Acceptable Loss: A William Monk Novel

by Anne Perry

  “If I may see them, my lord? And I presume Mr. Winchester will demonstrate to us how he knows beyond doubt that they we taken on the boat belonging to the victim.”

  “Naturally.”

  The judge’s face tightened, but he beckoned the usher over and gave him the packet to pass to Rathbone.

  Rathbone took it and looked at the first two pictures. They were pathetic and obscene beyond anything he had expected, but what had not even occurred to him was the worst of all: He recognized the man in the second one with a shock that brought the sweat out on his body, burning and then cold. Should the jury see it? Would it work in their favor, raise a reasonable doubt as to Ballinger’s guilt, because surely a man who would do this to a child, for pleasure, would stoop to anything at all, even murder?

  But the man in the photo was a public figure. How would the jurors respond to having their illusions so terribly crushed, torn apart, soiled forever? Rathbone could not know.

  “Sir Oliver?” The judge’s voice cut across his racing thoughts.

  “I feel …” He had to stop and clear his throat. “I feel, my lord, that because of the men also depicted here, and the ruin it would bring upon them, and their families, that that is a separate issue, and not one I wish to pursue—at least not here. I would ask only that your lordship would inform the jury that, hideous as they are, none of them, in any way whatsoever, involve Mr. Ballinger.”

  The judge nodded slowly, and turned to the jury. “That indeed is so, gentlemen. And, no doubt, Sir Oliver will reaffirm that when he questions Mr. Monk. Please proceed, Mr. Winchester. I think you have more than adequately established for the jury that Mr. Parfitt was occupied in a trade vile beyond the imagination of a sane man. Although that fact seems to some to serve the defense rather more than the prosecution.”

  Winchester smiled ruefully, as though he had been caught out. “Perhaps I have not served my own interests as well as I hoped.” He gave a very slight shrug. “I am obliged to go where the facts lead me.” He looked up at Monk.

  “Where did you find these photographs, Mr. Monk? Indeed, how do you know they have anything to do with Mr. Parfitt? Is he shown in any of them?”

  “No. It is possible he was behind the camera,” Monk replied. “We found that on the boat, but not immediately. It was very carefully concealed in what looked like a piece of nautical equipment.”

  “Would these men be likely to know that they were being photographed?” Winchester asked.

  “Not unless they were told,” Monk answered.

  “Where did you find the photographs that you have shown us?”

  “With the equipment.”

  “I see. And do they depict the inside of the boat you saw?”

  “Yes.”

  “To your knowledge, Mr. Monk, was Mickey Parfitt alone in this ghastly trade?”

  “No,” Monk replied, his mouth tight. “He had at least three men we have been able to question, who worked quite openly for him, but of course there may be many others that we have not found.”

  “Really? What brings you to that conclusion, Mr. Monk?” Winchester continued to look innocent.

  Rathbone felt himself stiffen in his seat. This was what Winchester had been leading up to, and Monk even more so. Rathbone had to make an intense effort to look unconcerned. Any anxiety, confusion, or surprise they saw could be read as guilt.

  The silence of strain in the room was palpable.

  “The photographs,” Monk replied to Winchester.

  “But you said you thought Parfitt took them himself?” Winchester sounded surprised.

  “Probably,” Monk conceded. “But not merely for his own pleasure.”

  “He sold them?” Winchester asked with a gesture of distaste. “I suppose there must be a market for such …” He searched for a word acceptable in court that would describe what he felt, and did not find it.

  Monk smiled sourly. “Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But the market that would pay most highly, again and again, is the men who are shown in the pictures.” There was rage in his voice, almost choking him, but looking up at him across the space of the open floor, Rathbone saw a pity in him also, and it took him by surprise.

  “Oh.” Winchester bit his lips. “Of course. How dull-witted of me. Blackmail. And have you some reason to suppose that Parfitt did not commit the blackmail himself?”

