Acceptable Loss wm-17

by Anne Perry

  He walked past them to begin with, looking for the more discreet business, not the idlers but the people who were familiar with the place and had come for a specific purpose. Those were the ones who might have the information he was looking for.

  Everyone he saw was drinking, showing off, always with a roving eye looking for more and greater pleasure. When Monk demanded their attention, they were annoyed and disinclined to look at the drawing for more than a second or two before denying having seen such a cravat before.

  Monk’s temper began to fray. He was still not sure he wanted to find whoever had wrapped this beautiful piece of silk around Parfitt’s neck and tightened it until he was dead. If the law had done it with an ordinary piece of hempen rope, they would have called it justice.

  What he wanted was the man who’d put up the money to buy and furnish the boat, who befriended those with weaknesses. It was he who had brought men to that dark place on the river, where they could feel the excitement of danger, where the lazy blood suddenly pumped harder with horror, the scent of pain, and the knowledge that they were flirting with ruin. He had carefully photographed the obscenity. Then, when the blood was cold, clogging again in the veins with familiar safety, he would tell them that there was an indelible record of what they had done, and their own private dabbling in hell would cost them money-for the rest of their lives.

  Monk followed a winding gravel pathway to a graceful pavilion under the trees, and stood watching men and women parade by, their faces garish for a moment under the lights. A short man with a black mustache linked arms with a girl half his age. Her ample flesh strained at her bodice. Her laughter sounded vaguely tinny, as if it were forced through her throat. Many of those women were paid for what they did.

  Another couple strolled past; his hat was askew, her red skirts swaying. The men were buying pleasures they could not win at home. Perhaps they were clumsy, greedy, or inadequate? Perhaps the sanctity of the home prevented the passion they had been taught a lady did not enjoy? It was more likely that love of any kind was the last thing in their hearts. They might need pain, danger, or simply endless variety.

  They were all around him, laughing too loudly, the women too brightly colored.

  In all of it Monk could sense a pervasive loneliness, a compulsion, not an enjoyment.

  He approached a man selling tickets to one of the dance floors.

  “I want to be discreet,” he said with a very slight smile. “There are gentlemen here who would rather not have it known that they take their pleasures in such a place. Or should I say, they perhaps prefer the darkness, if you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said guardedly. “Can’t say as I can do anything about that.”

  “Yes, you can. I am from the Thames River Police. I can come back here in uniform, with a lot of assistance, also in uniform, if you make that necessary. I’m hoping to find a little cooperation that will very quietly embarrass a few, rather than more publicly embarrass many.”

  “I see, sir,” the man said quickly. “Which ‘few’ did you ’ave in mind? I’m sure as I can ’elp yer.”

  “I thought you might.” Monk pulled out the drawing of the cravat. “Specifically, whoever wears a tie like this one.”

  The man regarded it with disinterest. Then something in it struck a chord of memory. Monk saw it in his face. The man flushed, weighing the chances of lying and getting away with it. He looked at Monk’s eyes, and made his decision. “Looks like the young man wot comes with Mr. Bledsoe, sir. Not that I could say for sure, like.”

  “Describe him,” Monk said curtly.

  “Tall, fair ’air. ’Andsome. Full o’ charm. But, then, them gents is. Born to it. I guess it comes on the silver spoon they got in their gobs.”

  “I imagine so. Tell me about Mr. Bledsoe. How do you know his name?”

  “ ’Cos I ’eard ’im called by it, o’ course! D’yer think I’m a bleedin’ mind reader?”

  Monk ignored the challenge. “What does he look like?” he asked curiously.

  “Shorter. Dark ’air. Eyes a bit close tergether. Always wears a top ’at. S’pose it makes ’im a bit taller.” He snickered at the idea. “Big ’ands. I noticed as ’e ’ad great big ’ands.”

  Monk thanked him and left.

  It did not take him long the next day to look up the Bledsoe family, and make a few inquiries at police stations in Mayfair, Park Lane, and Kensington. He mentioned that a piece of jewelry had been lost and he wanted to return it to its owner discreetly. No one argued with him, and he had no conscience about lying.

