Acceptable Loss wm-17

by Anne Perry

  “As brave as you all are,” Rathbone replied, hoping it would remain true. He had been aware even as he spoke that he had promised more than he was certain he could fulfill.

  Rathbone was at the police station on the river’s edge the next morning as Monk came up the steps from the ferry. It was not yet eight o’clock. The October light was bleak and pale on the water, washing the color out of it. The wind smelled salty with the incoming tide. Gulls were circling low, screaming as they scented fish, diving now and then in the wake of a two-masted schooner moving upstream. To the north and south there were forests of masts all crisscrossing, moving slightly on the uneasiness of the water. Long strings of barges and lighters were threading their way through the ships at anchor, carrying loads inland, or to Limehouse, the Isle of Dogs, Greenwich, or even the estuary and the coast.

  Monk reached the top of the steps and smiled very slightly when he saw Rathbone. Neither of them said anything. Perhaps the understanding was already there. Rathbone could see in Monk’s face, in his eyes, the knowledge of the complexity, the mixed emotions he felt, the embarrassment, the struggle of loyalties.

  They walked almost in step across the dockside to the police station steps, then into the building. Monk said good morning to the men who had obviously been on duty overnight. He checked that there was nothing urgent that required his attention, then led the way to his office and closed the door.

  “Are you representing him?” Monk asked.

  “Not yet, because I haven’t seen him, but I expect I will.”

  Monk hesitated a moment before he asked, “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “If he wants me, I have no choice,” Rathbone replied, and was startled to hear the bitterness in his voice. He felt trapped, and was ashamed that he did. If he’d totally believed in Ballinger’s innocence, if he’d trusted him as he wished to, then he would have been eager, burning with the urgency to begin.

  Monk looked away, not meeting his eyes anymore, and Rathbone had the brief thought that it was because he did not wish to intrude; he did not want Rathbone to see how much he understood.

  “What do you have?” Rathbone said aloud. “Circumstantial evidence-a letter, which has yet to be proved genuine, yet to be dated, and yet to be proved relevant. What else? We already know that Ballinger was on the river near Chiswick. He said as much himself at the time. You say this prostitute wouldn’t tell you who she gave the cravat to, so you can’t connect it to Ballinger. Isn’t it far more reasonable to suppose she gave it to someone she knew? And why would Ballinger kill a wretched creature like Parfitt? You can’t produce a single person who can show that the two men ever even met each other.” He stopped abruptly. He was talking to Monk as if he, Rathbone, were new at this and had no confidence in himself. He knew better. This is why a good lawyer did not instantly represent family: emotions got in the way right from the start.

  Arthur Ballinger was not his father. How different it would have been if it had been Henry Rathbone. He would have known passionately and completely that he was innocent.

  But, then, Monk would have known it too.

  “I’m not supposing personal enmity,” Monk replied, his voice level and quiet. “I have Ballinger at the time, extremely near the place, and a note, which only he could have written, inviting Parfitt to be in his boat to meet with him, for a business venture profitable to Parfitt.”

  “Such as what?” Rathbone retorted. “You have no proof of anything. Not even a suggestion.”

  “We know what Parfitt’s business was, Oliver. You saw Phillips’s boat; you know perfectly well what they do. If you want me to, I can describe Parfitt’s boat as well, and the children we found there.”

  Rathbone felt his control slipping away from him. “You have no evidence that Ballinger was involved,” he pointed out. “Absolutely nothing, or you’d have prosecuted him for it already. I know how desperately you want to catch whoever’s behind the trade.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I do! But not enough to risk prosecuting the wrong person. Just because Sullivan accused Ballinger, that doesn’t make him guilty. Perhaps Ballinger was trying to rescue Sullivan from his own foolishness, and he failed. Sullivan might have blamed everybody but himself. We’ve both seen that before.”

