Acceptable Loss

CHAPTER

4

MONK BEGAN TO LOOK more deeply into the life of Mickey Parfitt, his friends and enemies, his patrons, and the men he had used and cheated, and whose appetites he had fed. And if Parfitt were truly like Jericho Phillips, then of course there would also be those he had blackmailed. But does a blackmailed man turn on the one who supplies his addiction? Only if he has reached the last shreds of despair and has nothing left to lose.

Perhaps Monk should see if any well-known man had committed suicide in the last few days, or had met with a death that was open to that interpretation.

Mickey Parfitt was not in himself a person of any importance. People were dying up and down the river every week. The River Police could spare only a couple of men to investigate a crime of such little effect on the city or its population. One petty criminal more or less did not stir fear or righteous outrage, not really even interest.

It was a still, hazy morning when Monk and Orme took a hansom from Wapping all the way out to Chiswick. They would have gone by water, but that would have meant following the twists and turns of the river, and rowing that distance would have been backbreaking work. They could certainly not have spared two more men for the task.

“Hardly know if I care,” Orme said grimly as he sat staring straight ahead of him inside the cab. It was going to be a mild day, but he was dressed as always in a plain, dark jacket and trousers with a cap pulled over his brow.

Monk knew what was in his mind: the frightened, blank-eyed children he had seen on Phillips’s boat, and that other boy’s thin, broken body they had pulled out of the water. Monk didn’t care himself if they caught Mickey’s killer or not, and to Orme, of all people, he could not pretend that he did.

“Perhaps we won’t find whoever did it,” he said wryly.

Orme looked at him, weighing how seriously he meant it.

Monk shrugged. “Of course murder deserves to be punished, whoever the victim is. If we get close, we’ll scare the wits out of him.” That was not a joke. In the past many people had been frightened of Monk. It was not something he was entirely proud of. Some of them had been the men he worked with, who were younger, less able, less agile of mind, afraid of his cutting judgment. He’d been admired, but also feared.

But that had been before the accident that had robbed him of his memory, and when he had still been in the Metropolitan Police. Then, after he had been dismissed, he had worked for himself, solving crimes for those who’d employed him privately. It was only after Durban’s death that he had been offered this position to lead the Thames Police on the river.

Durban had not possessed Monk’s ruthless skill in hunting down the truth—few people did. But he had known how to lead men, how to earn their loyalty, draw out the best in them, even inspire a kind of love. Above all they had trusted him.

Monk had known him all too briefly. They had been friends. It was Durban, knowing he was dying, who had suggested that Monk take his place. Now Monk had to justify that honor placed on him. He had to learn the art of leading men, starting with Orme, who had been Durban’s closest ally.

“And we’ll catch him if we can,” he added, as if it were an unnecessary afterthought.

Orme smiled as if he understood beyond the words, and said nothing. He sat back a little in the seat and his shoulders relaxed.

At the small local police station in Chiswick they were greeted cautiously, and taken into a warm, poky office that smelled of strong tea and tobacco smoke. The walls were lined with shelves; the table was piled with papers.

Monk and Orme requested as much local knowledge as possible, and Monk asked the sergeant in charge a number of questions. Orme listened and took notes, writing rapidly and with surprising neatness.

“ ’E were a nasty piece o’ work,” the sergeant said, describing Mickey Parfitt. “Can’t let murder go, but if we could, ’ooever done ’im in’d be my first pick not ter find, as it were.” He sighed. “ ’Owever, seems we can’t do that, or Gawd knows where it’d finish. We’ll do all we can to ’elp yer find the poor sod ’oo did it.” A look of amusement flashed across his broad face. “Mind, yer’ve got a lot ter choose from, an’ that’s the truth.”

“What was he doing out there on the boat by himself?” Monk asked, perching on the edge of one of the rickety chairs. “Any ideas? If you could prove anything, you’d have had him locked up already, but whom do you suspect? And don’t tell me there’s too many to choose from.”

The sergeant smiled widely, a warm, spontaneous gesture that lit his bony face. “Wouldn’t think of it, sir. We’re too far up the river for smuggling. There in’t nobody up ’ere worth thievin’ from, although I used ter wonder if ’e were fencin’ stuff, so I made the chance to go out an’ look, but I didn’t see a thing.”

“Lot of people coming and going?” Monk asked.

“Yeah. That’s part o’ why I thought ’e were fencin’ stuff.”

“What sort of people?” Monk found himself tense, waiting. He did not look at Orme, but he could feel Orme stiffen also.

“No women,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head. “So if that’s what ye’re thinking, ye’re wrong. If it was that simple, I’d ’ave stopped ’im meself. Always men, an’ if yer looked close enough, well-to-do men at that. Gamblin’s my thoughts. ’Igh stakes, life or death sort o’ stuff. ’Ad one top ’isself almost a year ago. No doubt of it—did it ’isself. Shot through the ’ead.” His amiable face twisted in an expression of pity. “Alone in a small boat, pretty little gun there with ’im. Pearl ’andled. S’pose ’e lost more ’n ’e could pay. Dunno wot gets into folk.” A tiredness touched him, as if he had seen too much and it exhausted his pity.

Monk thought of the man alone in the boat, holding the gun in his hands, probably cold, almost certainly shaking. It had to do with honor, as the sergeant supposed, but not money—the dishonor of being exposed as a man who looked at obscene photographs, and used the degradation and abuse of little boys to satisfy his dark hunger. But Monk did not need to tell the sergeant that now.

“Who works for him?” he asked. “I know about ’Orrie Jones, and Tosh Wilkin and Crumble. What can you tell me about them?”