  “Parfitt came from a poor family of manual laborers and petty thieves on the riverside,” Monk answered. “He was uneducated and lived by his wits. According to those who knew him, he had neither good looks nor charm, and was not particularly eloquent. His skills were his cunning and his encyclopedic knowledge of human weakness and depravity. How could he find the victims for such blackmail? It is hardly his social circle, and one cannot advertise the goods he had for sale.”

  Winchester looked as if he had been suddenly enlightened. His eyes widened. Then he smiled at his own attempt at playacting. He looked at the jury as if to apologize to them. Several of them smiled back at him.

  “Of course,” he said mildly. “There has to be a man of more sophistication, higher social connections, and possibly money to have provided him with this boat, and obviously excellent photographic equipment, in the first place.”

  “Yes.”

  Rathbone considered objecting, but a look at the jurors’ faces, and he knew he would earn only their contempt. He would seem to be making ridiculous objections by which to try to distract them, which would only lend more credence to what Winchester was saying. And if he was honest, Rathbone himself believed there was someone behind Parfitt, pretty much as Monk and Winchester assumed.

  “But you do not know who he is?” Winchester pursued.

  “I believe that I do,” Monk contradicted him. “But the proof is what I came here to present.”

  The jurors looked stunned. There was a buzz of excitement in the public gallery, rustles of movement and indrawn breath.

  Winchester himself played it for all it was worth.

  “Are you suggesting, Mr. Monk, that it was this … this investor who murdered Mickey Parfitt? Why, for heaven’s sake? Was the boat not making him a fortune?”

  Rathbone stood up at last. “My lord, this is the wildest speculation!”

  “It is indeed,” the judge answered tartly. “Mr. Winchester, you know better than this!”

  “I apologize, my lord,” Winchester said humbly. “I’m sorry.”

  It was only at that moment that Rathbone realized that Winchester had had nothing more to add anyway. Rathbone’s intervention had saved him from the jury’s realizing it.

  “Have you anything else pertinent to say, Mr. Winchester?” the judge asked with evident impatience. “For example, something tangible, such as either of the weapons used in the attack of Mr. Parfitt, or a timetable of his movements? Or for that matter, a witness to anything at all? You have so far only a handful of obscene and repulsive photographs and a web of speculation, none of which you have connected to the accused.”

  Winchester looked suitably chastened and once again addressed Monk. “Sir, his lordship has excellent points, and has graciously reminded me that I have yet to mention the weapons used to take the life of this repulsive man. Did you seek them, and did you find them?”

  “I did not find the weapon with which his head was struck,” Monk replied. “It is difficult to know what that would have been, but any strong length of branch from a tree would have served, or a broken plank of wood, or an oar. There were many such lying on the bank, or floating in the water.”

  Winchester looked faintly disconcerted, but he did not interrupt.

  “However, we did find the weapon with which he was strangled,” Monk continued. “It was a dark blue cravat with an unusual pattern on it of leopards, very small and in threes, one above the other, in gold. It was made of silk, and there were six very tight knots in it, at slightly irregular distances matching the bruises perfectly.”

  Winchester allowed the jury a few moments to absorb this
information. “Really! And where did you find the cravat, Mr. Monk?”

  “The police surgeon cut it from around Parfitt’s neck,” Monk answered.

  There was a sigh of breath and a buzz of movement around the court.

  “And did you trace its owner?” Winchester asked.

  “Yes, sir. It belonged to a Mr. Rupert Cardew …” Monk could not continue because of the uproar.

  When the judge had regained control, Winchester thanked him and invited Monk to proceed.

  “Mr. Cardew said that the item had been stolen from him the previous afternoon, and we later found evidence that that was indeed so.”

  “Did this evidence implicate Arthur Ballinger?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So what did, Mr. Monk? So far, as I’m sure Sir Oliver would be quick to point out, there is nothing in the course of your investigation to suggest his name to you, much less to imply his guilt in the matter at all!”

  “A short handwritten note inviting Parfitt to meet the accused at the boat, on the evening of his death,” Monk replied.