  “I don’t know why Ballinger would kill Parfitt,” Monk said, still keeping his voice level and under tight control. “I don’t have to know. All the prosecution has to show is that he had the opportunity, he could have had the means, and that he was the one who told Parfitt to be in the boat at that time, for a meeting. If Parfitt hadn’t known him and believed there was a business connection, he wouldn’t have gone.”

  Rathbone had no argument, except that there must be something more, some evidence undiscovered so far that would change the entire picture.

  “I’m sorry,” Monk added. “I’ll go on investigating it, but largely to find the links between them and to destroy the trade. I wish the trail hadn’t led to Ballinger, but it did. If you can get him to confess, it might at least spare his family some of the shame.”

  Rathbone felt bruised, stunned, as if he had taken a heavy blow and it had left him dizzy. “There has to be another answer.”

  “I hope so.” Monk smiled bleakly. “It would be very nice to think it could be someone neither of us cares a damn about. But wishing doesn’t make it so.”

  Rathbone could think of nothing more to say. He thanked Monk and excused himself.

  He was in the outside office on his way to the dockside again when he almost bumped into a tall, thin man with white side whiskers and intense blue eyes. He was dressed in an expensive and very well-cut suit. Rathbone knew him by sight, and on this occasion would have avoided him if he could have.

  “Morning, Commander Birkenshaw,” he said briefly, and continued walking.

  But Birkenshaw was not to be avoided. He came across the few yards between them and followed Rathbone outside into the brisk, fresh air on the dock.

  “Thought you’d be here early,” he said, matching his stride to Rathbone’s. “Wretched business. I was hoping we could get it all untangled before it comes to anything. You’ve known Monk for many years, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Eight or nine, I think,” Rathbone replied reluctantly.

  Birkenshaw was Monk’s superior, and he was clearly very unhappy. His face was pinched with anxiety, and he kept his voice low, even though there was no one within earshot in the bright, sharp morning. The noise of the wind and water would have made overhearing unlikely anyway.

  “Would you say you know him well?”

  There was no evading an answer. “Yes. We’ve worked together on many cases.”

  “Clever,” Birkenshaw conceded. “But reliable? I know Durban thought highly of him. He recommended him for the post when he knew he himself was dying. But he hadn’t known Monk all that long; just the one case. I’ve heard from others since then that Monk’s a bit erratic. Farnham, my predecessor, was uncertain as to his integrity, if it came to a difficult decision and Monk was personally convinced of someone’s guilt.”

  “Then, it’s as well that you are now in command, and not Farnham,” Rathbone said tartly, and immediately regretted it. He saw the surprise in Birkenshaw’s face, and then the irritation. It was not the answer he had been seeking.

  “I don’t think you fully appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Sir Oliver,” Birkenshaw said patiently. “Murder is a desperately serious charge, and Monk has brought it against a man of means, position, and spotless reputation.”

  “I know. He is my father-in-law.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course. It must be appalling for you, and unspeakable for your wife. All the more will you wish to see that we are not acting precipitately. If Monk has made a mistake, however sincerely, then we will have damaged an innocent man’s reputation and put his family through needless pain.”

  “It is good of you to be so concerned-,” Rathbone began.

  “Damm
it, man!” Birkenshaw exploded. “I am concerned for the honor and ability of the River Police to carry out their job! If we prosecute a man of high profile unjustly, and the case is shown to have been flawed from the beginning, and brought by a man consumed with a personal vengeance, or even a preoccupation with one crime, then our reputation is damaged and our work crippled. It is my responsibility to see that that does not happen.”

  In spite of wishing not to, Rathbone could see that Birkenshaw was right. But if Birkenshaw overruled Monk, then Monk would no longer be able to command his men’s loyalty or respect, and he would have to resign. That also was unfair, and Rathbone could not be party to it.

  “Of course it is,” he said as calmly as he could. “And if you have some proof that Monk has acted for personal motives, without just cause, then you must override him and withdraw the charges, with apology. If you do that, you will also have to dismiss him from office.”