“ ’Orrie’s a bit simple,” the sergeant replied. “But not as daft as ’e makes out. ’E can be sharp enough if it suits ’im. Crumble’s a follower. Does as ’e’s told. Tosh yer need to watch.” He shook his head. “ ’E’s another bad ’un. Never bin able ter catch ’im in enough ter put ’im away.” His face brightened. “Think ’e could’ve bin the one ter do Mickey?”

“I doubt it,” Monk said with regret. “I think it was very much in Tosh’s interest to keep Mickey alive and profitable, earning money for both of them.”

“Was ’e an opulent receiver, then?” That was the term for someone who bought and sold high-quality stolen articles, such as jewelry, works of art, ivory, or gold.

“No,” Monk replied with near certainty. “He was a pornographer, and probably a pimp of little boys, for a few select customers.”

The sergeant blasphemed quietly, half under his breath. He did not apologize, so perhaps he was taking the Lord’s name very much in earnest.

“Still willing to help us find whoever killed him?” Monk asked, a harsh smile twisting his mouth.

The sergeant looked straight at him, blue eyes steady. “O’ course, sir, but I’m sorry to say, I don’t think as I know anything as’d be of use to yer.”

Monk laughed, a harsh, oblique pleasure in it. “What a shame. I’m sure you would have a list of ferrymen, boatbuilders, cabdrivers, shopkeepers near the water, the kind of person who might have seen something.”

“Course, sir.”

“Did Mickey often go out to his boat alone?”

“No idea, sir. ’Ard to say on a misty night ’oo goes where. That’s the trouble with the river, but being River Police an’ all, I expect you know that better than I do.”

“Did Mickey own the boat?”

The sergeant looked startled. “Dunno. But I s’pose yer could find out.”

“I intend to.” Monk thanked him and went outside into the brightening morning air. The sharp light off the water shifted and glittered with the incoming tide. Barge sails showed rusty-red, canvases barely filled. A few leaves were beginning to turn color. Some even drifted down.

Already the street was busy. Carts rattled over the rough stones, and men shouted to one another as they loaded and unloaded sacks, barrels, lengths of timber.

“What d’you reckon he was out there for at that hour of night?” Orme asked quietly as they walked over the road to the water’s edge. “Someone set him up?”

“Possibly,” Monk conceded. “Hitting him over the head could be a crime of opportunity. The assailant could have used any piece of wood lying around, a broken oar, half a branch, anything. But who carries around a rope with knots in it?”

“Piece of rigging from a boat?” Orme questioned. “Always rope on boats, or in a boatyard.”

“True,” Monk agreed. “But did he carry it with him? Or did he kill Mickey somewhere else, then toss him into the water and let him drift? There aren’t any boatyards upstream of where he was found—at least not near his own boat, which is where we think he went in. I suppose we could be wrong. But if the next boatyard is miles upriver, why carry him back again? Just to confuse us?”

Orme pursed his lips. “Premeditated,” he said with certainty. “Somebody came meaning to kill him. Not surprising, considering his occupation. What’s surprising is that it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Maybe ’Orrie, Crumble, and Tosh looked after him?” Monk was thinking aloud. “In which case either they were outwitted or they turned on him and at least one of them sold him to his murderer.”

Orme looked at him sideways, a rare amusement in his eyes, perhaps at the justice of the idea. Then, before Monk could be absolutely certain of it, he looked away again. “I suppose we’d better look for who that could be,” he said expressionlessly.

They spent the morning speaking to the various men whose livelihood kept them on the river, or close to its banks: boatbuilders, shipwrights, chandlers, breakers, suppliers of oars, sculls, and other fittings for boats. They learned nothing that added to what they already knew.

They had a lunch of bread, cold ham, and chicken, and a glass of ale each. Then Orme left to question the ferrymen. Monk went to find ’Orrie Jones again, in the cellars of the public house, moving kegs of ale.

“I told yer,” ’Orrie said, his wandering eye veering wildly, the other fixed on Monk. “I took ’im out ter the boat. Summink arter eleven, it were. ’E tol’ me ter come back fer ’im, but I were ’eld up, an’ I were late. When I got there, bit before one, ’e were gorn. I din’t see nobody else, an’ I dunno ’oo killed ’im.”

“What did he go out to the boat for?” Monk asked patiently. He did not know why he was asking all this. It probably made no difference. He was doing it to convince himself that he was trying to find the truth and to prove who had killed Parfitt.

‘Orrie was staring at him incredulously, leaning a little against a pile of kegs. “ ’Ow do I know? Yer think I asked ’im?”

“Who else did you tell?” Monk persisted.

’Orrie looked indignant. “Nob’dy! Yer sayin’ as I set ’im up?”

“Did you?” It was a possibility, a fight over the spoils?

“Course I didn’t. Why’d I do a thing like that?” ’Orrie protested.

“For money,” Monk replied. “Or because you were more scared of whoever paid you than you were of Mickey Parfitt.”

’Orrie drew in his breath to argue, then let it out again, clearly having thought better of it. He looked sideways at Monk, for once both his eyes more or less in the same direction. “I din’t tell no one, but Mickey went out there often, like. There were things that needed seein’ ter, an’ ’e din’t trust no one else ter do it right.”

“He didn’t trust you?” Monk pressed, pretending surprise.

’Orrie’s face tightened, sensible to the insult. It was clear from his furrowed expression that he was now taking a great deal more care before he answered. “Mebbe someb’dy were watchin’?” he suggested. “ ’E were clever, were Mickey, but ’e got enemies. King o’ that bit o’ the river, ’e were.”

“Who else did you see when you went back for him?” Monk asked.

This time ’Orrie weighed his answer for several moments. Monk waited with interest, studying ’Orrie’s extraordinary face. Sometimes the lie a man chose could tell you more about him than the truth.

“There’s always people on the water,” ’Orrie started cautiously.

