Acceptable Loss: A William Monk Novel

by Anne Perry

  Rathbone rose to his feet. “Might we have no more than two questions at a time, my lord? I am going to have trouble working out which answer fits which question.”

  There was another nervous ripple of laughter around the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Winchester apologized. “My confusion must be contagious.” He looked back at Loftus. “Your reward for this help, sir? What nature did it take?”

  “Money!” Loftus said indignantly. “Pure money, like you own, sir.”

  “You have none of my money, Mr. Loftus,” Winchester responded with a smile. “But since you know Mr. Cardew was there, you must surely know the names of others. Who else attended those … parties?”

  Loftus made a movement across his mouth. “Code o’ silence, sir. You understand? All kinds o’ gents like their excitement a bit on the spicy side. Ruin ’alf o’ London if I were to speak out o’ turn, I could.”

  “Not to mention your own future income, and that of the man behind the business, who will have to find another manager, now that Parfitt is dead. Could that be you, Mr. Loftus?”

  Suddenly the courtroom was silent. All the small rustles of movement stopped. One could almost hear the rasp of breathing.

  Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Winchester is assuming facts that no one has proved. He keeps making suggestions as to this gray presence behind Parfitt, but no one has shown that he exists, let alone is going to pay Mr. Loftus for anything.”

  “My lord, someone sent the letter of instruction to Mickey Parfitt, so that he was alone on his boat the night he was killed,” Winchester pointed out. “Someone put forward the money to buy and to furnish the boat. Someone found, watched, and then tempted the men susceptible to this kind of indulgence. Someone blackmailed them and drove at least one to suicide, and it appears, one to murder. And since Mr. Loftus has sworn that Rupert Cardew was a victim of this trade, and other witnesses have told us very graphically of his descent from bystander and gullible friend to witness of degraded and revolting scenes, it cannot have been him. One does not blackmail oneself.”

  The judge considered for a moment, then lifted one heavy shoulder in a gesture of resignation.

  “Mr. Winchester appears to be right, Sir Oliver. You cannot have it both ways with Mr. Cardew. Either he was the blackmailer or he was the victim who struck back.”

  “My lord,” Rathbone bowed. “It seems to me beyond a reasonable doubt that Mickey Parfitt was a vile man who provided a ready path to total degradation, a depravity that must disgust all decent people. He charged his victims for it twice over: once to purchase it, and then a second time to keep themselves from the disgrace of having it known to their friends and to society in general. How he was able to target those vulnerable to such weakness we do not know. Many answers are imaginable. If there was indeed a mastermind behind it, we do not know who that is. Personally, I should like to see him hang, as I dare say so would you. But it is repulsive to me that in our disgust we should vent our anger by hanging the wrong man!”

  There were smiles of approval in the gallery. One voice even cried out in agreement.

  The judge looked around, but did not reprove him.

  Rathbone allowed a moment for them to settle down again. Then he resumed. “We are here to try Arthur Ballinger on the charge of murdering Mickey Parfitt. I put it to you that for all Mr. Winchester’s elegance and his masterly exposure of the deeply vile nature of Mickey Parfitt’s trade, he has not shown us that Mr. Ballinger had anything to do with it, either as investor or as victim.”

  He looked specifically at the jury.

  “I propose in the next day or so to demonstrate to you the violent and deceitful nature of others involved on the edges of this trade, and how easy it would have been for any of them to have killed Parfitt. I shall show you a score of reasons why they might have, primarily involving greed. As has been amply demonstrated, there is a great deal of money to be made and lost in blackmail. Men’s reputations are destroyed, fortunes ruined, and lives ended. Such circumstances breed murder.”

  Hester did not stay to listen. Rathbone would carefully lay all kinds of suggestions that would make the issue even less certain. He would probably not try to prove specifically that Rupert Cardew was guilty, but it might not be difficult to create at least sufficient belief that it was possible, so no jury would convict Ballinger. Then it would all begin again, perhaps only to end in more doubt.