  He found the Honorable Alexander Bledsoe, who answered the description of the man in Cremorne Gardens with extraordinary accuracy. His well-cared-for but unusually large hands removed any doubt. He chose to see Monk without family or servants present.

  “What can I do for you, Officer?” he said with carefully judged casualness.

  “I’m looking for the gentleman who lost a rather fine silk cravat,” Monk replied smoothly. “I believe he might be a friend of yours.”

  “Not that I know of.” Bledsoe smiled slightly, his shoulders relaxed, and the uneasiness vanished. “But if anyone mentions it, I’ll tell them it’s been found. Leave it at the local station, there’s a good fellow. Someone’ll pick it up.” He seemed to consider looking into his pocket for a coin. His hand moved, and then stopped. He turned as if to leave.

  Monk pulled the picture of the cravat out of his pocket and held it up. “It’s rather distinctive,” he observed.

  Bledsoe glanced at it and frowned. “What the hell is this?” he said sharply. “If you’ve found the thing, where is it?”

  “At the police station, in safekeeping,” Monk replied.

  “Well, get the damn thing and bring it to me. I’ll see that it’s returned,” Bledsoe said irritably.

  “It’s important that I return it to the right person. Do you know who that is, sir?” Monk persisted.

  “Yes, I do!” Bledsoe snapped. “Now go and fetch it! Dammit, man, what’s the matter with you?”

  Monk folded the picture and replaced it in his pocket. “Whose is it, sir?”

  Bledsoe glared at him. “Rupert Cardew’s. At least it looks like one he wore. For God’s sake, why are you making such a hell of a fuss about a damn cravat?”

  Monk felt a void open up inside him. He knew how much Hester liked Rupert Cardew, and how he had helped the clinic. His generosity had enabled them to buy far more medicine than before, and so treat more people.

  “Are you sure?” He was startled by the hoarseness in his voice.

  “Yes, I am!” Bledsoe was losing his temper. “Now fetch it, and I’ll give it back to him, or I’ll see that you pay for your insolence.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t return it to you in the foreseeable future, or to Mr. Cardew. It was used in a crime. It will be evidence when the case comes to court.”

  “What do you mean, a crime?” Bledsoe was taken aback, his skin losing its color, his stance suddenly changed.

  “It was used to strangle a man,” Monk told him with some satisfaction.

  The blood rushed hot into Bledsoe’s face. “You tricked me!” he accused him.

  “I asked you if you knew whose it was. You answered me,” Monk said icily. “Do you mean that had you known it was used in a crime, then you would have lied?”

  “Damn you!” Bledsoe said between his teeth. “I shall deny it.”

  Monk looked at him, lifting his own lip in a suggestion of disdain. “If that is what your code of honor says you must do, sir, then you must follow your conscience. It is very noble of you.”

  Bledsoe looked startled. “Noble?”

  “Yes, sir. Now that I know whose it is, it will be easy enough to prove. You will look something of a fool in court, and everything of a liar, but you will have been loyal to your friend. Good day, sir.” He turned on his heel and strode away. He was furious, but far more than that, he was filled with misery. He desperately did not want the sus
pect to be someone he liked-worse, someone Hester liked.

  Mickey Parfitt had been a monster. Any of his victims could have been tempted to destroy him, even if afterward they would have regretted either their rage or their loss of the fuel he’d supplied for their appetite. It simply had not occurred to Monk that Rupert Cardew, with his wealth, his privilege, and above all his charm, should have become entangled in such filth.

  Why not? Dependency had nothing to do with position. It was about need.

  Perhaps someone had stolen the cravat from him? Monk hoped so. It would not solve the crime, but then, perhaps that did not matter.

  Over the next two days he traced Rupert Cardew to various prostitutes in the Chiswick area and farther south along the riverbank. The water and its people seemed to fascinate Rupert, as if there were both a vitality and a danger in its moods, its sleeping surface, so often smooth, reflecting the light and hiding its own heart.