Monk smiled. “Of course. If there weren’t, there’d be no business.”

“Right.” ’Orrie nodded slowly, still apparently watching Monk. “People wi’ money,” he added.

“So, what did Mickey Parfitt sell to them?” Monk asked him.

’Orrie looked totally blank, as if he had not understood.

“ ’Orrible, what did Mickey Parfitt sell to these men with money?” Monk repeated carefully. “He made a very good living, or he couldn’t have afforded a boat at all, never mind one with fittings like those in his boat.”

“I dunno,” ’Orrie said helplessly. “Yer suppose ’e told the likes o’ me?”

“No, ’Orrie, I suppose you had enough sense to see for yourself!”

’Orrie shook his head. “Not me. I never bin on the boat. I took folk out an’ I brung ’em back. I dunno wot they done. Gamblin’, mebbe?” He looked hopeful.

Monk stared at him. With his swiveling eye it was impossible to tell if he was frightened, half-witted, or simply physically disadvantaged. Monk considered asking him what the boys were for, but perhaps it would be better to keep that question for later. Let ’Orrie wonder for a while where they had gone to. Or perhaps he really didn’t know. It might have been Crumble, or even Tosh, who’d looked after them.

’Orrie smiled. “Ask Tosh. ’E’ll know,” he offered.

Monk thanked him and went in search of Tosh. It took him nearly an hour, and a great deal of questioning, but at last he found him in a cramped but surprisingly tidy office. There was a woodstove burning in one corner, in spite of the comparative warmth of the day. Instantly Monk knew what had happened, and cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have left someone following Tosh, and probably Crumble as well. Then they would have found the papers in time to save them. Tosh and Crumble might deny it, but Mickey was bound to have had certain things noted down: debts and IOUs, if nothing else.

Tosh looked up at Monk, his face calm, even affecting interest. “Found anything yet as ter ’oo killed poor Mickey?” he inquired politely. Today he had a yellow vest on, and he flicked a piece of ash off it carefully.

Monk stood still in the middle of the floor, three feet from Tosh and the stove, controlling his anger with difficulty. “Business rival or a dissatisfied customer,” he replied. “Or one who couldn’t take being blackmailed anymore. Like the poor sod who shot himself on the river last year.”

Tosh’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. “Dunno why ’e did that,” he said smoothly. “Could a bin anything. Mebbe ’is wife ran orff. It ’appens.”

“Rubbish!” Monk snapped at him. “Upper-class women with rich husbands don’t run off with other men and create a scandal. They stay at home and take lovers on the side. They do it very discreetly, and everybody else pretends not to know. Leaves the husbands the latitude to do the same, should they wish to.”

“Looks like you know ’em better ’n I do,” Tosh replied with a slight sneer. “But, then, I s’pose you would, bein’ police an’ all. So you’d be best placed to guess why ’at poor bastard shot ’isself. Don’t see as ’ow it ’as anything ter do wiv ’oo croaked Mickey. In fact, ’e’s fer sure one ’o them ’oo didn’t, seein’ as e’s dead ’isself.”

Monk ignored the jibe. “Revenge?” he suggested. “One of the dead man’s family coming after Mickey, maybe?”

“Only makes sense if Mickey’d killed ’im.” Tosh was watching him very carefully now. “Which ’e didn’t.”

Monk smiled. “I thought you’d know about it.”

A flicker of anger crossed Tosh’s face. “I dunno nothing about it!”

“What did Mickey sell to his customers, Tosh? And don’t tell me again that you don’t know. You’ve just destroyed all the papers, except those that prove his ownership of the boat, so that you can keep it for yourself.”

There was an ugly stain of color in Tosh’s face now, but he didn’t attempt to deny it. “Jus’ burned a few private things. A man’s a right ter that. In’t you got no respect for the dead? Mickey were the victim of a murder! In’t it your job ter be on ’is side?” He looked up, his eyes gleaming with bright, malicious innocence.

Monk looked back, equally blankly, wondering where the blackmailing photographs were. He glanced around the small room. There were cupboards and drawers on every wall, as if for an office of detailed business dealings. Here there would be just a record of debts and payments, dates, names, amounts. The pictures would have been far more carefully hidden, as Jericho Phillips’s had been. Perhaps even Tosh didn’t know that.

The thought of Phillips’s pictures still made Monk’s stomach lurch with rage and disgust so violent that he was nauseous with it, but he forced a smile. “Looking for the pictures, were you?”

Tosh was staring at him, studying his face. He must have considered lying, and decided against it. “Just wanted to find out ’oo owed ’im still. An’ o’ course ’oo ’e owed. Got ter pay the bills.” He gave a tight, ugly smile.

“Of course,” Monk agreed. “I imagine his partners will be after their share of the takings—present and future. Will you be keeping the business on, Tosh?”

This time Tosh was caught. “ ’Ow do I know?” he answered irritably. “I jus’ worked for ’im. In’t none of it mine.”

“No, of course not,” Monk agreed, and saw the anger harden in Tosh’s face. He would have liked it to have been his. He would be waiting now for the silent partner, whoever it was who had put in the money in the first place, to turn up and take the lion’s share. Someone had backed Mickey Parfitt, just as someone had backed Jericho Phillips.

Sullivan had said that it was Ballinger who’ been behind Phillips. Was that true, or the lie of a desperate man seeking a last revenge? But to what end if Ballinger was not actually involved? Because Ballinger had seen his weakness, and in some way used it?

And could Ballinger be behind both of them? Or was Monk only entertaining the idea because he was so desperate to believe he could end this hideous trade, at least here on the river he had taken for his own? And it was even more urgent to him to give Scuff the illusion of safety that would stop the nightmares and make him believe there really was someone who could protect him from the worst fears and atrocities of life.

