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.
Rathbone 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
