Acceptable Loss

CHAPTER 10

It was the evening before Arthur Ballinger’s trial began. Rathbone sat in his armchair before a fire not really necessary yet but vaguely comforting. Margaret sat opposite him playing at a piece of needlework, and unpicking as much of it as she sewed.

“Who will they call first?” she asked, looking at him intently, her face strained. Tiny lines around her eyes were visible in the light shining sideways from the gas bracket at her left. He had never noticed them in the daylight. He felt an intense pity for her, and longed to be able to give her some comfort, but promises that could not be kept were worse than none at all. After they were broken, she would never be able to trust him again, and he could not rob her of that.

“Oliver!” she prompted. “Who will they call first?”

“Probably Monk,” he replied.

“Why? He didn’t find that wretched man’s body. Why not the policeman who did?”

“Maybe they’ll call him, but it’s rather tedious and adds nothing to the case. It’s a dangerous thing to bore a jury.”

“For heaven’s sake! It’s not an entertainment!” she said savagely. “The jury is there to do the most important job of their lives, not to be amused.”

Rathbone tried not to let any emotion sharpen his voice.

“They are ordinary people, Margaret. They are frightened of making a mistake, awed that the responsibility is theirs for a decision they have had no training to reach. A man’s life hangs in the balance, and they know it. They will find it difficult to concentrate, almost impossible to remember everything, and if either Winchester or I allow their minds to wander from what we are saying, they will forget half of it. Winchester is no fool, believe me. He will not repeat anything that is irrelevant.”

“What do you mean, irrelevant?” she demanded. “How can the truth be irrelevant? It is somebody’s life … Are they stupid?” Her voice was growing higher, less within the tight effort of control that she had kept up with difficulty since her father’s arrest.

He leaned forward a little. “The description of the river where they found Parfitt is not important enough for the jury to hear it from both the local policeman and Monk,” he explained. “It has nothing to do with who Parfitt was, or who killed him. They don’t need it twice. They will cease to listen, and that matters.”

“What will Monk say?” she persisted. “He’ll shade everything because he hates Papa. He’s never forgiven him for choosing you to defend Jericho Phillips. Men like Monk can’t bear to be beaten. What are you going to do to show the jury that it’s personal, that he wanted Papa to be guilty for his own reasons?”

Rathbone saw the anger in her face, and the fear. It was as if some part of her were facing an ordeal from which she might never recover. He ached to be able to reach out to her and simply hold her, to feel that intensity of closeness where pain can be shared. But she was too tightly knotted within herself to allow it, as if he were also the enemy.

“Margaret, Monk wants to end the abominable trade in child pornography, not persecute any one person. If he wanted revenge over Phillips, for heaven’s sake, don’t you think he got it at Execution Dock?”

She stared at him. “You don’t believe me, do you? You’re siding with Monk!”

He swallowed back the exasperation that filled him. “I am trying to defend your father. Personal attacks on the police are not going to accomplish that, unless Monk makes a mistake. If he does, I will take him apart for it, friend or not.”

“Will you?” she said doubtfully.

That was unfair, and at any other time he would have told her so. “You know I will,” he said gently. “Didn’t I do that, to both Monk and Hester, to defend Jericho Phillips? And I despised the man. How much more so would I do it to defend your father?”

“You know he’s innocent, don’t you?” Now she was really afraid, shivering where she sat on the sofa only a couple of feet away from him. What could he possibly say? He did not know that Ballinger was innocent. Of the murder of Parfitt, he probably was, because why on earth would he do such a senseless and unnecessary thing? But of any involvement with those who used the boats and the wretched children on them, no, he was not certain of Ballinger’s innocence at all.

“Oliver!” She was trembling now so intensely, he would have thought the room ice cold if he had not felt the heat of the fire scorching his legs.

“I know he didn’t kill Parfitt,” he answered her. “Of course I do. I’m afraid he might have gone further than he would like to have in defense of some of Parfitt’s victims. I’m not absolutely certain that he doesn’t know who did kill him, and he might be protecting them.”

“Why? Why on earth would he defend a man who … who murdered-Oh.” Her voice dropped. “You mean they might be his professional client? Yes, of course. He would go to trial and endure all the pain and the blame to protect a victim of Parfitt’s blackmail, all because he had given his word.” She stopped shivering, and the fabric that was stretched tight across her shoulders eased a little.

It was not what Rathbone had meant at all. He had been thinking of something far less noble, but now he had not the heart, or perhaps the courage, to deny it. He looked at her soft eyes, and her sudden reassurance, and the words died before he spoke them.

“It’s possible. I need to be prepared for surprises.”

“Wouldn’t he trust you?” she pressed. “After all, you are his lawyer, and what he tells you is in confidence.”

“Of course it is,” he agreed with an attempt at a smile. “Even from you, my dear.”

“Oh!” She searched his eyes, trying to read in them what he might be unable to tell her.

“What about this Winchester?” she said at length. “What is he like?”

“Very clever,” he replied. “Rather personable. He is deceptively charming, and at times amusing, but underneath it he has a very sharp mind indeed.”

“You’re frightening me!” she snapped. “You sound as if you’re saying he could win.”