  Again there were gasps and cries in the body of the court, and it was several moments before the judge managed to restore order.

  “And where did you find this extraordinary document?” Winchester inquired.

  “Written above another note given to me, presumably without appreciating its importance, by Mr. Jones, one of Mr. Parfitt’s employees,” Monk told him. “Parfitt wrote down the time he wanted Jones to ferry him to his boat.”

  “Indeed. And was this note signed by the accused?”

  “No. It was written on the back of a piece of paper, on the front of which was a list of medicines to be purchased for the use of patients in the Portpool Lane Clinic.”

  Winchester’s black eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens! Are you certain?”

  “Yes. We took it to the clinic and asked those who work there to identify it.”

  “Just a moment! What made you consider the possibility that it had anything to do with them, Mr. Monk?”

  “I asked my wife, who is a nurse there, if she recognized the items on the list. She did. She also knew who had written the list and when, because of the writing and what was listed.”

  The silence in the courtroom was so thick, someone wheezing in the back row was momentarily audible.

  Thoughts raced through Rathbone’s mind as to what he could ask Monk, how he could tear this apart. And, looking at Monk’s face, he knew that he was already prepared, even waiting. Was it possible that this time he really was sure?

  “She wrote this list?” Winchester asked skeptically. “And you did not immediately recognize her hand, Mr. Monk? That strains credulity.”

  “No, she didn’t write it,” Monk replied with the vestige of a smile. “It was written by Mrs. Claudine Burroughs, a woman of good society who gives her time to helping the sick and the poor. I did not recognize her hand because I am not familiar with it, but my wife did.”

  “I see. And how did you deduce from this recognition that the subsequent note on the same piece of paper was written by Mr. Ballinger?”

  “Because Mrs. Burroughs said she gave the list to Lady Rathbone to purchase the—”

  There was another explosion of sound in the courtroom.

  The judge banged his gavel and commanded silence, on pain of people’s forcible removal from the room.

  Rathbone felt the heat sear up his face until he could hardly breathe. He did not dare look at Margaret, or her family, although he knew exactly to the inch how far he would have to turn his head to do so.

  “To purchase the medicines from the apothecary,” Monk continued. “Which Lady Rathbone did, for she gave the receipts to Mrs. Burroughs but did not return the original list. It seems reasonable, even inevitable, to assume that she discarded it where Mr. Ballinger, her father, found it and tore off a piece to use for this note to Parfitt, not knowing that what was on the back was so distinctive.”

  “I see,” Winchester said gravely. “And did you subsequently ask Mr. Ballinger to account for his whereabouts that evening?”

  “Yes, sir,” Monk replied. “He never pretended that he was not in the area, but he did say that he was in Mortlake, some short distance up the river from Corney Reach, where the body was found. He was in the company of a friend, which the friend verified. However, it is possible, if you are a strong rower, to take a boat from Mortlake to Corney Reach and come back again, then catch a hansom at the south side of the river to the ferry where Mr. Ballinger originally crossed, all in the time that he stated and his friend confirmed.”

  “Really?” Winchester affected surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I did it myself, at the same time of the evening.”

  “Remarkable. Thank you, Commander Monk.” Winchester turned to Rathbone with a smile.

  Rathbone rose to his feet with a very slight tremble in his hands. He had just realized an astounding possibility. Neither Monk nor Winchester had mentioned Hattie Benson, either by name or occupation. Was that to spare Lord Cardew’s feelings? Or had she withdrawn her testimony, refusing now to take the stand? Without her, Rupert was still a prime suspect.

  Could he discredit this wretched note somehow? Suggest it had a different date, a different meaning? Even that it had originally been addressed to someone else?

  He needed time.

  “It is late, my lord,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “I have several questions to ask Mr. Monk, of fundamental importance to the whole case—things that may lead us in an extremely different direction. I would prefer, out of respect to yourself and the jury, to begin this when there is the opportunity to carry the matter to its conclusion.”