And did Monk need, for himself, to be the one who saved Scuff? If so, that was his own weakness, and to pursue Ballinger for it was worse than unjust; it was vicious and irrational, the kind of obsession he most despised in others.

“Tell me about the night Mickey was killed,” he said abruptly.

Tosh was startled, but after the initial surprise, his confidence returned, as if now Monk had moved away from the area of danger.

“I told yer already …” He repeated the detailed account of his movements exactly as he had said before, almost reciting it. Of course Monk would check, but—looking at Tosh’s face—he was certain he would find it all well proved, perhaps as well as if Tosh had known he would need it to withstand investigation. A faint satisfaction gleamed behind his anger now.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Monk said to Orme as they sat in the hansom on the way back toward Wapping. It was dusk, and they had done all they could for the day. Monk was tired; not his feet—he was used to walking—but in his mind. He felt as if Jericho Phillips were back and he, Monk, were retracing the pain of the old failure.

Did he secretly want Parfitt’s murderer to escape, because he would like to kill all men like that himself? Especially if Parfitt had, like Phillips, been prepared to murder the boys who became troublesome as they grew too mature to satisfy the tastes of their abusers? Could it even be one of them, escaped, returned, and now strong enough, who had killed Parfitt in revenge?

If it was, then Monk had no desire to catch him. Perhaps he would deliberately fail to, even at the cost of his own so fiercely nurtured reputation.

He looked across at Orme beside him, trying to read his face in the flashes of lamplight from passing hansoms going the other way. It told him nothing, except that Orme was troubled also, which Monk already knew.

“Who put up the money for the boat in the first place?” Monk asked.

Orme pursed his lips. “And why’d he kill Parfitt? Getting above himself, d’you suppose? Stealing the profits?”

“Perhaps,” Monk replied. “What did Crumble have to say?”

“Just what you’d expect,” Orme said. “Lots of men coming and going, mostly well-dressed but keeping very quiet. Always after dark, and trying to look like they were just taking a ferry, or something like that.” Orme’s mouth was drawn tight, his lips a thin line in the reflected lamplight. “It’s Phillips all over again. Just this time somebody else got to him before we did.”

“One of his clients? Victims of blackmail? One of his boys?” Monk tried to frame the ugliest thought in his mind, the one he did not want ever to look at. But Orme’s own honesty was too all-inclusive for Monk to say anything less now without it being a deliberate evasion. It cost Monk an effort. He had never worked with others before whom he trusted. He had commanded, but not led. He was only lately beginning to appreciate the difference. “Or his backer needing to silence him?”

“Could be,” Orme replied quietly. “Don’t know how we’ll find that out, let alone get evidence.”

“No,” Monk agreed. “Neither do I, yet.”

———

WHEN MONK FINALLY REACHED home, it had long been dark. The glare of the city lights was reflected back from a low overcast sky, making the blackness of the river look like a tunnel through the sparks and gleams and the glittering smear of brightness all around.

He walked up the hill from the ferry landing at Princes Stairs, turned right on Union Road, then left into Paradise Place. He could hear the wind in the leaves of the trees over on Southwark Park, and somewhere a dog was barking.

He let himself in with his own key. Too often he was home long after Hester needed to be asleep, although she almost always waited up for him. This time she was sitting in the big chair in the front room, the gas lamp still burning. Her sewing had slipped from her hands and was in a heap on the floor. She was sound asleep.

He smiled and walked quietly over to her. How could he avoid startling her? He went back and closed the door with a loud snap of the latch.

She woke sharply, pulling herself upright. Then she saw him and smiled.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I must have drifted off.” She was still blinking sleepily, but trying through the remnant of dreams to study his face.

“I’ll get us a cup of tea,” he said gently. This was home: comfortable, familiar, where he had been happier than he had thought possible. Here he was freer than anywhere else in the world, and yet also more bound, because it mattered so much; to lose it would be unbearable. It would have been easier to care less, to believe there was something else that could nourish his heart, if need be. But there wasn’t, and he knew it.

“How’s Scuff?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Fine,” Hester answered, bending to pick up the fallen sewing and put it away. “I didn’t tell him you found another boat. If he has to know, I’ll tell him later.” She came up behind him. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” Suddenly he realized that he was. “Bread will do.”

“Cold game pie?” she offered.

“Ah! Yes.”

It was not until he was sitting down with pie and vegetables and a cup of tea that he realized she intended to draw from him all that he had learned so far.

“Not as much as the pie is worth,” he said.

“What isn’t?” She tried to look as if she did not know what he meant, but ended with a brief laugh at herself. “Is it another one like Phillips’s?” she said softly.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Between mouthfuls Monk told her what he knew so far, keeping his voice so low that he would hear any creak of Scuff’s footsteps on the stairs.

She was very grave. “Could it be Arthur Ballinger?” she asked when he came to a stop. She knew of Sullivan’s charge.

“Yes,” he answered. “Not to have killed him, of course, but he could be the one backing the enterprise financially, and taking a share of the profits.”

“Could you prove it?”

“Perhaps. I’ll put Orme on to the accounts tomorrow, and see if he can trace the ownership of the boat back to someone. Although I’ll be surprised if it’s that easy.”

She was sitting upright, her back stiff. The lamplight made her hair look fairer than it was, almost like a halo. “So why would Ballinger kill him, or have him killed? Do you think Phillips’s death scared him and he was afraid you would pursue the issue until you found who was behind it?”

Monk considered the idea for several moments. Would he have taken Sullivan’s word, unverified as it was, and continued to hunt for whoever had conceived the original idea, found the rich men ripe for the danger and the titillation of child pornography? Perhaps the threat of the double disgrace of child abuse and homosexuality was part of the excitement. These men had not considered the possibility that the very hand that tempted them, and then fed them, would in the end also administer the wounds that would bleed them dry. For that Monk had a shard of pity.