  “I …” Birkenshaw shook his head, trying to deny the idea as he would shoo away some troublesome insect. “That’s far too … extreme.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Rathbone contradicted him. “You will have made public your lack of confidence in him, and his men will no longer have sufficient confidence in him either. Very possibly Ballinger will want some compensation. I could not represent him in that, but he would have no difficulty in finding someone else willing to, particularly someone who had another client at some time prosecuted by Monk. If you weigh it carefully, Commander Birkenshaw, I think you will find that the River Police will suffer even more. You will have to go to trial, and Arthur Ballinger will either be cleared … or be hanged.”

  “Rathbone-,” Birkenshaw started.

  “I have said all I can,” Rathbone replied, and with a brief nod, he turned on his heel and walked as rapidly as he could toward the High Street. With luck, he could catch a hansom cab from there westward back into the city.

  But even though he was extraordinarily fortunate and found one within five minutes, he felt awful sitting in it, bowling along at a brisk pace, wheels rattling over the road toward familiar streets. He had been loyal to Monk, and to his own conscience, but had he in a way betrayed Margaret? He would not tell her of this conversation, and that in itself answered his doubts. It was not confidential. He knew before he even considered it that she would feel he had not acted in her father’s best interest. And perhaps that was true.

  Of course Rathbone could make an argument that Ballinger was definitely innocent, and should have his chance to prove it so no one could ever imagine that there had been pressure to withdraw the charge. That might appear a trifle like the Scottish verdict of “not proven,” particularly if no one else was ever successfully brought to trial for Parfitt’s death.

  If it were his own father, what would Rathbone’s decision be? It might well be to go ahead and prove his innocence. But then he might also be afraid that some lie, some misread evidence, some quirk of the law, would allow an injustice to happen. There were only three short weeks between conviction and hanging. That was no time at all in which to reverse a verdict, or even raise sufficient doubt to stay an execution.

  Now he must prepare to face Ballinger himself-something he was dreading. He realized how little he really knew the man. He did not even know whether Ballinger would be frightened, angry, humble, accusatory, or even so shocked as to be almost numb and unable to think of how to defend himself.

  Rathbone leaned sideways and peered out of the cab to the streets, looking to see where he was. He recognized St. Margaret’s Arch. They were just coming into Eastcheap. They would probably go up King William Street, then bear left along Poultry and Cheapside to Newgate. Perhaps there would be a traffic jam and he would be granted a little more time in which to compose himself and think what he would say.

  Ten minutes later the cab lurched to a stop. He sighed with relief, but that lasted only moments. All too soon he was on the pavement again in the sun, crossing the road, and then on the steps of Newgate Prison, his thoughts still whirling and uncertain.

  He was granted access to Ballinger almost immediately, although he had been more than willing to wait. They met in a small cell with a stone floor and plain wooden furniture sufficient only to seat both of them, rather uncomfortably, with a battered wooden table on which to place books or papers, should they wish. It was not the same room in which he had seen Rupert Cardew, but the differences were negligible.

  Ballinger looked rumpled and angry, but not as embarrassingly out of control as some people did when faced with sudden and appalling misfortune. He was shaved, and his hair was tidy. There was no sign in his face of hysteria, and his eyes looked no more puffy than was natural from a night with little or no sleep.

  “Good morning, Oliver,” he said without preamble. “Before you waste time on it, they are treating me perfectly well, and I have all I require in the way of such comforts as I am permitted. Margaret sent my valet with everything. You cannot yet begin to appreciate what a fine woman she is. If you are blessed with such daughters, you will be a most fortunate man. Now, will you act for me in this … this farce? I want to get it explained and discussed as soon as possible, before half the world knows about it.” He smiled grimly, with only an echo of humor. “Perhaps I will have more understanding of my clients’ fears in the future, and more sympathy.”