“Of course he could win,” he answered her. “And if I forget it for even a moment, then I open the door for him to do just that.” He took a deep breath and tried to calm his voice and make it gentle. “Margaret, they have a case. If they didn’t, we wouldn’t be going to court tomorrow. If I could have had it dismissed, don’t you think I would have?”

“Yes! Yes, I know. But it’s ridiculous! My father? How can anyone who knows him ever imagine that he would be … paddling about in the river murdering some … pornographer?”

Rathbone reached across and touched her hand, and she grasped hold of him. She clung so tightly, she pinched his flesh, but he did not pull away, and forced himself not to wince.

“Precisely because they do not know him,” he replied. “It is my job to show the jury that he is exactly what he looks to be and claims to be-a respectable husband and father, a good solicitor, who, in the course of his professional duties, has had clients both good and bad, just as I have myself. He has done his best to help all of them, without making personal judgments as to their worthiness-which is what the law requires, and justice demands.”

She tried to blink back the tears that filled her eyes, but they spilled down her cheeks. “You’re right, Oliver, and I love you for it. I’m sorry. I’m just so frightened that somehow it will go wrong. I have no belief in justice. If it were real, he wouldn’t even be facing trial at all. And I’m sorry, but I think Monk is ruthless, and I don’t even trust Hester anymore. I think she’ll do anything for him, even lie if she has to, to stop him from looking bad-again. He can’t afford to make another terrible mistake, or he’ll lose his job.”

“You truly think she would lie for him?” he asked.

“For goodness’ sake, Oliver! She loves him,” she responded with exasperation. “She’s loyal! She’s his wife.”

“Is that loyalty?” he said very softly.

She looked puzzled. “What do you mean? Of course it is.”

“I don’t believe it is loyal to help someone do something that is wrong, something that could end in another person’s death. You would be helping them to commit a sin they would regret and pay for, for the rest of their lives. Would you want that? I wouldn’t.”

She looked confused.

“If you loved them?” he pressed.

“I … I don’t know. I would want to defend them. Wouldn’t you?” Now she was frowning. “Perhaps if I loved them enough, I wouldn’t even think that they could be wrong. Not as wrong as that.”

“And would you sacrifice your own judgment?”

“I don’t know. But that isn’t going to happen.” She shook her head fractionally. “I’m not married to William Monk; I’m married to you. I can’t grieve over Hester’s problems. That’s up to her.”

Rathbone had a sharp flash of memory, so vivid that it seemed Hester was in front of him now, her face as intense as Margaret’s, but angry, vulnerable, passionately concerned for the problems of someone else, needing to find an answer for them, unable to rest or sleep until she had. She had frightened him, and excited him. And he had loved her for that.

He lowered his eyes away from Margaret’s gaze. He did not want to see into her emotions, in case it left an emptiness in him. And he did not want her to see into his.

He let go of her hands and stood up. “I’m going back into my study. I need to read it all one last time. Try to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” It was a lie. He did not need to, or intend to, read it all again. He simply wanted to be alone, where he also could rest. For all his attempts to comfort Margaret, he was a good deal more anxious than he wished her to know.

The courtroom was packed, and people were turned away even before the preliminaries of the trial commenced. By the time the first witness was called, the atmosphere was like that before an electric storm. Rathbone was not surprised. He had expected it, because the prospect of a respectable lawyer charged with murdering a seedy riverside pimp in particularly squalid circumstances had driven the more lurid journalists to speculate up to the legal limit, and beyond, in what it was permissible to print. Even thought he had expected the crowd, he dreaded the pain he would see in Margaret’s face. He had considered asking her not to come but had known that she would see it as an invitation to cowardice-worse than that, to betrayal.

Winchester called Monk first, as Rathbone had expected.

Monk climbed the spiral steps up to the witness stand high above the body of the court, and stood there elegantly, as always. He looked assured. Only Rathbone, who knew him so well, could see the tension in his body, the uncharacteristic complete stillness as he waited for Winchester to begin.

Winchester’s first questions were simple, a matter of identifying Monk so the jury knew exactly who he was, and his seniority, then establishing time and place, and who had called Monk to the scene, for what reason.

“You were standing on the riverbank in the early morning mist,” Winchester said.

“Actually, in the water,” Monk corrected him.

“Shallow?”

“Over the knees, and muddy.” Monk gave a slight wince at the memory of it.

“And no doubt cold,” Winchester added.

“Yes.”

“And the reason the local police had sent for you?”

“The body of a man, fully clothed, floating in the water. They turned him over to identify him, which was actually fairly easy in spite of a degree of water damage, because he had a withered arm.”

“Withered?” Winchester questioned.

“His right arm was shorter than the left, and the muscle was badly wasted. It looked as if it was almost unusable.”

“Whose was this body?”

“A local man called Mickey Parfitt.”

“Did he appear to have drowned?” Winchester sounded no more than curious, his voice mild. “Do they call you for every drowning?”

“No,” Monk replied. “There was a nasty injury to the back of his head, slightly to the right of the crown. And we discovered there was a tight ligature buried in the swollen flesh of his throat.”

“Ligature? As in something long and thin tied around his throat and pulled so tight as to strangle him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice what it was that had done this?”

“Not at that time. We only really looked at it later.”

“Later?”