  He found other witnesses who had seen Rupert, who knew his tastes, women he had used from time to time. It was not difficult to follow the trail of the money he had gambled and lost, the debts he had paid only with his father’s help.

  Eventually there was no reasonable doubt left. Monk took Orme with him and went to the magnificent house in Chelsea where Rupert Cardew still lived with his father. He chose to go early in the morning on purpose, so there was little chance either Lord Cardew or Rupert would be out.

  The butler admitted him. Perhaps he should have gone to the back door, but that was something he had always refused to do, even when he had been a junior officer in the Metropolitan Police. Now, as commander of the Thames River Police he did not even think of it.

  “I require to speak to Mr. Rupert Cardew regarding a most serious matter,” he said gravely as he was shown to the morning room to await Rupert’s convenience.

  The interior of the house was magnificent, in the manner of one that has been lived in by the same family for generations. Little was new. The large hallway had a marble-flagged floor, worn uneven by the passage of feet over generations. The wooden banister sweeping down from the gallery above was darkened in places by the constant touch of hands. There was a carved chest with animals on it, which had been carefully mended.

  In the morning room the carpet was beautiful, but the sun of countless summers had muted the colors. The leather on the chairs was scuffed in places. At another time he would have loved the room. Today it hurt, fueling his anger against Mickey Parfitt and all that he’d soiled with his manipulation of weakness.

  He told the footman that he would wait until Mr. Cardew had had his breakfast, and asked to see the valet. He felt deceitful to show the picture of the cravat to a servant first, trading on his innocence, but in the end it was less cruel than placing him in the position where he could lie, and would feel obliged to do so.

  When it was identified, Monk waited until Rupert came into the morning room. He looked as easy and charming as when Monk had met him at the clinic in Portpool Lane.

  “Morning, Monk,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped. “God, man, you look dreadful! Nothing wrong with Mrs. Monk, I hope?” For a moment fear flickered in his face, as if it mattered to him.

  Monk felt the deceit scorch inside him. He pulled the picture out of his pocket again and held it up.

  “Your valet says that this is yours. It’s pretty distinctive.”

  Rupert frowned. “It’s a piece of paper! Did you find my cravat?”

  “If this is yours, yes. Is it?” Monk insisted.

  Rupert looked at him with complete incomprehension. “Why on earth does it matter? Yes, it’s mine. Why?”

  Monk had a moment’s doubt. Had Cardew no idea what he had done? Was Parfitt so worthless that he really didn’t think killing him mattered?

  As if reciting something pointless, Monk told him, “It was used to murder someone called Mickey Parfitt. We found his body in the water at-” He stopped.

  Rupert was ashen. Suddenly the meaning of it was clear to him.

  “And you think I did it?” He had trouble articulating the words. He swayed a little, put out his hand to grasp something, but there was nothing there.

  “Yes, Mr. Cardew, I do think so,” Monk said quietly. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I could believe he died of natural causes, but that is impossible. He was strangled with your cravat.”

  “I …” Rupert made a jerky little movement with his hand, his eyes never leaving Monk’s face. “Is there any point in my denying it?”

  “It’s not my decision,” Monk told him. “I might choose to believe you, whatever the facts say. But you knew him, you patronized his appalling boat. He blackmailed most of his clients. It was only a case of which one broke first.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Rupert said quietly, his face scarlet. “I paid.”

  “And lent someone your cravat to kill him with?”

  “It was stolen. Or … or I lost it. I don’t know.” Rupert’s expression said he did not expect to be believed.

  Monk wished Rupert would stop. It was hopeless. “Please don’t make it worse than it is,” he said.

  “Have you told my father?”

  “No. You may, if you prefer. But don’t-”

  “Run away?” Rupert asked with a flash of agonizing humor. “I won’t. Please wait here. I shall return in a few minutes.”

  He kept his word. Ten minutes later he was in a hansom, sitting silently between Monk and Orme.

  CHAPTER 5

  Rathbone felt a touch of chill in the pit of his stomach when his clerk told him Monk was in the waiting room, looking tired and rather drawn.

