinger.

  “Margaret! Margaret,” Rathbone said urgently. “Margaret?” He wanted to say something, anything to comfort her, but there were only empty promises, things that were meaningless.

  She stirred and opened her eyes, looking at him with utter loathing. Then she turned her face away toward Gwen.

  He had never felt so completely alone. He rose to his feet, trembling, and walked back to his table. The court was in an uproar, but he neither saw nor heard it.

  CHAPTER

  13

  WHEN A PERSON WAS sentenced to hang, it was the law that three Sundays should pass before the execution was carried out. It was both the longest and the shortest period of time in the sentenced person’s experience. Unquestionably it was the most painful.

  Toward the end of the first week, Rathbone was alone in his room in chambers when his clerk entered and told him that Hester wished to speak with him.

  At first Rathbone was not sure if he wanted to see her. Pity would only add to his hurt, especially from her, and there was nothing she could say that would help. There was no help. And yet he had never had a better friend, except for his father.

  “I have a few minutes,” he told the clerk. “Come back after about ten minutes and say there is a client wishing to speak with me.”

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk withdrew, and a moment later Hester came in. She looked calm and composed, but still very pale. She was dressed in the same blue-gray she often wore, and it still suited her just as well.

  Rathbone stood up. “What can I do for you?” he asked quietly.

  She sat down in the chair opposite the desk, as if she meant to remain.

  He sat also; not to would have been discourteous.

  “Probably nothing,” she said with a tiny smile. “I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help you. William told me there was nothing, and that you might even prefer not to see me. I would understand that. But I would rather come and be asked to leave than not come and then afterward learn that there was something I could have done, or said.”

  “How like you,” he replied. “Always do, never hesitate, and never abdicate.”

  A shadow crossed her face, a moment of hurt.

  “That was a compliment,” he said wryly. “I have spent too much of my life weighing and judging, and in the end doing nothing.”

  “Not this time,” she answered. “There was nothing more you could have done. If Rupert hadn’t come forward, you would have won. I’m not sure that would have been a good thing, even for Margaret, not in the end.”

  “It would have been a bad thing for Monk,” he said frankly. “Everyone would have said he had made a second mistake, gone after the wrong man because he had a personal vendetta against Ballinger over the Phillips affair. He might even have lost his job. I’m glad that didn’t happen.” Surprisingly, he meant that. He had not thought he would; the void inside himself was too big to allow much thought for anyone else.

  Hester gave a slight shrug. “That’s true, and I thank you for it. But it’s past now. What about you?”

  “I doubt I’ll lose any clients over it. No one wins every case.”

  “For heaven’s sake, I know that!” she said impulsively. “Most people know perfectly well you only took the case because he was family and you had no choice! No one else would have managed a defense at all. And you nearly won.”

  He looked at her steadily. “Did Monk persuade Rupert Cardew to speak?”

  “No.” She did not evade his gaze. “I did. Not for William—at least, not only for him. It was for Scuff, and all the boys like him.”

  “That won’t put an end to the trade, Hester.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted saying them.

  “I know,” she conceded softly. “But it will stop some of it. Maybe quite a lot, at least for a while. People will know that we’re prepared to fight, and those who get caught will pay for it. Above all, Scuff will know.”

  For a moment he could not speak, his throat was so tight, so choked and aching.

  She put out her hand across the desk. She did not touch him, but she left it where, if he moved even a few inches, he could reach her.

  “I’m sorry, Oliver. I really am sorry.”

  “I know.”

  She said nothing more for several moments.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come!” Rathbone answered.

  The clerk came in. “Sir Oliver—”

  “Ah, yes,” Rathbone said quickly. “Please bring some tea, and a few cookies, if you can find some.”

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk withdrew obediently, his face calm with understanding, perhaps even a touch of relief.

  Hester smiled. “Thank you. I’d like tea.”

  He had asked for tea without thinking, but now he realized how much he wanted her to stay. He did not know how to begin, but the confusion inside him was an almost overwhelming pain. In a matter of months all the certainties he had begun to take for granted had gone.

  “How is Margaret?” she said quietly. “I thought of going to see her, even though I have no idea what to say. Sometimes just being there is worth something. But I don’t think she would receive me. We … parted on bad terms.”

  “She wouldn’t,” he agreed. “She blames you, at least in part. She blames everyone except her father. Most of all she blames me.” He knew there was bitterness in his voice, but he could not control it. His anger and pain came welling up, and it was a relief to let it flow. “She is convinced Ballinger is innocent and that it’s all a monstrous conspiracy of vengeance, cowardice, misplaced loyalty, and error. And on my part, professional ambition over love of family.” He needed Hester to deny it, to tell him he was right and that it was not true.

  She looked stricken. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was so low, he could barely hear her.

  “There was nothing else I could do!” he protested.

  “I know that,” she answered quickly.
“But disillusion is one of the worst pains we experience. Nobody can let go of their dreams without tearing themselves apart too. It’s like killing pieces of yourself. She’d blame everybody who sees what she can’t bear to see, because we won’t let her pretend anymore. Whether we mean to or not, we are the ones forcing reality on her.”

  “What good would it do if I were to lie to her?” he protested. “Any hope now would be false.”

  “Hope of what?” she asked. “That he is innocent, or of saving him from the gallows?”

  He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Of saving him, I suppose. I don’t think she has even faced the possibility that he is guilty of any of it. Not of Parfitt’s murder, certainly not of Hattie’s, and not of blackmailing the wretched men who used the boat. If she believed any of it, I imagine the rest would have to follow. I don’t know what to do, even what to say. She’s treating me as if it were my fault.”

  Hester shook her head fractionally. “That’s because you’re the only one who isn’t to blame. And you’re the one who won’t support her illusions.”

  “I can’t!” he said desperately. “Lying is no good now. It won’t stop it from happening. It doesn’t affect the truth, or that everyone else can see it. Sooner or later she’s going to have to face the fact that her father’s guilty—not just of corrupting other people, finding and feeding on their weaknesses, but of blackmailing them for exactly what he has helped them to do. He profited from the torture and humiliation of children, and he murdered Parfitt. I still don’t know why. That seems to have been a pointless piece of violence, and completely unnecessary. And he murdered Hattie Benson because she would have testified that it wasn’t Rupert Cardew, the only other obvious suspect.”

  He took a shaky breath, and went on. “If Margaret doesn’t even acknowledge that, then she’s going to spend her whole life angry, and bitter because her father was unjustly hanged. That’s a kind of terrible madness. It will destroy her.”

  Hester put out her hand and touched him very gently. “Give her time, Oliver. Some things we can’t face immediately. As long as he protests his innocence she can’t turn her back on him, whatever the evidence. Could you, if it were your father?”