  The judge pulled out a magnificent gold pocket watch and regarded it soberly. “I hope your substance will equal your words, Sir Oliver? Very well. We shall adjourn until tomorrow morning.”

  RATHBONE SPENT A MISERABLE hour with Ballinger.

  “I’ve no idea who wrote the damn note!” Ballinger said furiously. “The Burroughs woman is lying, or is forgetful. Margaret would have given it back to her with the medicines from the apothecary, and she left it lying around. Anyone could have found it and used it. What about Robinson, the old whoremonger who runs the place for them? That’s the obvious answer. Use your brains, Oliver! Go for them. Go for him! He’ll never make a credible witness. Tear him apart.”

  Rathbone said nothing. He disliked the idea, but it was reasonable, and perhaps the only course he had.

  “I did not kill that filthy little man!” Ballinger’s voice was raised, brittle with anger and fear. “For God’s sake, do your job!”

  MARGARET WAS ALREADY AT home when Rathbone arrived.

  “How is he?” she said as soon as Rathbone was through the door, even before he had given his coat to the butler.

  “Full of courage,” he said gently, kissing her cheek. There was no point in telling her anything else.

  She pulled away from him so she could see his face, as if from studying it she could better tell if he was merely trying to comfort her.

  He looked at her steadily, lying superbly.

  Finally she smiled, her face catching some of its old calm and the loveliness that had first drawn him to her.

  “He’s brave,” she said simply. “And of course he is innocent. He knows you can get this ridiculous charge thrown out. After this, Oliver, you cannot remain such close friends with Monk.” She looked at him gravely. “He has not the honor or the integrity you thought. I know that disillusion is terribly painful, but pretending it does not exist helps nothing. It doesn’t change the truth. I’m so sorry.” She smiled slightly, a warm little gesture. “Actually I’m sorry for myself too, because I admired Hester so much, and I shall lose her friendship over this as well. I doubt it will be practicable for me to remain at the clinic.”

  He was taken aback. “Margaret, all he’s done is answer Winchester’s questions, and he has no choice in the matter.”

  The warmt
h vanished from her eyes. “How can you say that? He was the one who went after Papa in the first place. We wouldn’t even be answering the charge at all if he had simply followed the evidence to Rupert Cardew.”

  Suddenly he was cold. His whole fabric of certainty was tearing apart. He had drawn in his breath to say that Hattie could prove Cardew innocent, but he realized it was only her word that did, and Margaret would argue that Monk had coerced her. Rathbone knew that Monk was a man of passions and convictions, brave enough and perhaps ruthless enough to follow whatever he believed to be right.

  What if Monk were tragically wrong? What if it had been Cardew all along, and Monk had simply refused to believe it? It is so easy to believe what we need to. He had been wrong before; everyone has.

  Margaret was talking again.

  “Consider it, Oliver. Think honestly. You know that Monk is convinced Papa had something to do with Jericho Phillips, because as Jericho’s solicitor, Papa convinced you to represent Phillips. Monk doesn’t understand that that is what lawyers do! I think he has never really forgiven you for defending Phillips in court. He doesn’t like to be beaten.” She took a step closer to him. “Poor people with little education can be very proud, very stiff, unable to accept criticism, let alone defeat, especially from a friend. He admires you and he can’t bear to be wrong in your eyes. It’s an ugly trait of character, a weakness, but it is not so rare.”

  Was she right? Monk was prickly, but a bit less so since his marriage to Hester. However, victory still mattered intensely to him. Rathbone could see in his mind’s eye Monk’s rage when Rathbone had beaten him in court over Phillips. Was this his revenge, even if Monk had not been aware of it himself? Was this the old Monk reasserting himself, the man who had been so feared before his accident and the loss of memory had made him so vulnerable?

  He looked at Margaret. The gentleness was back in her face.

  “I plan to take him through all the evidence tomorrow. I’ll show the jury just how preposterous it is,” he promised. “We will not be able to protect Rupert.” He took a deep breath. “I wish he were not Lord Cardew’s son. Poor man.”