What he did not forgive was that they had not considered the wretched children who paid for men’s entertainment with humiliation and pain, sometimes with their lives.

Yes, he knew now, here in the place of his own precious safety, that he did not want to catch whoever had killed Mickey Parfitt. The law would not recognize self-defense, because this murder had obviously not been done in hot blood. The knotted rope embedded in Parfitt’s throat alone proved that. But morally that is what it was: getting rid of a predator who destroyed the young and the weak.

“William?” Hester prompted.

He looked up. “Yes, I suppose Ballinger might have been frightened by Phillips’s death. Sooner or later I would have gone after whoever was behind Phillips. But if Parfitt hadn’t been murdered, it might have been later.”

The shadow of a smile touched her mouth. “How much later? A month? Two?”

He shrugged slightly.

She was very serious now. “Do you suppose Parfitt knew that, and got greedy, put on a little pressure, took advantage of what he thought was a vulnerability?”

It was possible. If Parfitt were the opportunist he seemed, then he might well have seized the chance to try to take over a far larger part of the business. It was something Monk could not evade, wherever it led him.

As if reading his thoughts, Hester asked the question he did not want to answer. “Could Sullivan have been telling the truth?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, looking up and meeting her eyes. “I’d give a lot for it not to be, for Margaret’s sake, and even more for Rathbone’s.”

“And Scuff?”

He frowned. “Is it better for him to let it all go, hoping he’ll forget it, or to drag it out into the open and get rid of it, if we can? That means exposing it like a great new wound, for him to see and feel all over again.”

“And all the other boys?” Her voice was measured.

“We can’t heal the world,” he replied. “There will always be those we can’t do anything about. What we can touch is so small as to be almost invisible, compared with what we can’t.”

“It isn’t how much you do; it’s the question of whether doing anything or nothing is better for him.”

“Is that what matters? What’s right for Scuff?” he asked.

“Yes!” She breathed in and out, and looked away from his eyes. “No! Of course that’s not all. But it’s where I start. You didn’t answer me. Which is better for Scuff?”

“I know he still has nightmares. I hear you get up in the night. I know he’s probably about nine or ten, for all that he says he’s eleven, and has been saying for nearly a year. In some ways he’s far older than that. Fairy tales won’t do for him. The only thing he’ll believe is something close to the truth.” He lowered his voice. “He doesn’t have a very high opinion of my knowledge, or my common sense. He takes great pride in looking after me. But at least he thinks I don’t ever lie to him. It’s the only thing he knows for certain. I can’t break that.”

“I know.” Hester was still chewing her lip. “You’re right; to try to protect him from it is ridiculous. It’s a sort of denial of his experience, as if we didn’t believe him. That’s the last thing he needs. I don’t know how much he’s a child and how much a man.” She smiled, and he saw the hurt behind it. “And I don’t think I really know very much about children anyway. I think he’s afraid of being touched, in case he loses the independence he needs to keep in order to survive. Maybe one day …”

“You’ll do it right,” Monk said gently. “You’re good with the difficult ones.”

He looked at her sitting across the table from him in the lamp-lit kitchen, with its gleaming pans and familiar china on the dresser. Her eyelids were heavy, her hair falling out of its pins from her sleep in the chair, her plain blue dress vaguely reminiscent of her nursing days. But she was ready now to fight anyone and everyone to defend Scuff. With a thrill of surprise, Monk suddenly understood what beauty was really about.

“I’ll find whoever killed Mickey Parfitt and put an end to the pornography boats, whoever is behind them. No matter who gets hurt by it,” he promised.

“Even if it’s Oliver?” she asked.

He hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

She smiled, and there was an intense gentleness in her eyes. “The man you used to be could do that, but are you sure you can now? Whoever’s behind this won’t go down easily. He’ll take everyone with him that he can. Think of what he’s already done, and you’ll know that. It could be you, me”—her voice dropped—“Scuff, anyone. Are you prepared for that?”

This time he was silent for several moments before he answered.

“This first surrender would only be the beginning,” he said. “If I back off now, I may spend the rest of my life giving in every time I could lose anything.”

She leaned forward a little and put her hand over his. She nodded, but she did not speak.

THE FOLLOWING DAY MONK and Orme returned to Chiswick to begin following the money invested in Mickey’s business and the financing of his boat. The only part of it that would be clear was the payment to the previous owner, and probably much of the maintenance costs and the occasional repair and improvement. Mickey must have handled a great deal of money at one time or another. At least some of it would have left traces.

Whoever had repaired the boat would also know where it had been.

“Think it’ll help?” Orme said bleakly. They were standing on the bank of the river just above the Hammersmith Creek, the next bend eastward toward the city.

“Got a better idea?” Monk asked. “We know what ’Orrie, Crumble, and Tosh are going to tell us. Asking again won’t make any difference.”

The breeze was cool on their faces and smelled of mud and weeds. Orme stared across the water. “Tosh is a bad ’un,” he replied. “But I can’t see why he’d kill Mickey. He hasn’t the skill to take his place, and he’s not stupid enough to think he has. Crumble just does as he’s told. Can’t work out whether ’Orrie’s as daft as he looks or not.”

“Fear or money …,” Monk said thoughtfully. “Probably money, sooner or later. We have to find whatever records remain, and re-create as much as we can from other people. A lot of money passed through Parfitt’s hands. He will have had to account to the man behind it all.”

Orme winced. “One of his customers?”

“I hope so.” Monk was surprised how intensely he meant that.