“When the police surgeon cut it off and brought it to me.”

Winchester raised his hand in a slight gesture, as if to prevent Monk from saying anything more. “We will come to that later. At that time, Mr. Monk, standing in the water in the early morning light, did you believe that Mr. Parfitt had come to his death from natural causes?”

“I believed it extremely unlikely.”

“An accident?”

“I could not think of any that would meet such evidence.”

“So it was murder?”

“I thought so, yes.”

“What did you do then, Mr. Monk?”

Monk described hauling the body out of the water, heavy and dripping with mud, then carrying it up to the cart, and finally back to Chiswick, leaving it in the morgue for the police surgeon to perform a postmortem.

“Then what, Mr. Monk?” Winchester looked relaxed, comfortable. Rathbone knew him by reputation, but he had not faced him across a courtroom before, and he could not read his mood. He seemed deceptively bland, almost casual, as if he imagined this case would require only half his attention.

“I started to make inquiries as to the nature and business of Mr. Parfitt, and why anyone might have wished to kill him,” Monk replied.

“Routine?” Winchester said quickly.

“Yes.”

“Then, unless Sir Oliver wishes to go into detail …” He swiveled a little to glance at Rathbone, his face sharp with inquiry, but it was rhetorical. He looked back at Monk. “I would be quite happy not to bore the gentlemen of the jury with every step of the way. What did you discover? For example, what was Mr. Parfitt’s occupation, as far as you could ascertain, and please be careful to keep precisely to the facts.”

Monk smiled bleakly. He knew that for all Winchester’s casual air, he was as tightly coiled as Rathbone, concentrating just as intensely on every word, every nuance.

“The police told me that Mr. Parfitt owned a boat, which he kept at various different locations; at that time it was moored farther up Corney Reach, something like halfway between Chiswick and Mortlake. I went to the boat, taking Sergeant Orme with me.”

“The local man?”

“No, my own sergeant from the station at Wapping.”

“Why was that, Mr. Monk? Would not the local man have been of more assistance, given his knowledge of the area, the tides, and possibly of Mr. Parfitt himself?”

“He was still speaking with Mr. Parfitt’s associates, and we found his local knowledge to be more advantageous in that undertaking.”

“I see. We will hear from him later. My lord, I shall call Mr. Jones, Mr. Wilkin, and Mr. Crumble in due course. I think it would be simpler for the court to hear all Mr. Monk’s evidence in one piece, even if it does disturb the narrative a little, if it so please your lordship?”

The judge nodded and made a small, impatient gesture with his hand.

Winchester inclined his head slightly to convey his thanks.

“Did you board this boat, Mr. Monk?” he asked.

Rathbone realized that he was sitting with his muscles clenched, and deliberately forced himself to relax them one by one. He could not look up at the dock to his left, where fifteen feet above him Arthur Ballinger was sitting immobile, staring down at them. If he did, he would draw the jury’s attention, and he might regret that later. Even one fleeting expression that looked like arrogance or indifference could be interpreted as guilt, however little it actually meant. Better that they watch Monk.

“Yes,” Monk answered. “We boarded it with very little difficulty. It was just a matter of coming alongside, tying our boat, and climbing up the ropes. The main hatch was locked, so we broke it open and went down the steps-”

“You mean the ladder?” Winchester interrupted. “Would you describe it for us, please?”

Rathbone hated this, but he must keep it from showing in his face. The jury would watch him too. From the way in which Winchester had asked the question, and the horror in Monk’s face, it was clear that the answer to the question mattered.

Monk was standing stiffly, his hands now on the railing in front of him, holding on to it as if for balance. His face was pale, eyes hard, lips drawn back a little. From his manner he was in some pain that he could barely control.

“The boat was about fifty feet long, as near as I could judge,” he began quietly. “I did not measure it. There appeared to be three decks including the open deck on top. This later proved to be the case. There was one mast, and a wheelhouse. We went down the first hatch, which was wide and gave easy access. The way down was not a ladder. It was strong and comfortable steps, which led into a large room fitted out rather like the bar of a gentleman’s club. We found alcohol in the cupboards, and several dozens of glasses.”

Rathbone saw the jury staring at Monk, puzzled as to why this very ordinary-sounding account was of any importance at all, let alone should stir the emotions of horror that were so clearly in Monk’s face and his voice, even in the attitude of his body.

Rathbone felt his stomach twist. He knew exactly what Monk was doing.

“Please continue,” Winchester prompted, his voice grave. He was an unconsciously elegant man with his height, good shoulders, and unusually handsome hair.

“The other half of that deck was a second room roughly the same size,” Monk went on. “But it was arranged rather like a theatre, with a stage at the far end-just a bare platform, and lights.”

“A curtain?” Winchester asked. “Room for musical players?”

Monk winced. “No curtain, no music.”

Winchester nodded.

The judge grew more impatient. “Mr. Winchester, is this leading somewhere?”

“Yes, my lord, I am afraid it is. Mr. Monk?”

“We went down to the deck below that.” Monk’s voice dropped and he spoke more rapidly, as if he wanted to get it over with. “There were several small cabins, no more than cubicles, each big enough to hold a bed. In the room at the back we found a locked door, which we forced open. Inside the space were four small boys, aged from four to seven years old …”

There was a gasp from the body of the courtroom. A woman in a brown dress and bonnet gave a cry and instantly put her hand over her mouth to stifle it.