  She walked out into the late afternoon, the noise of the street, the traffic, almost another world. She tried not to think what it would mean for Monk if the trial ended in acquittal. Margaret would not forgive him. What would the River Police think? That he had charged the wrong man, or that he had been right and had failed to produce the evidence? Either way he had lost.

  She forced herself to remember that it was being right that mattered, not looking right. She needed to know what had happened to Hattie. If Margaret had taken her to the door and suggested she leave, why had Hattie obeyed her? Where had she gone? To whom? Who had known where to find her, and had killed her to keep her from testifying? What would she have said? That Rupert was innocent? Or that he was guilty?

  Now they would never know to whom Hattie had given the cravat, if indeed she had ever actually stolen it. Was it possible that Rupert had killed Parfitt after all? Why did that thought hurt? Simply the pain of disillusion? Or the humiliation of being wrong? Or the wrenching pity for his father?

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING HESTER was at the clinic early, again asking questions, ascertaining as closely as possible what time Hattie had left. It was a still, heavy day, with rain threatening as she stood outside the door on the street and looked right and left. People were passing, as always. Which of them would do so every morning? Who had regular errands, trips to the baker or the laundry, jobs to go to?

  It was too late for the Reid Brewery workers; they would have started hours ago. Factories or shops had been open for a couple of hours at least. Was there a peddler? None that she could see.

  She tightened her shawl around her and walked down to Leather Lane and then turned north. A hundred yards away there was a running patterer telling the news in his singsong voice. She interrupted him, to his displeasure, and asked him if he had seen Hattie, describing her as accurately as possible. He knew nothing.

  She retraced her steps and went south, almost as far as High Holborn, but no one had seen a young woman answering Hattie’s description.

  Discouraged that it was now too many days ago, she went back up to Leather Lane, along Portpool Lane again into the shadow of the brewery and all the way along to Gray’s Inn Road at the other end. She walked north and was almost level with St. Bartholomew’s Church when she saw a peddler selling sandwiches. She stopped and bought one, not because she was hungry but in order to engage him in conversation. It must have been desperately boring standing all day, virtually alone, just exchanging a word or two with strangers, hoping to sell them something, needing to.

  She ate the sandwich with pleasure. It was actually very good, and she told him so.

  He smiled, gap-toothed, and thanked her.

  “I work just down the road.” She indicated with her hand, still clutching the last of the sandwich. “Portpool Lane.”

  “I know who you are,” he replied.

  She was surprised. “Do you?” She was half convinced he had mistaken her for someone else.

  “Yeah! Yer takes in street women wot are sick, or beat up.”

  She had no idea from his expression whether he thought that was good or bad. But there was no point in denying it.

  “That’s right. I’m looking for one now who left Tuesday of last week and is now missing. She’s still pretty sick, and I’m worried about her.” Hester was not sure how much of the truth she should tell. Panic was rising inside her, and she had to force it down, refuse to follow the fears of what would happen if she failed. Perhaps she was almost as afraid of what knowledge success would bring, things she would not be able to ignore.r />
  “I wouldn’t worry about it, love,” the sandwich man said kindly. “She’ll come back fast enough, if she needs ter.”

  Hester was momentarily at a loss. She fished out two threepenny pieces. “May I have another sandwich, please? That ham’s extremely good.” Actually, she did not want it; she had eaten enough.

  He gave her one with pleasure, and tuppence change.

  “I don’t think she knows how ill she is,” she improvised. “Some of those things are catching. I think she wasn’t alone. She could give it to others.” The story was getting wilder as she tried to interest him. “Maybe someone with children. Children get sick so quickly.”

  He shook his head. “Well, I dunno ’ow yer gonna find ’er. The street is full o’ girls.”

  “This one was unusual-looking. She had very fair hair, almost white, and a lovely skin. She wasn’t terribly pretty, but sort of … innocent-looking. Very clean, if you know what I mean.” She looked at him hopefully.

  “Tuesday last week, yer said?”

  “Yes. Did you see her? About this time of day, or a little earlier.”

