Acceptable Loss

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 also,” 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.

Hesitantly he reached his arms out and touched her, then drew her closer to him and held her. He was not sure if she would resist, but her panic was only momentary. After a second of realization, she leaned against him and let him hold her tighter, more completely.

“I must go and tell the rest of the family,” he murmured. “They will be distressed, and we must assure them that we will do everything necessary to get this all dealt with as quickly and as discreetly as possible.”

“Yes.” She pulled away from him reluctantly. “Of course.”

He took a deep breath, and walked away from her and into the withdrawing room. He closed the door behind him and faced them. The women were sitting upright, tense, staring at him. The men were all standing.

“What the devil’s going on, Oliver?” George demanded. “Where is Papa-in-law?”

Rathbone faced Mrs. Ballinger. “I’m sorry, Mama-in-law, but he has had to go with the police for the time being. Tomorrow morning I shall—”

“Tomorrow!” George interrupted angrily. “You mean you’re just going to go home to bed and leave him in a police cell? What the—”

Mrs. Ballinger looked from one to the other of them, her face flushed and unhappy.

Celia took a step toward George, then changed her mind and moved to her mother instead.

“Be quiet!” Rathbone snapped at George, his voice hard-edged and loud. He turned again to Mrs. Ballinger. “There is nothing anyone can do tonight. There are no judges or magistrates available at this hour. But he is an innocent man, and of some substance; they will treat him reasonably. They know there’ll be hell to pay if they do anything else.”

George snorted. “Trust your friend to choose this time for precisely that reason. The man’s despicable.”

“Wilbert!” Gwen accused. “Why do you just stand there like a piece of furniture? Do something!”

“There’s nothing to do,” he retorted. “Oliver’s right. There’s no one to appeal to at this time of night.”

“As I said,” George glared at him, “that’s Monk for you.” He turned to Rathbone as if it were his fault.

Rathbone felt his face burn. “Would you rather he’d come during the day and arrested Papa-in-law in his offices, in front of his staff, and possibly his clients?”

The tide of color rushed up George’s face.

“What will you do tomorrow, Oliver?” Celia asked. “There has to be some mistake. What is he accused of? And where’s Margaret? She must be desperately upset. She was always the closest to Papa.”

“That’s not true,” Gwen said instantly.

“Oh, hold your tongue!” Celia snapped. “We have to stop quarreling among ourselves and think what to do. What is it about, Oliver?”

Rathbone tried to smile, as if he were confident, but he knew it was sickly on his lips. “It is in connection with the murder of an extremely unpleasant man named Mickey Parfitt. He was strangled and thrown into the river, up beyond Chiswick.”

“Chiswick?” Mrs. Ballinger said in disbelief. “Why does Mr. Monk imagine Arthur would have anything to do with it? That’s absurd!”

“He was on the river that night,” Rathbone replied. “He crossed at Chiswick, if you recall. He went to see Bertie Harkness. He told us about it over dinner.”

“This is farcical,” George interrupted again. “Surely Harkness can tell the police where he was? Monk deserves to be punished for this. It’s totally incompetent. The man has a personal—”

“Oh, do be quiet!” Wilbert said impatiently. “You’re talking about the police. He isn’t some nincompoop running around doing whatever he likes. Anyway, why should he have anything personal against Papa-in-law? He doesn’t even know him.”

George’s heavy eyebrows shot up. “Are you suggesting there is something in this? That Papa-in-law had something to do with this wretched man’s murder?”

“Don’t be stupid! Of course I’m not. It probably has to do with a client. He could be acting for someone who does.”

“Oh, really!” Mrs. Ballinger protested.

“Mama-in-law,” Rathbone seized the chance Wilbert had given him, “if he could act for Jericho Phillips, he could act for anyone. I’ll go to the River Police first thing in the morning and find out from Monk himself exactly what evidence they have, and what they have made of it. And of course I’ll see Papa-in-law and find out if he wishes me to act for him. Then we’ll sort it all out.”

“With an apology,” George added.

Mrs. Ballinger looked at both of them, blinking, her face composed with an obvious effort. “Thank you, Oliver. I think it would be best if we all retired now. How is Margaret?”

“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.

“Dammit, 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?”

“No,” Rathbone said without hesitation. It all sounded very reasonable, but it was not a defense. “We will have to have far more than a mere denial.”

Ballinger managed a tight, bleak smile. “They have to prove that I was there, that I was in possession of Rupert Cardew’s cravat, and that I had a compelling reason to kill Parfitt. They can do none of those things, because none of them is true. I was on the river, crossing it from the south side, on my way home. I was in a ferry, and the ferryman will vouch for it. From there I took a hansom straight home. No one can prove differently, because that’s the truth.”

“And you are sure you didn’t have any dealings with Parfitt?” Rathbone pressed.