One of the jurors let out his breath in a low sigh.

“They were white-faced, crouched together”-Monk’s voice cracked-“and terrified. We had to convince them that we did not intend to hurt them. They were cold, starved, and half-naked.”

Winchester glanced at the judge and frowned at Monk, as though he would ask Monk if he was exaggerating. Then after several seconds of meeting Monk’s eyes, he rubbed his hand over his own face and shook his head.

“I see. What did you do then, Mr. Monk?”

“Made every arrangement I could to get the children evacuated, fed, clothed, and safe for the night,” Monk replied. “There were fourteen in all. We got in touch with a foundling hospital that would take them until they could be identified and, if they had homes, returned to them.”

“Where did they come from?” Winchester asked, making no attempt to hide his own distress.

If you had dropped a pin in the room, the sound of it would have been heard.

“Up and down the river,” Monk said. “Orphans, unwanted children, ones whose own parents couldn’t feed them.”

Winchester shivered. “When did they get to this boat? What were they doing there?”

“They were found and picked up at different times. They were used to participate in various sexual acts with older boys or men, for the entertainment of Mr. Parfitt’s clients. These acts were-”

Rathbone rose to his feet.

The judge looked at him. “Yes, Sir Oliver. I was wondering when you would object to this. Mr. Winchester, how does Mr. Monk know all this? Surely it was not apparent to the naked eye when he broke into the lower deck of this boat? And you have not yet shown any proof that it was indeed Mr. Parfitt’s boat. It could have been anyone’s.”

“My lord, I was going to ask what any of this appalling story has to do with Mr. Ballinger,” Rathbone responded.

“Mr. Winchester?” The judge raised his eyebrows.

Winchester smiled. “I admit, my lord, I was attempting to show for members of the jury what a particularly repulsive character the victim was, before Sir Oliver would do it for me, as I fear he will, so that we may all appreciate that he is likely to have had a great number of enemies, and very few friends indeed.”

There was a sigh of relief in the public gallery and a few faint titters of laughter. Even the jurors seemed to relax a little in their high-backed seats in the double jury row on the opposite side of the floor.

Rathbone could do nothing but concede the point.

The judge looked at Monk. “I hope you are not going to describe these acts, Commander Monk? If you intend to, I shall have to clear the court, at least of all ladies present.”

“I did not see them performed, my lord,” Monk said stiffly. “If I had been present, they would not have been. I was going to say that they were photographed, and the resulting pictures used to blackmail the wealthier men taking part.”

The judge frowned. “I was not aware that it was possible to photograph people who are moving, Mr. Monk? Does it not take between five and ten seconds exposure, even with the very latest equipment?”

“Yes, my lord,” Monk replied. “These pictures were posed for, deliberately. It was part of the initiation ceremony into the club. An added element of risk that, for these men, heightened their pleasure, and their sense of comradeship.”

“Did you know this at the time?”

“No, my lord, but because of previous experiences on another very similar boat farther down the river, I suspected much of it.” He looked at the judge coldly, his face hard and hurt.

“I see.” The judge turned from Monk to Winchester. “I shall expect you to prove every step of this, Mr. Winchester, beyond reasonable doubt.”

“Yes, my lord. I shall leave the jury with no doubt at all. I wish that none of this were so.” He turned to the jury. “I apologize, gentlemen. This will be distressing to all of you, but for the sake of justice, I cannot spare your feelings. I …” He spread his hands helplessly.

Rathbone knew exactly what Winchester was doing, and there was no way Rathbone could prevent it. He had expected Winchester to be clever, but had hoped he would be sure enough of his case to be careless now and then, and take one or two things for granted, where Rathbone could trip him. So far he was treading almost softly, and it made the details all the more terrible. There was nothing for Rathbone to attack, nothing hysterical, nothing unnecessary. To question it would seem desperate, the first sign that he himself was not sure of his case.

He could not turn to look for her in the gallery, but he knew that Margaret would be watching him, waiting in an agony of tension for him to do something, anything but sit there helplessly. Rathbone was allowing Winchester to go on and on as if he, Rathbone, were tongue-tied. How could Rathbone explain to her, and her mother, that to make useless attacks weakened himself, not Winchester?

He should put her out of his mind; all else must be forgotten, except the defense. The battle was everything.

Monk was talking again in a low, shaking voice, describing the photographs he had seen.

Winchester held a packet in his hand. “My lord, if you believe it necessary, they can be shown to the gentlemen of the jury, just so they are without doubt that what Mr. Monk says is indeed quite a mild description of the terrible truth.”

The judge leaned forward and held out his hand.

Winchester walked across the floor and gave him the packet. His lordship opened it and looked.

Rathbone had not actually seen the pictures, but looking at the judge’s face was perhaps more powerful a flame to the imagination, a pain sharper than the actuality could have been, because it was a living thing in his mind, a monstrosity that changed and that he could never control.

Damn Winchester!

He looked across at the jury and saw their expressions. One man was white, his eyes blinking fiercely, not knowing where to look. Another kept rubbing his face with his hands, as if embarrassed. One man coughed, then blew his nose hard. Others were looking around the room, staring at the judge, fidgeting, breathing rapidly.

