by Anne Perry
Hester was not here, nor was Margaret. And he was not sure if he would have asked Margaret, even if she were. He did the next best thing after that and looked for Claudine.
He found her in the medicine room. She was becoming quite proficient in nursing. Hester had said she was intelligent and, more important, deeply interested. Her long, unhappy marriage had eroded her self-belief to an almost crippling level. Curiously, it was her adventure where she had finally seen Arthur Ballinger outside the shops selling pornographic photographs, and from which Squeaky Robinson had eventually rescued her, that had liberated her from that.
Now she stood carefully measuring what was left in the various jars and bottles, and writing it down in a notebook. She was standing straight, and there was a slight smile on her face. She turned as she heard Monk’s footsteps stop. It needed only a glance at his face for her to realize his distress.
“What’s happened?” she asked immediately, putting down the bottle she was holding and closing the notebook. “What is it?”
“Hattie Benson’s gone,” Monk replied. “I’ve been from one end of the building to the other, and asked everybody. No one has seen her since about nine this morning.”
Claudine did not reply for several moments, but it was not because she was dumbfounded. She was clearly calculating what to do next.
“We must think,” she said. “She knew not to go anywhere outside. She would not have run errands for anyone, even a few yards. She was quite clever enough to be frightened. There are no doors to the outside here where a stranger could come in unseen. Have you spoken to Squeaky?”
“Yes. He didn’t see her leave, and he’s been at the front all morning, at least since she was last seen,” he replied. “I’ve got—”
“I know,” she agreed calmly, her voice reassuring.
He looked at her pleasant face. It was far from beautiful, but full of strength and—at this moment—a quiet courage.
“Then, she went out at the back,” he said more steadily. “That means she did it deliberately. She tricked someone into leaving her alone. Why? What on earth would make her do that? Did someone here threaten her? Who have you had in since she came?”
“An old woman upstairs with a fever,” Claudine replied. “She’s delirious and probably dying. And a young woman with a stab wound and a broken collarbone. All others were just in and out.”
He stared at her.
“One of us?” she said with a catch in her voice. She seemed about to add something else, then changed her mind.
He knew from her face that she was thinking of Margaret, and trying to deny it to herself. He was thinking the same. There had to be some more complex explanation, but just at the moment it did not matter.
“I’ve got to see if I can find her,” Monk said, although he had no idea where to begin. Should he even tell Hester? There was nothing she could do, except run into danger herself.
“Where will you look?” Claudine asked him.
“I don’t know. If she was alone, or escaped from whoever she went with, she’ll probably go back to the places she knows. All I can do is ask.”
“Can I help?”
“No … thank you. Just … don’t tell Hester … yet.”
“I won’t have to,” Claudine said grimly. “She’ll know.”
Monk left without adding anything more. Once outside in Portpool Lane he walked as rapidly as he could, not even aware of the rain. He would like to have run but it was pointless, and he needed his strength. He could not stop until he found Hattie.
He asked questions of street peddlers, a seller of matches, another with bootlaces, one with hot chocolate and ham sandwiches. The sandwich man had seen a young woman with pale skin and very fair hair, in company with a woman a little older, brown-haired, going down Leather Lane toward High Holborn, at almost half past nine. They had been on foot, and hurrying.
It was confusing. Was that Hattie or not? With a woman? Who? It was the best lead he had. Standing in the traffic, people passing him by, the rattle of wheels and clip of hooves on the road, the spray of dirty water from the gutters soaking his legs, he was overwhelmed with the uselessness of it. It might have been Hattie, or equally easily it might not. And she could have been going anywhere in London.
There was no point in waiting here. He might as well see if anyone else had seen them. He could think as he walked. He might realize something that had eluded him so far.
But he did not, and in the late afternoon as it was growing dusk, he knew nothing more than half a dozen sightings, which might have been Hattie or any other fair-haired young woman. He decided to take a hansom and go out to Chiswick. At least there she was known, and any sighting would be real. It was just possible she had become homesick and gone back to the one place where she had friends, and which was familiar to her. She might feel safer there, even if in fact she was not.
The ride seemed interminable. Every dark street looked like every other. Lamps were lit, glaring eyes in the increasing gloom. Everything was full of shadows. The moving carriage lamps were yellow, and there was the hiss of wheels on the wet cobbles even though the rain had stopped.
Finally Monk reached the Chiswick mall on the edge of the river opposite the Eyot. He leaped out of the hansom, paid the driver, and strode over toward the lights moving down by the stretch of mud and stones left by the low tide. He could hear voices. If it was the police, he would ask for their help.
As he reached the steps, his stomach was churning, his breath tight in his chest, throat aching.
One of the men held his lantern higher, and Monk could see that there were four of them, grim, wet, feet and ankles caked with river mud. There was a woman’s body on the stones, and the yellow light shone on her face, and on the pale blond hair that was almost silver.
Monk knew it was Hattie, even before he was close enough to see her features.
CHAPTER
9
RATHBONE WAS AT HIS parents-in-law’s for dinner again when the butler announced that a Mr. Monk had called to see Mr. Ballinger and was waiting for him in the morning room.