THEY SPENT THAT DAY and the following two searching for every trace of money or records that Parfitt might have kept, other than those Tosh had burned. They questioned ferrymen and bargemen, workers in every boatyard on either side of the river from Brentford to Hammersmith, every supplier of rope, paint, canvas, nails, or any other ships’ goods or tools. They followed the course of the boat’s mornings, its few trips up and down the river. The repairs, mooring fees, quantities of food, and alcohol made the nature of the business obvious. The income must have been very large indeed.

The pattern of it also showed where the boat had been most of the time, including where clients had been picked up, in Chiswick along the mall, and in such places of pleasure as the infamous Cremorne Gardens.

By daylight, Cremorne Gardens were a magnificent replacement of what Vauxhall Gardens had once been. There were long, smooth lawns shaded by elegant trees. There were flower beds, walks, colored lamps, grottoes, illuminated temples, conservatories, a platform with a thousand mirrors where an orchestra played. There were ballets performed, a marionette theater, even a circus. On the greater open spaces there were fireworks displays, and the place was famous for its balloon ascents.

By night it was also notorious for its lewd dancing, its drinking and assignations of all kinds, some consummated on the spot, as the bushes, narrower walks, and grottoes allowed. Other assignations, further outside the law, would happen elsewhere, less publicly.

“Who took ’em all out and back for their evening’s entertainment from up here?” Orme asked, more of himself than of Monk.

“Probably ’Orrie or Crumble,” Monk replied as they watched the light fade over the stretch of the river, flies dipping lazily on the water, fish making little rings of ripples as they broke the surface. “But if they say it was gambling, it would be difficult to prove otherwise.”

“What were the children doing?” Orme said sarcastically. “Serving their brandy? D’you suppose they could tell us anything?” His voice cracked a little. “Some of them are only five or six years old. They don’t even know what happened to them. They think they’re being punished for something they did.”

Monk looked at Orme’s face in the evening light, blunt, almost bruised by this new realization about himself. Orme had served the law all his life, and now he doubted what they were doing.

A few days ago Monk had wondered if Orme had thought Monk was squeamish, too soft to do his job. Now he saw in Orme’s averted face exactly the same pain he felt himself. But victims need justice, not pity. He thought of Scuff, and wondered if either was really any good. What they needed was for it not to have happened in the first place.

IT WAS FIRST THING the following morning when the police surgeon reported to Monk regarding the death of Mickey Parfitt. The surgeon was a dark man, thin-faced with a gallows humor. He found Monk in the Chiswick Police Station studying the records they had re-created regarding the finances of Parfitt’s business.

“Morning,” the surgeon said cheerfully, closing the door behind him firmly.

They had met several times before. “Good morning, Dr. Gordimer,” Monk replied. “I assume you have something on Parfitt’s death?”

“Came for the hospitality,” Gordimer replied bleakly, staring around the small, chaotic office with its piles of books and papers balanced precariously on every available surface. Any misplaced addition would send at least one pile crashing. “This is better than the morgue—marginally. Well, warmer at least.”

“I prefer the Dog and Duck,” Monk said drily.

Gordimer grunted. “Do you normally make this much mess? Have you lost something? You’ll probably lose it all at this rate.”

“Have you got anything new about Parfitt? I already know he was hit over the head and then strangled.”

“Ah, but what with?” Gordimer said with satisfaction.

“Rope? Twine? Something better?” Monk put down the paper he was reading and stared hopefully at the surgeon’s sardonic face.

“Much better,” Gordimer said with a smile. He fished into his pocket and brought out a length of cloth. It was filthy and blood-spotted, but very recognizably knotted at regular lengths.

Monk reached for it.

Gordimer moved it just beyond his grasp.

“What is it?” Monk said curiously. “Looks like a rag.”

Gordimer nodded. “A very expensive silk rag, to be precise. From close and expert examination, I believe that when it is unknotted and carefully washed, even ironed, it will prove to be a gentleman’s cravat. From the little I have learned, it is made of heavy silk, embroidered with gold leopards—three of them, one above the other, very like those on the queen’s arms in the flag.”

Monk’s stomach lurched. “You’re not—”

“No,” Gordimer agreed drily. “I’m not. I said ‘like.’ There is nothing royal about this. Any gentleman of means—and, I would add, good taste—might acquire such a cravat.”

“Expensive?”

“Very.”

“It was what killed him?”

“I dug it out of his neck, man! What more do you want?”

“Can you take a photograph of it and have it attested to?” Monk asked. “Then we can undo it and wash it and see it more clearly. If we can find out who owned it, we shall be a great deal further forward.”

“Probably,” Gordimer agreed. “Very probably.”

“Thank you,” Monk said sincerely.

“My pleasure,” Gordimer replied. “At least I think so. Not totally sure, nasty little swine like Parfitt.”

Monk smiled at him, and said nothing.

———

BUT FINDING THE OWNER of the cravat was easier to say than to do. Monk had not expected any help from Tosh, Crumble, or ’Orrie Jones, nor did he receive it. The best places to try after that were where customers of that wealth and fashion might be picked up for the boat, such as Cremorne Gardens. But there was no point in visiting during the day; the people he was looking for were those of the night.

He began just before dusk. The cravat itself was safely locked away as evidence—he could not risk being robbed of it. He had with him a very accurate drawing of it as it would have been had the valet just presented it to its owner to put on. It was even colored, very carefully, with paint, the little gold leopards standing out.

He went in to Cremorne Gardens through the great arched wrought-iron gates with the name in huge letters over the top. There were little knots of people standing around, arms waving expressively, and there was lots of laughter and the sound of music in the air.

He walked past them to begin with, looking for the more discreet business, not the idlers but the people who were familiar with the place and had come for a specific purpose. Those were the ones who might have the information he was looking for.

