Acceptable Loss (26 page)

A little of the fear slipped away from her. “Of course,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I … it is so unjust! It’s like a nightmare, one of those dreams when everything you love changes in front of you. You go to pick something up, and it turns into something else … something horrible. A cup of tea turns into a dish of maggots—or a person you’ve known all your life changes into an animal, a horrid one …” Now the tears slid down her cheeks and she could not control them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tide of color rushed up George’s face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, really!” Mrs. Ballinger protested.

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

“With an apology,” George added.

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

“As brave as you all are,” Rathbone replied, hoping it would remain true. He had been aware even as he spoke that he had promised more than he was certain he could fulfill.

R
ATHBONE WAS AT THE
police station on the river’s edge the next morning as Monk came up the steps from the ferry. It was not yet eight o’clock. The October light was bleak and pale on the water,
washing the color out of it. The wind smelled salty with the incoming tide. Gulls were circling low, screaming as they scented fish, diving now and then in the wake of a two-masted schooner moving upstream. To the north and south there were forests of masts all crisscrossing, moving slightly on the uneasiness of the water. Long strings of barges and lighters were threading their way through the ships at anchor, carrying loads inland, or to Limehouse, the Isle of Dogs, Greenwich, or even the estuary and the coast.

Monk reached the top of the steps and smiled very slightly when he saw Rathbone. Neither of them said anything. Perhaps the understanding was already there. Rathbone could see in Monk’s face, in his eyes, the knowledge of the complexity, the mixed emotions he felt, the embarrassment, the struggle of loyalties.

They walked almost in step across the dockside to the police station steps, then into the building. Monk said good morning to the men who had obviously been on duty overnight. He checked that there was nothing urgent that required his attention, then led the way to his office and closed the door.

“Are you representing him?” Monk asked.

“Not yet, because I haven’t seen him, but I expect I will.”

Monk hesitated a moment before he asked, “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“If he wants me, I have no choice,” Rathbone replied, and was startled to hear the bitterness in his voice. He felt trapped, and was ashamed that he did. If he’d totally believed in Ballinger’s innocence, if he’d trusted him as he wished to, then he would have been eager, burning with the urgency to begin.

Monk looked away, not meeting his eyes anymore, and Rathbone had the brief thought that it was because he did not wish to intrude; he did not want Rathbone to see how much he understood.

“What do you have?” Rathbone said aloud. “Circumstantial evidence—a letter, which has yet to be proved genuine, yet to be dated, and yet to be proved relevant. What else? We already know that Ballinger was on the river near Chiswick. He said as much himself at the time. You say this prostitute wouldn’t tell you who she gave the cravat to, so you can’t connect it to Ballinger. Isn’t it far more reasonable to
suppose she gave it to someone she knew? And why would Ballinger kill a wretched creature like Parfitt? You can’t produce a single person who can show that the two men ever even met each other.” He stopped abruptly. He was talking to Monk as if he, Rathbone, were new at this and had no confidence in himself. He knew better. This is why a good lawyer did not instantly represent family: emotions got in the way right from the start.

Arthur Ballinger was not his father. How different it would have been if it had been Henry Rathbone. He would have known passionately and completely that he was innocent.

But, then, Monk would have known it too.

“I’m not supposing personal enmity,” Monk replied, his voice level and quiet. “I have Ballinger at the time, extremely near the place, and a note, which only he could have written, inviting Parfitt to be in his boat to meet with him, for a business venture profitable to Parfitt.”

“Such as what?” Rathbone retorted. “You have no proof of anything. Not even a suggestion.”

“We know what Parfitt’s business was, Oliver. You saw Phillips’s boat; you know perfectly well what they do. If you want me to, I can describe Parfitt’s boat as well, and the children we found there.”

Rathbone felt his control slipping away from him. “You have no evidence that Ballinger was involved,” he pointed out. “Absolutely nothing, or you’d have prosecuted him for it already. I know how desperately you want to catch whoever’s behind the trade.”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do! But not enough to risk prosecuting the wrong person. Just because Sullivan accused Ballinger, that doesn’t make him guilty. Perhaps Ballinger was trying to rescue Sullivan from his own foolishness, and he failed. Sullivan might have blamed everybody but himself. We’ve both seen that before.”

“I don’t know why Ballinger would kill Parfitt,” Monk said, still keeping his voice level and under tight control. “I don’t have to know. All the prosecution has to show is that he had the opportunity, he could have had the means, and that he was the one who told Parfitt to be in the boat at that time, for a meeting. If Parfitt hadn’t known
him and believed there was a business connection, he wouldn’t have gone.”