“What an inconvenient time to call!” Mrs. Ballinger said stiffly, her eyes wide. She looked at the butler. “Tell him to wait. In fact, better than that, tell him to come back tomorrow morning, at a reasonable hour.” She turned to Rathbone. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I know he is a friend of yours, more or less, but this is too much. The man has no breeding at all.”
The butler had not moved.
“What is it, Withers?” Ballinger said tartly. “Tell Monk, if he wants to wait, I’ll see him when I’ve had dinner. And when the evening is over and my visitors have gone home.”
The butler, acutely embarrassed, moved from one foot to the other, his face a dull pink.
Rathbone stood up. “I’ll go and see what he wants,” he offered, going toward the door as he spoke.
“For heaven’s sake, Oliver, let the man wait!” George snapped. “You’re not his lackey to go jumping up and down after him simply because he arrives at the door.”
Rathbone felt Margaret’s eyes on him as he left, but he did not turn back. He realized, as he closed the drawing room door behind him and walked across the wide hall with its sweeping staircase, that he was afraid. He knew Monk too well to imagine that he had called at this hour without a very compelling reason.
Rathbone had seen the pride and the pain in Monk when Rathbone had beaten him in court over Jericho Phillips. He knew Monk would not let that happen again.
He opened the morning room door and came face-to-face with him.
“Why are you here?” Rathbone asked, closing the door behind him and remaining standing in front of it.
“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized. “I thought this better than at his place of business. This affords him a less public exhibition, at least for the time being.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Rathbone demanded, although he felt a hollow fear that he knew.
“And you are here al
so,” Monk continued. “Your clerk said that you would be. Perhaps it is as well.”
“Monk!” Rathbone kept his voice level with difficulty.
Monk straightened up and put his shoulders back, altering his weight from the easier stance he had held before. “I have new evidence that is compelling. I have come to arrest Arthur Ballinger for the murder of Michael Parfitt,” he replied.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Rathbone said sharply. It was like a bad dream spiraling out of control. “Ballinger was at Bertram Harkness’s house. You know that, and if you don’t, I certainly do.”
“I know,” Monk said calmly. “It is not far from where Parfitt was found, and the movement of the tide can account for the difference. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be—”
“I’ll make it as hard as I can!” Rathbone heard his own voice rising, losing control. “You can’t come in here to the man’s own house and accuse him, just because of what Sullivan said. He was desperate and on the brink of suicide. You know that as well as I do.”
“Oliver—,” Monk began.
Rathbone thought of Margaret in the quiet family withdrawing room across the hall, just beyond the closed doors. He must protect her from this. With an effort he lowered his voice.
“Think of it, Monk. Even if you were right and Ballinger had some involvement with Phillips, and even with Parfitt, why on earth would he kill Parfitt? From what Sullivan said, supposing he were sane, and right about the facts—which we don’t know—Ballinger would have had every reason to keep him alive! He would be a source of considerable income for him.”
Monk made no move to go round him. His face was grim, eyes hard and steady, but there was an emotion in them that Rathbone found chilling.
Rathbone tried again. “He might have been acting for a client,” he protested. “After all, he is a solicitor. Perhaps he was trying to get Parfitt to stop blackmailing someone. Had you considered that?”
There was a flicker of uncertainty in Monk’s face, there and then gone again. “Yes, it occurred to me,” he answered. “But if that is the case, then the charge would be accomplice to murder or, at best, accessory before and after the fact. He lured Parfitt to the boat, and he was in the immediate vicinity. So far we can’t place anyone else there. Don’t make a scene. It will only be harder for the family. I’m quite willing to have him come with me of his own volition, without anyone else knowing the seriousness of it.”
Rathbone was still prepared to argue, but the door opened behind him, and George came into the room.
“What on earth is going on? Can’t you deal with this, Oliver?” he asked angrily.
Rathbone felt his own temper rise. He wanted to snap back at someone, and held himself in check with difficulty.
“It would be better if you asked Papa-in-law to come out here.”
George stared at Monk. “Look, I don’t know what you think you want … Inspector … or whatever you are, but this is not the time to arrive at a gentleman’s home, delaying dinner and making a vulgar scene—”
“For God’s sake, George, just go and fetch him!” Rathbone snarled, his voice thick with anger. “If it were as simple as that, don’t you think I’d have dealt with it?”
George’s temper flared in instant response. “How the devil do I know what you’d do? He’s a friend of yours.”
The drawing room door opened wider, sending a stream of brighter light into the hallway. Margaret crossed to the entrance of the morning room, the silk of her gown gleaming, her face tight with anxiety.
“What is it, Oliver?”
“Nothing!” George told her sharply.
“Please ask your father to come out,” Oliver contradicted him.
She hesitated.
It was Monk who moved forward now. “Please, Lady Rathbone, ask your father to come out. It will be less distressing for your mother and sisters if we can discuss this matter privately.”
She looked at Rathbone, and then, as he nodded, she turned and went back into the drawing room. George followed her. A moment later Ballinger came out, but he left the door ajar behind him. The room was silent, as if everyone within it was listening.