  “Send him in,” Rathbone replied. He wanted to get it over with. He would find it hard to give his full attention to a client, with his imagination racing as to what it was that Monk had discovered. The fact that he had come to Rathbone at all made it inescapable that it had to do with Mickey Parfitt’s murder and the boat on which he’d practiced his particularly filthy trade.

  Rathbone had tried to put from his mind Sullivan’s words blaming Arthur Ballinger for his downfall-first the temptation, then the corruption. Had his mind been deranged, and he had blamed Ballinger because he could not accept his own responsibility for what he had become? There had never been anything but words, perhaps hysterical-no facts, not even any details Sullivan could not have invented himself.

  Monk came in through the door and closed it behind him. The clerk was right: he looked tired and miserable, almost defeated. The iron fist inside Rathbone’s stomach clenched tighter. He waited.

  “I found out who killed Mickey Parfitt,” Monk said quietly. “The proof seems pretty conclusive. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “I would!” Rathbone snapped. “So damned well tell me! Don’t stand there like an undertaker with toothache-tell me!”

  A smile flickered across Monk’s face and disappeared. “Rupert Cardew.”

  Rathbone was stunned. He had difficulty believing it. Certainly Rupert was a little dissolute, but surely not more than many young men with too much money and too many privileges. How on earth could he have become so degraded so young?

  And yet even as a kind of sorrow washed over Rathbone, so did a relief. It was ridiculous to think that Arthur Ballinger could really have been involved with pornography, blackmail, and murder. If Claudine Burroughs had been correct and it really was Ballinger she had seen in the alley outside the shop with the photographs, then Ballinger must have been helping a friend, acting in his capacity of solicitor for some poor devil in over his head. Possibly he had even been attempting to pay off the blackmail by stealing the photographs with which the friend was being coerced. Yes, of course. A simple explanation; as soon as Rathbone thought of it, he wondered why it had taken him so long.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said, meeting Monk’s eyes and seeing the sadness in them. For Hester, no doubt. Cardew had given much to the clinic, and she was not only grateful, but she liked him. How typical of Hester to befriend the troubled, someone o
thers would shun when they knew.

  Until she knew also; then she too would shun him. Many things she would forgive, but she would never countenance a man who abused and murdered children-vulnerable children, cold, hungry, and alone, like Scuff.

  Monk stood very straight; he always did, with a kind of grace that was almost an arrogance. Except that, knowing him as well as he did, Rathbone understood that most of it was defense, his armor of belief in himself, the more rigid since his loss of memory had left him uniquely vulnerable.

  Now it would be Hester whose pain Monk was preparing for. There would be no way he could comfort her, or ease the disillusion. Rupert Cardew must be like the young officers she had known in the Crimea, the ones she had seen wounded, dying, still struggling to keep some kind of dignity. She had been helpless then to save most of them, and she could do nothing for Rupert now.

  Monk gave a slight shrug. “I thought you would want to know.” He did not add anything about Ballinger, or Margaret, but it did not need to be said between them. Neither of them would ever forget that night on Jericho Phillips’s boat-the horror and the fear that Scuff was already dead and they were too late, the stench of the dead rats in the bilges as they pulled him out, small and very white, his body shaking. Nor would they forget the corpses at Execution Dock.

  “You are sure it was him?” Rathbone asked. He was surprised how normal his voice sounded.

  “The bastard was strangled with his cravat,” Monk told him. “The surgeon cut it out of Parfitt’s neck where the flesh had swollen over it. The design is unusual-dark blue with gold leopards on it, in threes.”

  Rathbone felt the knots ease in his stomach even more. It was proof. He was filled with shame that someone else’s despair should be such a relief to him. He knew now with certainty that he had been afraid that Ballinger was somehow involved; as the fear slipped away, he understood the power of it, and was almost giddy at the release.

  “Yes,” he said. “You are right, that does seem conclusive. I’m very sorry. Lord Cardew will be devastated. Poor man.”