  “Who did yer say she were with?”

  “I don’t know. Another woman, maybe …”

  “Older, eh? Sort o’ respectable-lookin’. Bit dumpy. Brown ’air.”

  “Yes! Yes, that could be right.” She had no idea who it could have been, but she had nothing else to follow. “You saw them? Where did they go?”

  “ ’Ow do I know? Up that way?” He pointed north again, past the church.

  “To the church? To St. Bartholomew’s?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No, sweet ’eart, to the cabbies wot usually wait around there. Best place ter get one.”

  “Oh.” She felt the heat rush up her face. “Yes, of course. What did the other woman look like, did you say? Can you remember? What was she wearing?”

  “Wot d’yer think I am? Course I can’t remember. It weren’t nothing special, I can tell yer that. ’Cept ’er gloves. She ’ad real good gloves on. Leather. ’And-stitched, wi’ a little piece o’ toolin’ on the cuff, about ’ere.” He pointed to his wrist. “Must a lifted ’em, or ’ad a customer wi’ a lot o’ money.”

  “Can you describe her a bit more? What was her skin like? Her teeth?”

  “Wot?”

  “Her skin? Her teeth?” Hester repeated.

  “ ’Ow do I know?” the peddler said indignantly. “ ’Er teeth were just like … teeth! Kind o’ good, come ter think of it.”

  Hester felt her heart racing. “Little bit crooked at the front, but nice?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. Yer know ’er? She one o’ yours, then?”

  “Perhaps.” Was he right, or had she put the idea into his mind and he was simply trying to please her, and get rid of her questions? “Thank you.” She finished the sandwich and thanked him again, then walked quickly toward the place he had pointed to for the hansom cabs.

  The description he had given fitted one of the women who had been in the courtroom with Margaret and her mother. Or any other woman in London with pretty and slightly crooked teeth, and enough money to buy good gloves. But Margaret’s sister was the one who would help her, and her father, by taking Hattie Benson away to—where? Had Margaret’s sister known it was to her death, or had she imagined it would be simply a house where Hattie could be kept until it was too late to testify?

  It took Hester the rest of the day—and more money than she could really spare in cab fares, sandwiches, cups of tea, and petty bribes—before she found as many of the answers as she was going to so long after the event. Two women, answering the descriptions of Hattie and Gwen, or Celia, had taken a hansom from near St. Bartholomew’s to Avonhill Street in Fulham, just short of Chiswick, almost half an hour after Margaret had shown Hattie out of the door of the clinic in Portpool Lane.

  Another hour of tedious questions and invented excuses, and by the time it was growing dark, Hester had found the house where Hattie had been for a few hours.

  “Yeah,” the woman said grudgingly after Hester questioned her. She wiped her wet hands on her skirt. “Wot’s it ter you, then? This is a respectable ’ouse, an’ there ain’t no ’oring goes on ’ere. It were a right lady as brought ’er ’ere an’ said as she’d be stayin’ fer a few days.”

  “But she didn’t stay for a few days, did she?” Hester pressed. “She was gone in a matter of hours.”

  “So she changed ’er mind. She still were paid fer, so why should I care?”

  “Who did she go with?” Hester felt her throat tight, her hands clammy.

  “Said ’is name were Cardew. Didn’t see ’is face, but real nice-spoken, ’e were.”

  Hester thanked her and turned to leave, stumbling against the doorpost but barely feeling the bruise to her hand.

  “THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE,” Monk said gently as they sat in front of the fire late that evening, the clock nearing midnight. Hester was exhausted, and still cold in spite of the warmth of the room. “Why would Margaret help Rupert Cardew in anything?”

  “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “Maybe he lied to her?” She knew as soon as she had said it that it didn’t make sense. She looked up and saw it in Monk’s eyes. “Maybe Hattie lied, and she didn’t steal the cravat at all. Perhaps Rupert paid her to say she did. Then she lost her nerve and wasn’t going to go through with it.”