Rathbone had no argument, except that there must be something more, some evidence undiscovered so far that would change the entire picture.

“I’m sorry,” Monk added. “I’ll go on investigating it, but largely to find the links between them and to destroy the trade. I wish the trail hadn’t led to Ballinger, but it did. If you can get him to confess, it might at least spare his family some of the shame.”

Rathbone felt bruised, stunned, as if he had taken a heavy blow and it had left him dizzy. “There has to be another answer.”

“I hope so.” Monk smiled bleakly. “It would be very nice to think it could be someone neither of us cares a damn about. But wishing doesn’t make it so.”

Rathbone could think of nothing more to say. He thanked Monk and excused himself.

He was in the outside office on his way to the dockside again when he almost bumped into a tall, thin man with white side whiskers and intense blue eyes. He was dressed in an expensive and very well-cut suit. Rathbone knew him by sight, and on this occasion would have avoided him if he could have.

“Morning, Commander Birkenshaw,” he said briefly, and continued walking.

But Birkenshaw was not to be avoided. He came across the few yards between them and followed Rathbone outside into the brisk, fresh air on the dock.

“Thought you’d be here early,” he said, matching his stride to Rathbone’s. “Wretched business. I was hoping we could get it all untangled before it comes to anything. You’ve known Monk for many years, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Eight or nine, I think,” Rathbone replied reluctantly.

Birkenshaw was Monk’s superior, and he was clearly very unhappy. His face was pinched with anxiety, and he kept his voice low, even though there was no one within earshot in the bright, sharp morning. The noise of the wind and water would have made overhearing unlikely anyway.

“Would you say you know him well?”

There was no evading an answer. “Yes. We’ve worked together on many cases.”

“Clever,” Birkenshaw conceded. “But reliable? I know Durban thought highly of him. He recommended him for the post when he knew he himself was dying. But he hadn’t known Monk all that long; just the one case. I’ve heard from others since then that Monk’s a bit erratic. Farnham, my predecessor, was uncertain as to his integrity, if it came to a difficult decision and Monk was personally convinced of someone’s guilt.”

“Then, it’s as well that you are now in command, and not Farnham,” Rathbone said tartly, and immediately regretted it. He saw the surprise in Birkenshaw’s face, and then the irritation. It was not the answer he had been seeking.

“I don’t think you fully appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Sir Oliver,” Birkenshaw said patiently. “Murder is a desperately serious charge, and Monk has brought it against a man of means, position, and spotless reputation.”

“I know. He is my father-in-law.”

“I’m sorry. Of course. It must be appalling for you, and unspeakable for your wife. All the more will you wish to see that we are not acting precipitately. If Monk has made a mistake, however sincerely, then we will have damaged an innocent man’s reputation and put his family through needless pain.”

“It is good of you to be so concerned—,” Rathbone began.

“Dammit, man!” Birkenshaw exploded. “I am concerned for the honor and ability of the River Police to carry out their job! If we prosecute a man of high profile unjustly, and the case is shown to have been flawed from the beginning, and brought by a man consumed with a personal vengeance, or even a preoccupation with one crime, then our reputation is damaged and our work crippled. It is my responsibility to see that that does not happen.”

In spite of wishing not to, Rathbone could see that Birkenshaw was right. But if Birkenshaw overruled Monk, then Monk would no longer be able to command his men’s loyalty or respect, and he would
have to resign. That also was unfair, and Rathbone could not be party to it.

“Of course it is,” he said as calmly as he could. “And if you have some proof that Monk has acted for personal motives, without just cause, then you must override him and withdraw the charges, with apology. If you do that, you will also have to dismiss him from office.”

“I …” Birkenshaw shook his head, trying to deny the idea as he would shoo away some troublesome insect. “That’s far too … extreme.”

“No, it isn’t,” Rathbone contradicted him. “You will have made public your lack of confidence in him, and his men will no longer have sufficient confidence in him either. Very possibly Ballinger will want some compensation. I could not represent him in that, but he would have no difficulty in finding someone else willing to, particularly someone who had another client at some time prosecuted by Monk. If you weigh it carefully, Commander Birkenshaw, I think you will find that the River Police will suffer even more. You will have to go to trial, and Arthur Ballinger will either be cleared … or be hanged.”