“Sir Oliver!” the judge said sharply, as if he had said it before and Rathbone had not heard him.

Rathbone rose to his feet. “Yes, my lord?”

“Are you content that the jury does not need to look at this … material?”

Rathbone knew he must answer immediately. He must be right. Had the suggestion, the emotional charge in the room, made the pictures seem worse than they really were? Perhaps the reality would be an anticlimax.

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

“Naturally.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not unless they were told,” Monk answered.

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

“With the equipment.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

The silence of strain in the room was palpable.

“The photographs,” Monk replied to Winchester.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

Winchester himself played it for all it was worth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winchester looked faintly disconcerted, but he did not interrupt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did this evidence implicate Arthur Ballinger?”

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was another explosion of sound in the courtroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed time.

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

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

Rathbone spent a miserable hour with Ballinger.

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

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

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

Margaret was already at home when Rathbone arrived.

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

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

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

He looked at her steadily, lying superbly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Margaret was talking again.

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

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

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

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

She touched his arm with her fingers, and he felt the warmth of it briefly. “You can’t do anything about that, my dear. The exposure of the law is cruel. There is nothing we can do but bear it with dignity, and loyalty to one another.”

She smiled and turned. “Dinner will be ready soon. You must be hungry. I worry about you sometimes when you are in a big trial like this. Do you look after yourself?”

Rathbone followed her, comforted, until another thought came to him. It struck him so hard, it was as if he had fallen and bruised himself almost to numbness, knowing the pain would follow. What if Monk were so desperate to stop the pornographic trade on the river that he was prepared to hang Ballinger for the death of Parfitt, not because he believed Ballinger was guilty of it, but because he knew he was the man behind the trade, and behind Phillips? One reason was as good as the other; in fact, perhaps he saw the death of Parfitt as the lesser sin?

Maybe the actual killer of Parfitt was some petty thief or extortioner, like Tosh Wilkin, or even one of Parfitt’s victims? Even Rupert Cardew himself? But Monk chose to overlook that rather than ruin the real killer for ridding the world of a man they were all grateful to see dead-and Monk used the circumstances to frame Ballinger, because he was the architect of the greater crime?

Was Monk capable of such twisted thought?

Even as the question formed in his mind, Rathbone was tempted to think the same way. If Ballinger were behind it-untraceable, uncatchable, simply going to walk away and begin again-would not Rathbone also have been tempted to let him pay the price for the secondary crime?

Who had killed Parfitt? ’Orrie? Tosh Wilkin? Any one of his wretched victims first led into fornication, then abuse, then blackmail? It was a soft path to hell, one shallow step at a time, invited-not driven, not chased, but led.

Rupert Cardew?

Margaret turned, aware that Rathbone was not immediately behind her.

He moved more quickly and caught up with her. It was warm in the drawing room, comfortable to the body, and familiar to the mind. It was not cold yet outside, but the fire gave an added pleasure. It should have allowed him to relax, think of something other than the anxieties and the dangers of tomorrow, but it did not. He wanted to go to bed and pretend to be asleep. He needed to be alone, away from her fears and her loyalties. But if he did, he would have to explain it to her, and that would make it worse.

The effort of finding small conversation now was unbearable, but he knew that she needed him, needed to draw on his strength to calm the mounting fear inside her, and he must do that. That it was difficult was irrelevant.

In the morning the courtroom was packed. Once again there were people lining up outside, angry to be turned away.

When Rathbone stood up to begin his cross-examination of Monk, the tension in the air was palpable. Winchester was silent, appearing at a glance to be at ease, but the constant slight movement of his head, the flexing of his fingers, betrayed him.

Everyone was waiting, all eyes on Rathbone.

He walked out into the middle of the floor and looked up at the witness stand.

“Mr. Monk, let us discuss this curious note that Mr. Jones found in his pocket and gave to you. As I recall, you said he had been given it so as not to forget the time Mr. Parfitt was to go to keep his appointment on his boat.”

“That is what Mr. Jones told me,” Monk agreed.

“And you traced it back, with the help of your wife, to the clinic on Portpool Lane where she works, helping sick women in the area?”

“Yes.”

“Did you trace it any further than that? By which I mean did you ask Lady Rathbone where she had left it after she’d purchased the items and given them to Mrs. Burroughs?”

“She didn’t give the list back,” Monk replied. “There was no need. All the items that were bought had the apothecary’s receipts.”

“So the note could have ended up anywhere,” Rathbone pointed out. “In the possession of Mrs. Burroughs, on a table somewhere, in the rubbish basket, on the apothecary’s counter, or even in the possession of Mr. Robinson, the man who keeps the financial accounts for the clinic?”

Monk’s face became suddenly bleak, his body stiffer where he stood in the witness box. As Rathbone met his eyes, he saw that Monk knew exactly what he was going to say next.

Rathbone smiled very slightly. “Mr. Monk, what was Mr. Robinson’s occupation before he kept the finances of the clinic?”

Monk’s face was almost expressionless. “He ran the same premises as a brothel, which you know perfectly well. It was you who perceived his skill at bookkeeping and the use he could be if he remained.”