“For heaven’s sake, what dealings would I have?” Ballinger protested. “From what you say, the man’s unspeakable!”

“You were prepared to act for Jericho Phillips,” Rathbone pointed out. “And for Sullivan, who was using the filthy trade, and paying Phillips blackmail money. The prosecution would not find it difficult to suggest you did the same for Parfitt or, on the other hand, for one of his victims.”

Ballinger swallowed. There was still no color in his face, and he looked cornered and embarrassed. “I acted for Sullivan because the man was desperate.”

Rathbone could no longer put it off without very deliberately lying, both to Ballinger and to himself. He had pretended that he did not need an answer, and it lay like poison inside him.

“Sullivan told me that you were the one who introduced him to the pornography, and that you were behind Phillips financially.”

Ballinger stared at him.

Seconds ticked by.

Ballinger gulped. “He told you that?” he said incredulously.

“Yes.”

“And you said nothing … until now?”

“I chose to believe it was the hysterical accusation of a man whose mind was turned by despair, and who was about to take his own life.”

“And so it was.” Ballinger took an enormous breath, and the sweat beaded on his face, although the cell was cold. “My God, that makes sense of Monk’s insane behavior. You spoke to him, didn’t you!” That was a statement, not a question, close to the edge of blame.

Rathbone found himself off balance. He almost started to make excuses for himself.

“Are you telling me that you were not involved with Sullivan’s behavior?” he said, measuring his words very deliberately.

Arthur Ballinger hesitated. He glanced down at his hands, strong and heavy on the table, then met Rathbone’s eyes. “Sullivan blackmailed me into representing him,” he said quietly. “Not for anything I did, but for Cardew. Helping him was his price for keeping Cardew out of it.”

Rathbone was so amazed that for a moment he could think of nothing to say.

Ballinger stared at him, waiting.

“Cardew?” Rathbone said at length. “You were prepared to get involved with that sordid mess, to save Cardew?”

Ballinger’s face softened, his shoulders eased a little bit, and he almost smiled. “I’ve admired him immensely, for a long time.”

“He was involved with Phillips, and you admired him?” Rathbone’s voice carried his disgust, and his disbelief.

“Rupert Cardew was involved with Phillips, for God’s sake! I admired his father!” Ballinger said witheringly. “And I was desperately sorry for him. You haven’t children yet, Oliver. You have no idea how you can love your child, regardless of how they behave, or what wretched things they do. You still care, you still forgive, and you can never abandon them, or stop hoping they will somehow change and be at least something of what you want for them.”

Rathbone was totally confused. Was it possible?

Ballinger leaned forward across the table. “I did all I could to save Sullivan, for his own sake. I should not have been surprised that he took his own life, but I regret to say I did not see it beforehand, or I might have stopped him. Or perhaps not. He was a man with nothing left, and death was the only answer remaining. Thank God that at least he took with him the evidence that would have ruined Rupert Cardew as well.”

“Took with him?” Rathbone echoed.

“I meant into oblivion,” Ballinger elaborated. “I don’t suppose he had it literally … in his pockets. It was his one half-decent act, poor devil.”

“But he blamed you.”

“So you say. Half-decent, but not entirely.” He reached out his hand toward Rathbone. “But I will not say this in court, Oliver. I must clear my name without destroying Cardew. Possibly no one can save Rupert, but leave his father out of it.”

“How is his father involved?” Rathbone found the words difficult to say. He knew of Lord Cardew only by repute, for his crusade against industrial pollution. The man had apparently found some means to change Lord Justice Garslake’s mind, heaven knew how! Oliver himself had had only one highly emotional meeting with him, over the danger against Rupert, but he could not imagine Lord Cardew having anything to do with Parfitt or Phillips, unless he were tricked into it. Monk would have no interest in that.

“You don’t need to know,” Ballinger said softly. “Leave the man a little dignity, Oliver. And if you can, leave his name out of the court proceedings. You can defend me from this without mentioning Phillips, or Sullivan, or any of the others who were dragged down by him. I did not kill Parfitt, nor do I know who did, or specifically why. The man was human filth and must have had scores of enemies. If you can’t find the one who killed him, at least oblige the jury to know what type of person that would be. Don’t ruin Cardew in the process … please.”

Rathbone felt as if certainty had crumbled in his hands. He was holding a dozen shards, none of which fitted together to make a comprehensible whole.

“Perhaps you can do it without destroying anyone else,” Ballinger went on. “But if you can’t save Monk from himself, then you must follow the law, and your own sense of right and wrong. You did not do this to him; he did it to himself.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Rathbone said gravely. “As it stands at the moment, I will be able to challenge the prosecutor on just about every point. But of course I shall not stop working until the case is thrown out.”

Ballinger smiled. “Thank you. I knew you would.”