“No, I suppose not,” she conceded.
He reached out his hand and took hers gently. There was nothing to add.
Since Scuff’s rescue from Phillips’s boat-hurt, frightened, and very weak-he had made a point of going out during most days, as soon as he was well enough, just to prove that he was still independent and quite able to look after himself. Both Monk and Hester were careful to make no remark on it.
It was the evening of the third day after Hester had met with Crow that Scuff came in well before supper, sniffing appreciatively at the kitchen door as the aroma of a hot pie baking greeted him and he saw Hester take down the skillet and set it on the top of the stove.
“Crow got summink for yer,” he said cheerfully. “Said ter tell yer ’e’ll meet yer at the riverside opposite the Chiswick Eyot termorrer at midday, wi’ wot yer asked fer. Cheapest’d be if we got the train ter ’Ammersmith, an’ then an ’ansom ter the ’Ammersmith Bridge, an’ along that way. I know where it is.” He inhaled deeply. “ ’S that apple pie?”
Hester and Scuff were at the appointed place a quarter of an hour early the following day, standing watching the boats on the river. There was a movement Hester caught almost at the corner of her vision, and she turned to see Crow’s lanky figure striding along the quayside, his coat flapping, his black hair flying in the wind.
She started toward him.
He glanced at Scuff as she reached him, but he was still standing a few paces away, staring upriver.
“Is it something he shouldn’t know?” Hester asked quickly. “I can send him off on an errand. He insisted on coming. He’s … looking after me.” Surely she did not need to explain that to Crow?
“It’s an even worse business than I thought,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know what good that’ll do your friend. If I’d known what that bastard did to little boys, I’d have killed him myself, and not as nicely as a quick blow on the head.” His face was hard, lips tight. “I’d have practiced a spot of surgery he wouldn’t have approved of, and made damn sure he saw and felt every bit of it. He’d have watched himself bleed to death.” He looked at Scuff, and as Scuff turned and saw him, the rage was wiped from Crow’s eyes. He made himself smile back, the wide grin that was so characteristic of him.
“You got summink for us?” Scuff asked expectantly, crossing over to them.
“Of course,” Crow replied. “D’you think I’d come all the way up here to the end of the world if I hadn’t? It’s this way.” And without any further explanation he led them along the road, ships and taverns on one side, the steep drop to the river on the other.
After about a hundred yards he crossed the street, dodging the few carts there were, and went into the narrow entrance of a lane running inland between shops and houses. Then he led them past a stretch of open green, and into a small alley off Chiswick Field. He knocked on the door of one of the houses, then, after a slight hesitation, knocked again with exactly the same pattern.
It was opened immediately by a girl of about nineteen or twenty. She was plump with very fair skin, completely without blemishes, and hair so pale as to be almost white in the dark hallway. She saw Crow, and her face tightened with fear, but she made no attempt to close the door again.
Crow gave his huge smile, all shining teeth, and pushed the door wider so it almost touched the wall behind it.
“Hello, Hattie,” he said cheerfully. “Good time to call, is it? I brought someone to see you.” Without looking back he beckoned to Hester and Scuff to follow him in.
Scuff closed the door and trailed behind, looking from one side to the other, almost treading on Hester’s heels.
Hattie took them to a narrow kitchen, where a small fire kept a cooktop hot and a pump in the corner dripped water into a tin bowl.
“Wot yer want?” she said, gulping with tension. She had wide, light blue eyes, and she kept them on Crow as if there were no one else in the room.
“Tell Mrs. Monk what you told me about Rupert Cardew,” Crow replied. His voice was gentle, almost coaxing, but there was a quality of power in it that belied his easy expression.
Hattie gulped. Hester saw that her hands were shaking. “I took it,” she said, not to Hester as directed, but still to Crow.
“You took what, Hattie?” he pressed.
She put her white hand up to her throat. “ ’Is tie. ’E ’ad it orff any’ow, an’ when ’e weren’t lookin’, I ’id it. ’E were stupid drunk, an’ ’e never noticed ’e’d gone wifout it.”
“His cravat. What color was it, Hattie?”
“Blue, wi’ little yeller animals on it.” She made a faint squiggle in the air with her finger.
“Why did you take it?”
“I dunno.”
“Yes, you do. Was it Mickey Parfitt who told you to?”
“No! It …” She gulped again. “It were the night before ’e were found in the river.”
“Who did you take it from, Hattie?”
“Mr. Cardew. I told you.”
“And who for? Who did you give it to?”
She shook her head, and her body stiffened until her muscles seemed to lock. “No … I dunno who got it. I in’t sayin’ nothin’! It’s more ’n me life’s worth.”
Crow turned to Hester. “I can’t get any more out of her than that. I’m sorry.”
Hester looked at the girl again. Perhaps it would place her life in jeopardy. That was not difficult to believe. “It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “All that is important is that Rupert didn’t have it, so he couldn’t have been the one who knotted it and put it around Mickey Parfitt’s neck. Thank you. That makes all the difference.” She smiled back at Crow, and felt her smile grow wider and wider on her face. Of course she would have to press Hattie later as to whom she had given the cravat to, but it might be possible to find out through someone else. There would be others around who would have seen a stranger-or any visitor, for that matter. For the moment the relief that Rupert was not guilty was all she needed.
The identities of the murderer of Mickey Parfitt and the man behind the pornographic business on the boats were next, a piece at a time. She smiled across at Hattie and thanked her again.
CHAPTER 7
Monk went across the river on the early morning ferry. It was a cool, quiet day, barely a ripple on the water in the slack tide. Swathes of mist half veiled the ships at anchor. Strings of barges seemed to appear out of nowhere.
He had been collecting the evidence against Rupert Cardew to present when he came to trial. It was a miserable job, and in truth he had little more taste for it than Hester had. But the more he learned, the easier it became to see Rupert as a spoiled young man whose louche style of life and ungoverned temper had finally caught up with him. In Mickey Parfitt he had met the one problem his father could not solve for him. No amount of money would have been sufficient to stop the blackmail that had clearly worked so well.
The only inconsistency was that Parfitt was a professional at extortion. He had been thirty-seven years old, and had survived for the last ten of these by profiting one way or another from other men’s weaknesses. There had been at least one suicide among his victims, possibly more, but no one had ever attacked him before. It seemed he had judged very precisely where to draw the line in his bloodsucking, or his threats. A dead victim is bad for business, and he never forgot that-at least not until recently.
Was that a weakness in the case, or simply a fact yet to be explained? Rathbone had not merely beaten Monk in the trial of Jericho Phillips, he had humiliated him, and later-when she had testified-Hester as well. He had done it with the knowledge of how to hurt that only a friend possesses.
Monk still felt a tide of anger burn up in him when he remembered it. Perhaps it hurt him more on her behalf than it had Hester herself. They had never spoken of it, as if it were a wound still too painful to touch.
This time Monk would make sure that Rupert Cardew was guilty, and that he had proved it beyond any doubt,