“Indeed,” Rathbone conceded, his smile a little wider. “He had many acquaintances in the district, and an excellent knowledge of where to buy things at a good price. And since the patients are largely prostitutes, he would be familiar with their associates, their lives and habits. He would be hard to deceive. However, unfortunate as it may be, is it possible that Mr. Robinson could have reverted to his original profession and be involved with the trade in prostitution on the river?”

Monk hesitated. Rathbone had caught him exactly as he’d meant to. To say it was not possible would be ridiculous and would leave Rathbone the way open to make Monk seem absurdly naive.

“Of course it’s possible,” Monk said harshly. “It is possible almost anyone could invest in such a trade. By its very nature, it is well hidden.”

“Naturally,” Rathbone agreed. “No one is likely to admit to such a vile thing. Would it be true to say that you have been looking, with some diligence, for this mysterious investor for some time?”

“Yes.”

“Might you have failed to find him precisely because he has been under your nose the whole time?”

There was a ripple of laughter around the courtroom, tense, a trifle high-pitched as nerves were stretched in both horror and excitement.

Monk smiled wolfishly, with no pleasure. “The deepest sin is too often right under the noses of good people,” he replied. “It remains hidden precisely because good people cannot imagine that those they trust could do such things. Perhaps I am so blinded. On the other hand, perhaps you are?”

Winchester put his hand over his face to hide his expression.

George rose to his feet in the gallery, and was sharply pulled back by Wilbert.

A sigh of horror, stifled laughter, and apprehension swept around the gallery.

A juror had a fit of coughing and could not find his handkerchief. Someone lent him one.

Rathbone had a choice, and he had to make it instantly. He could either attempt to defend himself-and there was no defense; Monk’s shot had been deadly-or he could retreat with dignity. He chose the latter. It had the virtue of grace.

“Indeed,” he said with an inclination of his head. “But considering the comparative history of your bookkeeper and my client, my assumption is more reasonable than yours.”

“My bookkeeper is not in the dock,” Monk pointed out.

“Not yet,” Rathbone agreed, now smiling also.

The judge glanced at Winchester, but Winchester made no objection. He was enjoying the battle.

Rathbone took a deep breath and steadied himself. “The point at issue, Mr. Monk, is whether this note could have fallen into the hands of Mr. Robinson even more easily than into the hands of Mr. Ballinger, who, after all, has never even visited the clinic.”

“That depends upon whether Lady Rathbone left the list at the clinic, or at her home, or her parents’ home,” Monk replied. “Since the accused is her father, and she is your wife, her testimony has to be compromised. Or it is possible that she simply does not remember.”

Now Rathbone really had nowhere to turn, except to abandon that line of question. He started again.

“Mr. Monk, you said in your testimony yesterday that you discounted Mr. Rupert Cardew as a suspect in the murder of Mickey Parfitt. This was in spite of the fact that it appears to be absolutely undeniable that his cravat, which he was seen wearing earlier in the day, was the ligature used to strangle Parfitt. You gave as your reason for this a witness who swore that this highly individual cravat had been stolen from Mr. Cardew late in the afternoon of the same day. I am sure the jury wonders, as I do, how a man can have a cravat stolen from around his neck, and we wait eagerly for Mr. Winchester to call this person, so that we may hear.”

Rathbone could see the sudden misery in Monk’s face, in spite of his attempt to disguise it. The previous moment’s triumph had vanished. He stiffened a little and his shoulders altered almost indefinably, pulling the fabric of his excellent jacket a little more taut. Did the court see it also? Winchester would, surely?

Monk did not speak.

Winchester did not rise to his feet and ask if there was a question in all this preamble. That in itself was indicative of danger, complexity, something hidden.

“How did you find this witness, Mr. Monk?” Rathbone went on.

“At the time, we suspected Mr. Rupert Cardew of having killed Parfitt,” Monk replied levelly. His voice sounded emotionless, belying the tension in his body. “That was from having found the cravat, and having identified it as being his. In following his actions on the day Parfitt died, we learned where he had been, and of the loss of the cravat.”

“And exactly how did you find out that it was Rupert Cardew’s?” Rathbone affected innocence, even admiration.

“There was a reasonable assumption that it belonged to someone who knew Parfitt,” Monk replied. “Since it was clearly expensive, that suggested one of his wealthier patrons. Such people do not fall within Parfitt’s social circle, nor could he seek them out. It is far more likely that his reputation spread by word of mouth, and by suggestion from his patrons. Since we could not go to them-”

Rathbone interrupted, “Because you do not know who they are?”

“Exactly,” Monk was forced to agree. “Therefore we started at the type of place where word of mouth would spread, or gentlemen with such tastes might be easily found.”

“Which is?”

“Cremorne Gardens, among others.”

There was a flicker of recognition in the faces of the jurors, and a rustle of indrawn breath in the gallery. The reputation of the place was known to many.

“What led you to Cremorne Gardens?” Rathbone asked.

“Common sense,” Monk replied with a quiver of his lips that might almost have been a smile. “It is a natural place to seek clients for a trade such as Parfitt’s.”

Rathbone nodded with satisfaction. “I imagine so. And did you find Mr. Cardew there?”