Everyone he saw was drinking, showing off, always with a roving eye looking for more and greater pleasure. When Monk demanded their attention, they were annoyed and disinclined to look at the drawing for more than a second or two before denying having seen such a cravat before.

Monk’s temper began to fray. He was still not sure he wanted to find whoever had wrapped this beautiful piece of silk around Parfitt’s neck and tightened it until he was dead. If the law had done it with an ordinary piece of hempen rope, they would have called it justice.

What he wanted was the man who’d put up the money to buy and furnish the boat, who befriended those with weaknesses. It was he who had brought men to that dark place on the river, where they could feel the excitement of danger, where the lazy blood suddenly pumped harder with horror, the scent of pain, and the knowledge that they were flirting with ruin. He had carefully photographed the obscenity. Then, when the blood was cold, clogging again in the veins with familiar safety, he would tell them that there was an indelible record of what they had done, and their own private dabbling in hell would cost them money—for the rest of their lives.

Monk followed a winding gravel pathway to a graceful pavilion under the trees, and stood watching men and women parade by, their faces garish for a moment under the lights. A short man with a black mustache linked arms with a girl half his age. Her ample flesh strained at her bodice. Her laughter sounded vaguely tinny, as if it were forced through her throat. Many of those women were paid for what they did.

Another couple strolled past; his hat was askew, her red skirts swaying. The men were buying pleasures they could not win at home. Perhaps they were clumsy, greedy, or inadequate? Perhaps the sanctity of the home prevented the passion they had been taught a lady did not enjoy? It was more likely that love of any kind was the last thing in their hearts. They might need pain, danger, or simply endless variety.

They were all around him, laughing too loudly, the women too brightly colored.

In all of it Monk could sense a pervasive loneliness, a compulsion, not an enjoyment.

He approached a man selling tickets to one of the dance floors.

“I want to be discreet,” he said with a very slight smile. “There are gentlemen here who would rather not have it known that they take their pleasures in such a place. Or should I say, they perhaps prefer the darkness, if you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said guardedly. “Can’t say as I can do anything about that.”

“Yes, you can. I am from the Thames River Police. I can come back here in uniform, with a lot of assistance, also in uniform, if you make that necessary. I’m hoping to find a little cooperation that will very quietly embarrass a few, rather than more publicly embarrass many.”

“I see, sir,” the man said quickly. “Which ‘few’ did you ’ave in mind? I’m sure as I can ’elp yer.”

“I thought you might.” Monk pulled out the drawing of the cravat. “Specifically, whoever wears a tie like this one.”

The man regarded it with disinterest. Then something in it struck a chord of memory. Monk saw it in his face. The man flushed, weighing the chances of lying and getting away with it. He looked at Monk’s eyes, and made his decision. “Looks like the young man wot comes with Mr. Bledsoe, sir. Not that I could say for sure, like.”

“Describe him,” Monk said curtly.

“Tall, fair ’air. ’Andsome. Full o’ charm. But, then, them gents is. Born to it. I guess it comes on the silver spoon they got in their gobs.”

“I imagine so. Tell me about Mr. Bledsoe. How do you know his name?”

“ ’Cos I ’eard ’im called by it, o’ course! D’yer think I’m a bleedin’ mind reader?”

Monk ignored the challenge. “What does he look like?” he asked curiously.

“Shorter. Dark ’air. Eyes a bit close tergether. Always wears a top ’at. S’pose it makes ’im a bit taller.” He snickered at the idea. “Big ’ands. I noticed as ’e ’ad great big ’ands.”

Monk thanked him and left.

It did not take him long the next day to look up the Bledsoe family, and make a few inquiries at police stations in Mayfair, Park Lane, and Kensington. He mentioned that a piece of jewelry had been lost and he wanted to return it to its owner discreetly. No one argued with him, and he had no conscience about lying.

He found the Honorable Alexander Bledsoe, who answered the description of the man in Cremorne Gardens with extraordinary accuracy. His well-cared-for but unusually large hands removed any doubt. He chose to see Monk without family or servants present.

“What can I do for you, Officer?” he said with carefully judged casualness.

“I’m looking for the gentleman who lost a rather fine silk cravat,” Monk replied smoothly. “I believe he might be a friend of yours.”

“Not that I know of.” Bledsoe smiled slightly, his shoulders relaxed, and the uneasiness vanished. “But if anyone mentions it, I’ll tell them it’s been found. Leave it at the local station, there’s a good fellow. Someone’ll pick it up.” He seemed to consider looking into his pocket for a coin. His hand moved, and then stopped. He turned as if to leave.

Monk pulled the picture of the cravat out of his pocket and held it up. “It’s rather distinctive,” he observed.

Bledsoe glanced at it and frowned. “What the hell is this?” he said sharply. “If you’ve found the thing, where is it?”

“At the police station, in safekeeping,” Monk replied.

“Well, get the damn thing and bring it to me. I’ll see that it’s returned,” Bledsoe said irritably.

“It’s important that I return it to the right person. Do you know who that is, sir?” Monk persisted.

“Yes, I do!” Bledsoe snapped. “Now go and fetch it! Dammit, man, what’s the matter with you?”

Monk folded the picture and replaced it in his pocket. “Whose is it, sir?”

Bledsoe glared at him. “Rupert Cardew’s. At least it looks like one he wore. For God’s sake, why are you making such a hell of a fuss about a damn cravat?”

Monk felt a void open up inside him. He knew how much Hester liked Rupert Cardew, and how he had helped the clinic. His generosity had enabled them to buy far more medicine than before, and so treat more people.

“Are you sure?” He was startled by the hoarseness in his voice.

