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.”
“Rathbone-,” Birkenshaw started.
“I have said all I can,” Rathbone replied, and with a brief nod, he turned on his heel and walked as rapidly as he could toward the High Street. With luck, he could catch a hansom cab from there westward back into the city.
But even though he was extraordinarily fortunate and found one within five minutes, he felt awful sitting in it, bowling along at a brisk pace, wheels rattling over the road toward familiar streets. He had been loyal to Monk, and to his own conscience, but had he in a way betrayed Margaret? He would not tell her of this conversation, and that in itself answered his doubts. It was not confidential. He knew before he even considered it that she would feel he had not acted in her father’s best interest. And perhaps that was true.
Of course Rathbone could make an argument that Ballinger was definitely innocent, and should have his chance to prove it so no one could ever imagine that there had been pressure to withdraw the charge. That might appear a trifle like the Scottish verdict of “not proven,” particularly if no one else was ever successfully brought to trial for Parfitt’s death.
If it were his own father, what would Rathbone’s decision be? It might well be to go ahead and prove his innocence. But then he might also be afraid that some lie, some misread evidence, some quirk of the law, would allow an injustice to happen. There were only three short weeks between conviction and hanging. That was no time at all in which to reverse a verdict, or even raise sufficient doubt to stay an execution.
Now he must prepare to face Ballinger himself-something he was dreading. He realized how little he really knew the man. He did not even know whether Ballinger would be frightened, angry, humble, accusatory, or even so shocked as to be almost numb and unable to think of how to defend himself.
Rathbone leaned sideways and peered out of the cab to the streets, looking to see where he was. He recognized St. Margaret’s Arch. They were just coming into Eastcheap. They would probably go up King William Street, then bear left along Poultry and Cheapside to Newgate. Perhaps there would be a traffic jam and he would be granted a little more time in which to compose himself and think what he would say.
Ten minutes later the cab lurched to a stop. He sighed with relief, but that lasted only moments. All too soon he was on the pavement again in the sun, crossing the road, and then on the steps of Newgate Prison, his thoughts still whirling and uncertain.
He was granted access to Ballinger almost immediately, although he had been more than willing to wait. They met in a small cell with a stone floor and plain wooden furniture sufficient only to seat both of them, rather uncomfortably, with a battered wooden table on which to place books or papers, should they wish. It was not the same room in which he had seen Rupert Cardew, but the differences were negligible.
Ballinger looked rumpled and angry, but not as embarrassingly out of control as some people did when faced