“No, I found someone who could identify the cravat,” Monk answered him.

“And shall we hear their testimony?”

“If Mr. Winchester wishes it, although I can see no reason. Mr. Cardew does not deny that it is his, nor does he deny that it was stolen from him that afternoon. The police surgeon will confirm that he took it from around Parfitt’s throat.”

“And this elusive witness, whose name I have not yet been told-Curiously enough, Mr. Winchester has not spoken of him, or her. Are you aware of why that is, Mr. Monk?”

Monk breathed in deeply. “He will not be calling Miss Benson.” His voice was quiet, rough-edged. Even the judge leaned forward to hear him.

Rathbone affected amazement, but his pulse was racing, his mind suddenly filled with excitement.

“Indeed? This Miss Benson would appear to be key to your case, Mr. Monk? If you do not call her, you leave speculation in the minds of the jury either that she does not exist or that, if she did testify, she would not say what you wish her to. Can you explain such a decision to the court?” He made a slight, elegant gesture with his hand to include the rest of the room.

Monk was pale. “Yes, I can. Fearing for her safety, I had Miss Benson moved from her lodgings in Chiswick into the clinic in Portpool Lane. I believed she would be safe there. However, she chose to leave without telling anyone where she was going. I assume that she was afraid.”

“Ah, yes-the clinic where the dubious Mr. Robinson keeps the books. Are you saying that you now do not know where she is?”

“Yes.” There was something tight and strained in Monk’s face, a pain that possibly only Rathbone knew him well enough to recognize.

The look that passed over Monk’s face troubled Rathbone, but he did not know why. He had the feeling that he had missed something. “Then, we must draw our own conclusions, both as to why Miss Benson came up with her original story and why she now has taken flight and refuses to come forward and repeat it to us. Thank you, Mr. Monk. I do not believe I have anything further to ask you.”

Monk moved to leave the stand.

“Oh! Just one more thing!” Rathbone said.

Monk stopped and turned back, his face bleak.

“Will Mr. Winchester be calling Mr. Cardew to explain this … theft? I have no notice that he will be a witness.”

“I don’t know. Quite possibly.”

Rathbone inclined his head, satisfied. He waved dismissal graciously and returned to his seat.

Winchester rose and called Mr. Horrible Jones to the stand.

The judge frowned. “Is that his lawful name, Mr. Winchester?”

“It appears to be the only one he knows, my lord,” Winchester responded.

“Very well. I suppose we have no choice. Proceed.”

’Orrie climbed awkwardly up the winding steps to the stand and stood clutching the rail as if the whole edifice were swaying like a ship at sea. One eye swiveled dangerously; the other looked with grave apprehension at the jury, who either stared back at him or painfully avoided his gaze.

He was sworn in, and Winchester asked him with considerable courtesy to state his occupation and describe his relationship with Mickey Parfitt. When that was answered, Winchester asked him about finding Mickey’s body with Tosh Wilkin, calling the police, and later the arrival of Monk and Orme.

It was all very predictable, and there was nothing for Rathbone to object to, and nothing for him to add.

Winchester obtained an account from ’Orrie of the entire evening of Parfitt’s death, complete with reasonably accurate times. ’Orrie had an extensive knowledge of tides, and that was included, as well as the skills of rowing and general management of all river craft.

The jury’s attention might have been lost, were it not for ’Orrie’s remarkable appearance and the occasional wry observation that Winchester put in, which made people laugh.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” he said at length. “You have given us an excellent account.” He invited Rathbone to question the witness.

Rathbone looked up at ’Orrie. “So you were deeply involved in Parfitt’s affairs? He relied on you for much, especially personally. You rowed him when he was on the river. Was that necessary because of his withered arm?”

“Yes, sir,” ’Orrie replied, his tone indicating his contempt for such a foolish question.

“Was it always you, or did other people row him also?”

’Orrie looked indignant, grasping on to the rail till his knuckles gleamed.

“It were always me. Wot for’d ’e want anyone else?”

“No reason at all,” Rathbone assured him. He did not care what ’Orrie thought, but he was aware already of antagonizing the jury. Winchester had been scrupulous in avoiding any mention of Parfitt’s occupation, as if ’Orrie could have been unaware of it. If Rathbone raised it now, he would prejudice the jury against ’Orrie, and therefore his testimony.

“Mr. Jones, in the course of your assistance to Mr. Parfitt, did you ever meet Mr. Arthur Ballinger?”

“No, I didn’t,” ’Orrie said vigorously.

“Or hear his name mentioned?” Rathbone suggested. “Perhaps Mr. Parfitt might have had other meetings with him?”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Did you ever hear any of your colleagues speak of him?”

“No! ’Ow many times do I ’ave ter tell yer? I in’t got nothin’ ter do wif ’im at all!” ’Orrie said indignantly.

“I quite believe you, Mr. Jones,” Rathbone assured him. “I am certain your path and Mr. Ballinger’s never crossed, as neither did Mr. Parfitt’s. Thank you.”

Winchester next called the police surgeon, who testified to all the more lurid details of the corpse, the injuries, exactly what had caused Parfitt’s death and how it was most likely that it had been accomplished, including the surgeon’s removal of the cravat imbedded in the swollen flesh.