  “Of course I will act for you, if you are sure it is what you wish,” Rathbone replied. “But have you considered the wisdom of having a member of the family in such a position? There are-”

  Ballinger waved his hand sharply, dismissing the objections. “You are the finest lawyer in London, Oliver, perhaps in England. And I have no doubt whatever that you will fight for me harder than anyone else would, in spite of your past friendship with William Monk. You are my son-in-law, part of my family. I am well aware that we should not have favorite children, but Margaret is still mine. She always has been. There is a loyalty and a gentleness in her that is beyond even that of my other daughters. You will do everything that is humanly possible.”

  Ballinger shook his head. “Not that it should be necessary. The whole charge is a tissue of coincidences piled upon one another because Monk has little idea of a solicitor’s responsibilities to his clients. He is also emotionally involved on a personal level through his wife and the little mudlark she has become attached to because the poor woman apparently cannot have children of her own.”

  Rathbone felt a stab of guilt so acute, it was hard to believe it was not an old physical injury torn open again. At the trial of Jericho Phillips he had ridiculed Hester when she had given testimony against Phillips, painting her as a childless woman who had half adopted a street urchin to fill her own loneliness, and implying that her judgment had become warped because of it. The jury had believed him and had discounted her testimony. He had not spoken of it since with Hester, and he did not know if she had entirely forgiven him for such a betrayal. He had not forgiven himself.

  “We need to answer evidence.” Rathbone controlled his emotion with difficulty. He owed his loyalty to Ballinger, who was his client and, if the case actually came to trial, would be fighting for his life. He was Margaret’s father, which made him a part of Rathbone’s life that could never be turned away from or forgotten.

  “Of course,” Ballinger agreed. “What evidence is it that Monk thinks he has? I cannot imagine.”

  “A note, written by you, inviting Parfitt to meet you on his boat, handed over to him in front of witnesses an hour or two before his death. When Parfitt read it, he immediately sent for ’Orrie Jones to row him out.”

  The color drained out of Ballinger’s face, leaving him ashen. For a moment he seemed unable to speak. It might have been shock, disbelief, but Rathbone had a terrible fear that it was guilt.

  “That’s … impossible!” he said at last. “Who says so? Monk?”

  “Yes. And he must have such a letter, or he would not dare claim to, even if you think him immoral enough to try.”

  “Then
, it’s a forgery,” Ballinger said immediately. “For God’s sake, Oliver, why on earth would I have business with a creature like Parfitt?”

  “To buy him off for a client,” Rathbone answered. He was sinking into a morass of nightmare, and yet strangely his mind was going on quite reasonably, as if he were something apart, almost a bystander watching this desperate, highly civilized discussion of murder and betrayal.

  Ballinger hesitated, weighing his answer.

  Rathbone watched him, feeling the sweat trickle down his body in fear that Ballinger was going to admit that it was his own blackmail he’d been dealing with. After his years of criminal prosecution and defense, nothing ought to have surprised Rathbone, but he could not believe that Arthur Ballinger could have become involved with Parfitt’s vicious pornography.

  Why not? Did he believe Ballinger was so moral? So happy in his present life? Or so careful? What did Rathbone think of him, not as his son-in-law, the husband of his admittedly favorite daughter, but as his lawyer, bound by duty to see the truth, because only by knowing it could he best defend him?

  Rathbone realized again how very little he knew the man except in his role of successful husband and father. Alone, what was he like? What were his dreams, his fears, his pleasures? Who was he without the mask? Rathbone had no idea.

  Ballinger was staring at him, still trying to decide how to answer.

  “Were you acting for a client?” Rathbone repeated.

  Ballinger appeared to have reached a decision. “No. I spent the evening with Bertie Harkness. Then I returned as I had come, crossing the river again at Chiswick. I may have passed Parfitt’s wretched boat, but I neither saw nor heard anything untoward, which the ferryman will tell you. My time is accounted for. And if I had paid Parfitt on some client’s behalf, I would have had more sense than to do it secretly and alone with such a man.” He breathed in deeply. “For God’s sake, Oliver, think about it! Would you go creeping around boats alone at night, in order to conduct a perfectly legal piece of business for a client, however desperate or foolish that client had been? And would you go alone?”