“Yes, I am!” Bledsoe was losing his temper. “Now fetch it, and I’ll give it back to him, or I’ll see that you pay for your insolence.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t return it to you in the foreseeable future, or to Mr. Cardew. It was used in a crime. It will be evidence when the case comes to court.”

“What do you mean, a crime?” Bledsoe was taken aback, his skin losing its color, his stance suddenly changed.

“It was used to strangle a man,” Monk told him with some satisfaction.

The blood rushed hot into Bledsoe’s face. “You tricked me!” he accused him.

“I asked you if you knew whose it was. You answered me,” Monk said icily. “Do you mean that had you known it was used in a crime, then you would have lied?”

“Damn you!” Bledsoe said between his teeth. “I shall deny it.”

Monk looked at him, lifting his own lip in a suggestion of disdain. “If that is what your code of honor says you must do, sir, then you must follow your conscience. It is very noble of you.”

Bledsoe looked startled. “Noble?”

“Yes, sir. Now that I know whose it is, it will be easy enough to prove. You will look something of a fool in court, and everything of a liar, but you will have been loyal to your friend. Good day, sir.” He turned on his heel and strode away. He was furious, but far more than that, he was filled with misery. He desperately did not want the suspect to be someone he liked—worse, someone Hester liked.

Mickey Parfitt had been a monster. Any of his victims could have been tempted to destroy him, even if afterward they would have regretted either their rage or their loss of the fuel he’d supplied for their appetite. It simply had not occurred to Monk that Rupert Cardew, with his wealth, his privilege, and above all his charm, should have become entangled in such filth.

Why not? Dependency had nothing to do with position. It was about need.

Perhaps someone had stolen the cravat from him? Monk hoped so. It would not solve the crime, but then, perhaps that did not matter.

Over the next two days he traced Rupert Cardew to various prostitutes in the Chiswick area and farther south along the riverbank. The water and its people seemed to fascinate Rupert, as if there were both a vitality and a danger in its moods, its sleeping surface, so often smooth, reflecting the light and hiding its own heart.

He found other witnesses who had seen Rupert, who knew his tastes, women he had used from time to time. It was not difficult to follow the trail of the money he had gambled and lost, the debts he had paid only with his father’s help.

Eventually there was no reasonable doubt left. Monk took Orme with him and went to the magnificent house in Chelsea where Rupert Cardew still lived with his father. He chose to go early in the morning on purpose, so there was little chance either Lord Cardew or Rupert would be out.

The butler admitted him. Perhaps he should have gone to the back door, but that was something he had always refused to do, even when he had been a junior officer in the Metropolitan Police. Now, as commander of the Thames River Police he did not even think of it.

“I require to speak to Mr. Rupert Cardew regarding a most serious matter,” he said gravely as he was shown to the morning room to await Rupert’s convenience.

The interior of the house was magnificent, in the manner of one that has been lived in by the same family for generations. Little was new. The large hallway had a marble-flagged floor, worn uneven by the passage of feet over generations. The wooden banister sweeping down from the gallery above was darkened in places by the constant touch of hands. There was a carved chest with animals on it, which had been carefully mended.

In the morning room the carpet was beautiful, but the sun of countless summers had muted the colors. The leather on the chairs was scuffed in places. At another time he would have loved the room. Today it hurt, fueling his anger against Mickey Parfitt and all that he’d soiled with his manipulation of weakness.

He told the footman that he would wait until Mr. Cardew had had his breakfast, and asked to see the valet. He felt deceitful to show the picture of the cravat to a servant first, trading on his innocence, but in the end it was less cruel than placing him in the position where he could lie, and would feel obliged to do so.

When it was identified, Monk waited until Rupert came into the morning room. He looked as easy and charming as when Monk had met him at the clinic in Portpool Lane.

“Morning, Monk,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped. “God, man, you look dreadful! Nothing wrong with Mrs. Monk, I hope?” For a moment fear flickered in his face, as if it mattered to him.

Monk felt the deceit scorch inside him. He pulled the picture out of his pocket again and held it up.

“Your valet says that this is yours. It’s pretty distinctive.”

Rupert frowned. “It’s a piece of paper! Did you find my cravat?”

“If this is yours, yes. Is it?” Monk insisted.

Rupert looked at him with complete incomprehension. “Why on earth does it matter? Yes, it’s mine. Why?”

Monk had a moment’s doubt. Had Cardew no idea what he had done? Was Parfitt so worthless that he really didn’t think killing him mattered?

As if reciting something pointless, Monk told him, “It was used to murder someone called Mickey Parfitt. We found his body in the water at—” He stopped.

Rupert was ashen. Suddenly the meaning of it was clear to him.

“And you think I did it?” He had trouble articulating the words. He swayed a little, put out his hand to grasp something, but there was nothing there.

“Yes, Mr. Cardew, I do think so,” Monk said quietly. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I could believe he died of natural causes, but that is impossible. He was strangled with your cravat.”

“I …” Rupert made a jerky little movement with his hand, his eyes never leaving Monk’s face. “Is there any point in my denying it?”

“It’s not my decision,” Monk told him. “I might choose to believe you, whatever the facts say. But you knew him, you patronized his appalling boat. He blackmailed most of his clients. It was only a case of which one broke first.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Rupert said quietly, his face scarlet. “I paid.”

“And lent someone your cravat to kill him with?”

“It was stolen. Or … or I lost it. I don’t know.” Rupert’s expression said he did not expect to be believed.

Monk wished Rupert would stop. It was hopeless. “Please don’t make it worse than it is,” he said.

“Have you told my father?”

“No. You may, if you prefer. But don’t—”

“Run away?” Rupert asked with a flash of agonizing humor. “I won’t. Please wait here. I shall return in a few minutes.”

He kept his word. Ten minutes later he was in a hansom, sitting silently between Monk and Orme.