“Struck on the head with a blunt instrument, such as a log of wood, a piece of a branch?” Winchester repeated.

“Yes.”

“And then when he was lying there unconscious, his killer looped Mr. Cardew’s silk cravat around his neck-”

“After having tied the knots in it,” the surgeon corrected him.

Winchester looked as if he had been caught in an error, although Rathbone knew that he had done it on purpose. “Of course. I apologize. After having tied the knots, either then or earlier, the assailant looped the cravat around Mr. Parfitt’s neck and then tightened it until he choked to death.”

“Yes.”

“Why the knots, sir?”

“To exert a greater pressure on the windpipe, I assume,” the surgeon replied. “It would be much more effective.”

“But take time?”

“Not if you did it in advance.”

“Of course. Then hardly a crime of impulse, would you say?”

“Impossible. Vandalism to do that to a good piece of silk.”

Winchester nodded. “A premeditated act. Thank you, sir.”

There was nothing Rathbone could do except not call more attention to the doctor’s testimony by going over it again. He declined to cross-examine.

After luncheon Winchester called Stanley Willington, the ferryman who had taken Ballinger from Chiswick to the Lonsdale Road on the south shore and then back again at about twelve-thirty in the morning. All the times were exactly as Ballinger had told Rathbone, and there was nothing to add, nothing to doubt.

Winchester then called Bertram Harkness, who was a very different proposition. He was both nervous and angry. He clearly wanted very much to account for Ballinger’s time in such a way as to make it clear that he could not possibly have killed Parfitt, and yet he was not aware of what the ferryman had said, since being a later witness, he had not been permitted in court at that time.

He blustered. He did not like Winchester, and Winchester was clever enough to play on it. He was charming, even amusing in a mild way, as if to give them all a respite from the seriousness of the crime. Some people in the audience even laughed, although possibly more out of nervous relief than humor.

Harkness was furious. “You find this amusing, sir?” he demanded, his face scarlet. “You drag a good man here, blacken his name in front of all and sundry, accuse him of murder, and by implication God knows what else. Then you stand around in your elegant suit … and make jokes! You are a nincompoop, sir! An irresponsible nincompoop!”

Winchester looked startled, then embarrassed.

Rathbone swore under his breath. It was Harkness who looked ridiculous, not Winchester. The crowd in the gallery was already on Winchester’s side; now they were all but rising to defend him.

“I apologize if I have hurt your feelings, Mr. Harkness,” Winchester said gently. “Perhaps you would explain to me again exactly what happened, and the lie of the land around the area in which you live, so the jury may have that uppermost in their minds, and not some frivolous remark of mine.”

But Harkness had lost the thread of the story he had been trying to concoct, somewhere between the truth as he guessed it and a later and longer version that would protect Ballinger.

“I understand your predicament,” Winchester said softly. “You would have had no idea that you would be called upon to account for every minute of your time with such precision. Let us agree that your judgments are approximate.”

“Ballinger did not kill that wretched creature!” Harkness said tartly. “If you knew him as I do, you wouldn’t even have entertained the idea. Look among Parfitt’s own ghastly confederates, or some miserable victim of his disgusting trade.”

“Your loyalty does you credit, sir,” Winchester replied.

“It’s not loyalty, you damn fool!” Harkness shouted at him. “It’s simply the truth, man. If you can’t see that, you should be occupied in some trade where you can do no harm.”

Winchester smiled patiently and turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”

Rathbone considered for only a moment, weighing, judging, deciding. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester, but I believe Mr. Harkness has already told us exactly what happened.” He drew in his breath and plunged on. “This witness of yours, Miss Benson, is apparently reluctant to testify as to the theft of the cravat that Mr. Cardew was wearing that afternoon. You have conclusively proved it to be the instrument with which Mr. Parfitt was strangled to death. Without this witness’s testimony, it seems to me, as it must to the jury, that there is every reasonable doubt of Mr. Ballinger’s involvement with any part of this unhappy matter, let alone his guilt in Parfitt’s death. Surely the answer is exactly what it appears to be? The man was killed by some victim of his revolting trade.”

For once Winchester was genuinely startled. “My lord,” he began, “that … that is an unjust conclusion regarding Miss Benson’s reluctance-”

“Whether it is doubt, remorse, or fear that some punishment will be visited on her for lying,” Rathbone responded, now suddenly sure that Winchester was hiding something, “that is surely irrelevant. She is not here to tell us about the cravat, or to suggest that it ever left Rupert Cardew’s possession!”

Now Winchester was pale, the tension in him palpable. “Hattie Benson is not here to testify because her dead body was carried out of the Thames at Chiswick, three days before Mr. Ballinger was arrested,” he said hoarsely. “Strangled exactly the same way as Mickey Parfitt!”

A woman in the gallery screamed. Someone else muffled a cry, and a man let out a gasp.

One of the jurors lurched forward as if to rise to his feet.

The judge banged his gavel and demanded order, and was ignored.

Rathbone felt himself go cold, as if there were ice water in the pit of his stomach. His mind was numb, darkness at the edges of his vision. How in God’s name had that happened? No wonder Monk looked like a ghost. He must have known.

Suddenly Rathbone was overwhelmed with pity-and a profound and terrible fear.