  “That explains why he would kill her, if he killed Parfitt in the first place,” he agreed. “But why would Margaret take her to the door? Wouldn’t Margaret want to keep her there, and have her take back her story?”

  “Perhaps Hattie was afraid to do that. Maybe she just wanted to escape, and say nothing at all.”

  Monk nodded slowly. “That’s possible. She couldn’t face you—or me—so she ran away. As far as defending Ballinger is concerned, her failure to appear comes to much the same result. Her first story would be disbelieved. So Margaret helps her, and then probably her sister Gwen. It sounds more like her than like Celia. Hattie goes to a house where she believes she’ll be safe. But Rupert finds her anyway. How?”

  “Perhaps she’s been there before.” Hester buried her head in her hands. “William, what have we done?”

  CHAPTER

  12

  RATHBONE RODE HOME IN a hansom sometime after Margaret had left the courtroom with her mother. It had been another good day. When Winchester had first presented his case, Rathbone had feared that there would be no effective defense. Now he was more than hopeful; he knew there was a real and very considerable likelihood that the jury would have a reasonable doubt as to Ballinger’s guilt.

  Although, the irony of it was that the picture that emerged of Parfitt was so repellent that the jury would be reluctant to hang the man who had killed him. In fact, Rathbone judged that several of them would want to shake the killer’s hand and turn a blind eye to the law.

  And there was a level at which this entire trial was not so much about who had killed Parfitt, quickly and more mercifully than he deserved, but about who had staked him, used him, and reaped the lion’s share of his profit. Rathbone had seen the anger in Monk’s face that drove him to pursue the deeper levels of the affair, and the guilt that his instinct had been too powerful to simply abandon the murder case in the beginning. There must have been moments when he would gladly have marked it “unsolved” and shelved it.

  Now Monk was going to fail anyway, because no one would hang for the crime—either the lesser crime of strangling Parfitt or the greater crime of having created his opportunity in the first place, and then fed him with money and skill until he became a monster.

  He understood Monk and wished that his failure were avoidable, particularly that Rathbone himself did not have to be such a powerful instrument in bringing it about. But he had no choice. The hansom pulled up outside his house. It was dark, and the streetlamps were shedding yellow light in the misty evening. Branches swayed, the leaves drifting in the wind. The air smelled of earth and rain.

  The
butler opened the door. Margaret was waiting for him in the withdrawing room. She was standing in the middle of the floor, as if she had heard him come and had risen to her feet. She looked tired. There were signs of strain in her face, and she was definitely pale, but her eyes were bright. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, she came to him quickly, putting her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek, and then the mouth.

  Then she pulled away quickly. “We’re going to win, aren’t we? I can see it in the jurors’ faces. They’ll acquit him.” She closed her eyes. “Thank God for that.”

  He held her tightly. “We’re not there yet, but yes, I think they’ll acquit.”

  She opened her eyes again.

  “They have to know that he didn’t kill that wretched man, not just that Monk can’t prove it.”

  “It isn’t Monk, Margaret. It’s—”

  “Yes, it is!” she responded vehemently. “Monk is the one who arrested him and brought the charge. I know he doesn’t run the prosecution in court because he isn’t a lawyer, but he’s behind it, and everyone knows that. Don’t quibble! You have to have them know it was somebody else, probably Rupert Cardew. They aren’t bringing that girl to say she stole his cravat, are they!”

  “No, of course not. They can’t. She’s dead.” He watched her face, afraid of what he would see in it.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said quietly. “But I’m afraid prostitutes come to a bad end quite often. And she lied. I don’t know why. Maybe he threatened her. But it doesn’t matter now. You have to make sure the jury understands that she was killed, almost certainly by Rupert Cardew. That’s a good thing, for the case. Then they’ll really know Papa was innocent.”

  “Do you hear what you are saying, Margaret?” he asked, pushing her a little farther from him, looking into her face. He saw the fear there, tightly controlled, the fierce protection, the urgency. There was no awareness at all that she had said anything to cast a shadow over her integrity.