“Well, what the hell do you want?” he asked Monk. “You had better have a very good explanation for bursting in here like this.”
Rathbone walked quickly to the drawing room door and closed it, then returned.
“I have,” Monk said quietly. “I have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering Michael Parfitt—”
“What?” Ballinger was aghast. “The wretched little pimp who was drowned in Chiswick? That’s absurd! You’ve really exceeded yourself, Monk. You’ve let your hunger for revenge addle your brain. I’ll have your job for this.”
“I advise you to say nothing!” Rathbone cut in desperately, trying to prevent it from getting even worse.
Ballinger’s face was red, ugly with anger. He swiveled to face Rathbone, then seemed to recall his composure and very deliberately forced himself to relax, lower his shoulders, and breathe out.
“That was not a threat,” he said to Monk. “You are an incompetent fool, jumped up beyond your ability, but I mean you no harm. I will do everything according to the law.”
“Of course you will,” Monk agreed with a flash of humor so brief it was barely visible. “You are far too wise to add assault of a police officer to the situation.”
“Are you intending to take me into custody, at this hour of the night?” Ballinger’s tone was tinged with disbelief.
“I imagined you would prefer it in the dark,” Monk responded. “But I can come back to your office in daylight, if you would rather. And if you should not be there, I can send police to look for you.”
“God almighty, man!” Ballinger swore. “Your reputation will never recover from this!”
Monk did not answer. He looked for a moment at Rathbone, then turned and went out to the front door, waiting there for Ballinger to follow.
When the door closed behind them, Rathbone went at once to Margaret. She was white-faced, her eyes hollow. The muscles in her neck and shoulders suddenly looked as hard as cords, as if she might snap.
“You must get this stopped, Oliver.” Her voice shook. “Tonight! Before anyone knows. I’ll tell Mama and the others that Monk needed help with something. I won’t have to think what, because I’ll just say that he didn’t tell us. You must—”
“Margaret.” He put his hands on her shoulders lightly and felt how rigid they were. “Monk would not have come here if he didn’t believe that—”
She pulled away from him, eyes blazing. “Are you saying he’s right?”
“No, of course I’m not.” His answer was instant, and not wholly honest. He took a deep gulp of air. “I’m saying that he must think he has some evidence, or he wouldn’t dare come here and make such a claim.”
“Then, prove him wrong! He’s made some idiotic mistake, because he wants Rupert Cardew to be innocent.”
“That’s unfair. Monk has never …” He knew before he finished the sentence that it had been a mistake to defend him.
Her eyebrows rose. “Been wrong?”
“Of course he’s been wrong. I was going to say ‘deliberately unfair.’ I will find out from him exactly what he thinks he has, and then I will figure out the best and most complete way to disprove it.”
“Tonight!” she insisted. “Papa can’t possibly spend the night in prison. It’s—it’s appalling. You know it is!”
“Margaret, there’s nothing I can do tonight.”
“That’s why he did it, is it? He arrested Papa at this time of night so you couldn’t do anything about it. If he’d done it in the daytime, you could have gotten him out! Oliver, you have to show them what a personal vengeance this is. Papa said Monk was an erratic and spiteful man, but I couldn’t believe him, out of loyalty to you. But Papa was right. Monk can’t ever forgive him for taking on Jericho Phillips and getting you to defend him. You made him and Hester look bad in court,
made fools of them, and he’s having his revenge now—on both of you!”
“Margaret!” His voice was sharp, peremptory. “Stop it! Yes, Monk lost in court the first time with Phillips, and I’m not proud of my part in that. But I did what the law requires, what justice demands. Monk knew that and understood it.”
Margaret’s eyes were brilliant with tears, but they were tears of shock and anger, and fear of a horror she could not grapple. “Oliver?”
“Listen to me!” he said grimly. “Monk wants to get that filthy trade off the river—and it is filthy; it’s far worse than anything you’ve heard of in Portpool Lane. Some of those children are not more than five or six years old.” He ignored the wince of pain that twisted her mouth. “Perhaps he is a little overzealous, but we need someone with a passion to destroy it, someone who cares enough to risk getting dirty or hurting themselves. This time he’s made a mistake, but he’s only going where he thinks the evidence is taking him.”
She blinked hard, and the tears spilled onto her cheeks. “You’ll act for Papa. You must. You’ll—”
“Only if he wants me to. That has to be his choice. He may prefer someone else.”
“Of course he won’t!” She was indignant, but beneath the anger he saw the rising, desperate fear. “You have to help, Oliver. Or are you saying that your friendship with Monk makes you—”
He said the only thing he could. “He is your father, Margaret. Of course I will act for him, as long as it is what he wishes. But be prepared for him to prefer someone else, perhaps because I am too close.” He did not add that Ballinger himself might distrust him because of his friendship with Monk.
A little of the fear slipped away from her. “Of course,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I … it is so unjust! It’s like a nightmare, one of those dreams when everything you love changes in front of you. You go to pick something up, and it turns into something else … something horrible. A cup of tea turns into a dish of maggots—or a person you’ve known all your life changes into an animal, a horrid one …” Now the tears slid down her cheeks and she could not control them.