water. There was a ferry twenty yards away. A couple of young men were sitting in it, and the sound of their laughter, happy and more than a little drunk, drifted across the distance between them.
Monk waited until they docked, then walked down and asked the ferryman to take him across. At the far side he thanked the man, paid, and walked up to the road to look for a hansom. That took rather longer, but even so he was in Mortlake by the time Ballinger had said he’d arrived at Harkness’s house.
Now he had more than two hours to wait until Harkness had said Ballinger had left. He spent it walking along the waterfront with a lantern, looking at the boats pulled up in slipways, at the moorings, judging how long it would take to get any of them waterborne, and how wet he might get doing it.
He looked ahead and saw the sign for the Bull’s Head swinging gently in the wind, creaking a little. He decided to go in and have a sandwich and a pint of ale.
Monk asked the landlord casually about hiring boats just to row a bit up and down the water, not really fishing, just being by himself and forgetting the city and its life and its noise. The man seemed to find that odd, but he told Monk of half a dozen different people who might be happy to oblige him.
Monk thanked him and left. He found one light, fast boat he could hire for a couple of shillings, and promised to return it before morning. If they thought he was eccentric, no one said so.
He walked back up toward Harkness’s house and reached it a few moments before the earliest he could leave and still be following Ballinger’s path. He stared around. There was no one in sight, but he had not expected anyone. A witness would have been a stroke of luck too far!
Some moments later he walked briskly back downriver toward the Bull’s Head. The wind was sharper from the west and carrying the smell of rain with it. He imagined the marshes and the fields beyond, damp earth turned by the plow. Past that, woods with heavy leaves falling, berries turning red, the pungency of wood smoke, crows in high nests for the winter.
He found the boat he had hired, and after only a few moments’ fumbling, he got it down the slip and into the water. He reached for the oars, fit them into the oarlocks, and pulled away from the shore out into the stream.
After a few more strokes he settled to row down the river to Corney Reach. Tonight, the tide was against him. It had turned while he was in the Bull’s Head and was now coming in. He must check what it had been on the night of Parfitt’s death. It would make a difference, but perhaps little enough-unless high or low water had occurred during the time Ballinger had actually killed Parfitt, which was unlikely. But it was a detail to be sure of, so absolutely nothing caught him by surprise. Anyway, since he had to row back up to Mortlake, the tide would be with him one way, and against him the other.
It was a pleasant sensation to feel the power of the boat sliding through the water. It was silent here apart from the bow wave’s whisper, and the rattle of the oarlocks as the oars turned. Now and then a small night bird called from the trees along the shore. Once, far in the distance, a dog barked.
He saw the dark hull of Parfitt’s boat before he expected to. He had lost all sense of time. He pulled over to it and rested on his oars. He imagined himself going up on deck. How long would it take to climb the ropes up the sides? An estimate?
But Rathbone would ask him. It would destroy the validity of the whole experiment if he had to admit that he had not actually done it. Damn!
He bent to the oar again and pulled the boat closer. What if there were no ropes there anymore? Then he would have to do the whole thing over again, when the ropes had been replaced.
He was right up to the boat now. He could see almost nothing. There was one riding light, simply to avoid the boat being struck in the dark. ’Orrie must have been keeping it burning. It shed no more than a glimmer onto the deck, and nothing at all on the steep sides.
Monk put out his hand and met wooden boards, overlapping. Carefully he pulled himself along, the boat moving jerkily under him. It was three yards before he found the ropes and tied the boat’s painter to one of them. Awkwardly, skinning his knuckles, he climbed up and hauled himself onto the deck.
He stood there for several moments, trying to judge how long it would take to strike someone, then loop the cravat around their neck and tighten it until they choked to death, then finally put them over the side, into a boat or straight into the water. He mimicked hurling overboard the branch that had been used to strike Parfitt as well, and remembered that it might have been even more difficult climbing up with that slung over his back. He would have to allow for that.
But since Parfitt had been expecting Ballinger, perhaps he had let down a rope ladder. There was one inside the boat; there would have to be for the guests to climb aboard in their expensive clothes and boots. No one would be amused by falling into the water, and most certainly no one would want to be soaked, chilled, and smelling of river mud all night.
He must also check that Ballinger had no injury or muscular disability that would make it impossible for him to climb. Rathbone could, and would, nicely catch him out if that were so. He smiled grimly, imagining describing all this to the jury, and then having Rathbone produce some doctor who would swear that Ballinger couldn’t lift his arms above his shoulders.
He heard an owl hoot on the farther bank, and a small animal slipped into the water with only the faintest sound. He saw the ripple of its movement more than he heard it.
It was time to go back over the side and row back to Mortlake, then find a hansom back to the far side of the Chiswick crossing.
When he finally stood on the dockside, waiting for the ferry back, it was less than five minutes later than Ballinger had done so, as the ferryman had confirmed for him, on the night of Parfitt’s murder.
Monk had a ridiculous sense of exhilaration for the small victory that it was. He had proved that it was possible, that’s all. But he had not proved that it was so.
The next day he went to see Winchester, the lawyer certain to prosecute the case against Ballinger, were it to be brought to court.
“Ah! So you’re Monk.” He was a tall man, maybe an inch or so taller than Monk himself, broad-shouldered with a mane of straight black hair liberally threaded with gray. He had a somewhat hawkish face with a long nose and intensely dark eyes. The most remarkable aspect of him was the humor in his features, the readiness for wit, which seemed to be always just beneath the surface.
“Winchester,” he introduced himself. “Sit down.” He gestured toward a well-worn, comfortable-looking leather chair. He himself half sat on the edge of the desk.
“Tell me your evidence,” he invited.
Monk detailed it meticulously, and only what he could prove.
“Good,” Winchester said, pursing his lips. “I can see that you’re remembering the last time you faced Oliver Rathbone, and got mauled.” He said it without apology, a rueful amusement in his eyes. “We need to do better this time.”
“I intend to,” Monk assured him. He told him detail by detail how he had copied Ballinger’s trip up to Mortlake, exactly as he had sworn to, leaving time to kill Parfitt, and then back again.
Winchester did not laugh, but his eyes betrayed that inside he was highly amused.
“Ballinger was an excellent oarsman in his youth,” Monk went on. “But of course you will need to find testimony that he is still perfectly capable of rowing the distances now, and of climbing up the rope ladder at the side of Parfitt’s boat.”
“Thank you,” Winchester said wryly. “I had thought of that.”
Monk did not apologize.
“And I have a great deal of evidence as to exactly what trade Parfitt carried on,” Monk added. He recounted that as well, hating the words, even more the pictures they conjured in his mind.
Now all the light was gone from Winchester’s face, and he looked almost bruised. His anger was palpable. “I’ll call whoever I believe may help the case,” he said grimly. “I cannot promise to spare anyone. I hope you haven’t made any guarantees, because I will not keep them.”
“I haven’t.”
“Not to your wife? Or Margaret Rathbone?”
“Not to anyone.”
“Cardew? Are you prepared to crucify Cardew, if it’s unavoidable?”
Wordlessly Monk passed him a copy of the list of names Rupert had given him, including Tadley, with a note
