Parfitt had come to his death from natural causes?”
“I believed it extremely unlikely.”
“An accident?”
“I could not think of any that would meet such evidence.”
“So it was murder?”
“I thought so, yes.”
“What did you do then, Mr. Monk?”
Monk described hauling the body out of the water, heavy and dripping with mud, then carrying it up to the cart, and finally back to Chiswick, leaving it in the morgue for the police surgeon to perform a postmortem.
“Then what, Mr. Monk?” Winchester looked relaxed, comfortable. Rathbone knew him by reputation, but he had not faced him across a courtroom before, and he could not read his mood. He seemed deceptively bland, almost casual, as if he imagined this case would require only half his attention.
“I started to make inquiries as to the nature and business of Mr. Parfitt, and why anyone might have wished to kill him,” Monk replied.
“Routine?” Winchester said quickly.
“Yes.”
“Then, unless Sir Oliver wishes to go into detail …” He swiveled a little to glance at Rathbone, his face sharp with inquiry, but it was rhetorical. He looked back at Monk. “I would be quite happy not to bore the gentlemen of the jury with every step of the way. What did you discover? For example, what was Mr. Parfitt’s occupation, as far as you could ascertain, and please be careful to keep precisely to the facts.”
Monk smiled bleakly. He knew that for all Winchester’s casual air, he was as tightly coiled as Rathbone, concentrating just as intensely on every word, every nuance.
“The police told me that Mr. Parfitt owned a boat, which he kept at various different locations; at that time it was moored farther up Corney Reach, something like halfway between Chiswick and Mortlake. I went to the boat, taking Sergeant Orme with me.”
“The local man?”
“No, my own sergeant from the station at Wapping.”
“Why was that, Mr. Monk? Would not the local man have been of more assistance, given his knowledge of the area, the tides, and possibly of Mr. Parfitt himself?”
“He was still speaking with Mr. Parfitt’s associates, and we found his local knowledge to be more advantageous in that undertaking.”
“I see. We will hear from him later. My lord, I shall call Mr. Jones, Mr. Wilkin, and Mr. Crumble in due course. I think it would be simpler for the court to hear all Mr. Monk’s evidence in one piece, even if it does disturb the narrative a little, if it so please your lordship?”
The judge nodded and made a small, impatient gesture with his hand.
Winchester inclined his head slightly to convey his thanks.
“Did you board this boat, Mr. Monk?” he asked.
Rathbone realized that he was sitting with his muscles clenched, and deliberately forced himself to relax them one by one. He could not look up at the dock to his left, where fifteen feet above him Arthur Ballinger was sitting immobile, staring down at them. If he did, he would draw the jury’s attention, and he might regret that later. Even one fleeting expression that looked like arrogance or indifference could be interpreted as guilt, however little it actually meant. Better that they watch Monk.
“Yes,” Monk answered. “We boarded it with very little difficulty. It was just a matter of coming alongside, tying our boat, and climbing up the ropes. The main hatch was locked, so we broke it open and went down the steps-”
“You mean the ladder?” Winchester interrupted. “Would you describe it for us, please?”
Rathbone hated this, but he must keep it from showing in his face. The jury would watch him too. From the way in which Winchester had asked the question, and the horror in Monk’s face, it was clear that the answer to the question mattered.
Monk was standing stiffly, his hands now on the railing in front of him, holding on to it as if for balance. His face was pale, eyes hard, lips drawn back a little. From his manner he was in some pain that he could barely control.
“The boat was about fifty feet long, as near as I could judge,” he began quietly. “I did not measure it. There appeared to be three decks including the open deck on top. This later proved to be the case. There was one mast, and a wheelhouse. We went down the first hatch, which was wide and gave easy access. The way down was not a ladder. It was strong and comfortable steps, which led into a large room fitted out rather like the bar of a gentleman’s club. We found alcohol in the cupboards, and several dozens of glasses.”
Rathbone saw the jury staring at Monk, puzzled as to why this very ordinary-sounding account was of any importance at all, let alone should stir the emotions of horror that were so clearly in Monk’s face and his voice, even in the attitude of his body.
Rathbone felt his stomach twist. He knew exactly what Monk was doing.
“Please continue,” Winchester prompted, his voice grave. He was an unconsciously elegant man with his height, good shoulders, and unusually handsome hair.
“The other half of that deck was a second room roughly the same size,” Monk went on. “But it was arranged rather like a theatre, with a stage at the far end-just a bare platform, and lights.”
“A curtain?” Winchester asked. “Room for musical players?”
Monk winced. “No curtain, no music.”
Winchester nodded.
The judge grew more impatient. “Mr. Winchester, is this leading somewhere?”
“Yes, my lord, I am afraid it is. Mr. Monk?”
“We went down to the deck below that.” Monk’s voice dropped and he spoke more rapidly, as if he wanted to get it over with. “There were several small cabins, no more than cubicles, each big enough to hold a bed. In the room at the back we found a locked door, which we forced open. Inside the space were four small boys, aged from four to seven years old …”
There was a gasp from the body of the courtroom. A woman in a brown dress and bonnet gave a cry and instantly put her hand over her mouth to stifle it.
One of the jurors let out his breath in a low sigh.
“They were white-faced, crouched together”-Monk’s voice cracked-“and terrified. We had to convince them that we did not intend to hurt them. They were cold, starved, and half-naked.”
Winchester glanced at the judge and frowned at Monk, as though he would ask Monk if he was exaggerating. Then after several seconds of meeting Monk’s eyes, he rubbed his hand over his own face and shook his head.
“I see. What did you do then, Mr. Monk?”
“Made every arrangement I could to get the children evacuated, fed, clothed, and safe for the night,” Monk replied. “There were fourteen in all. We got in touch with a foundling hospital that would take them until they could be identified and, if they had homes, returned to them.”
“Where did they come from?” Winchester asked, making no attempt to hide his own distress.
If you had dropped a pin in the room, the sound of it would have been heard.
“Up and down the river,” Monk said. “Orphans, unwanted children, ones whose own parents couldn’t feed them.”
Winchester shivered. “When did they get to this boat? What were they doing there?”
“They were found and picked up at different times. They were used to participate in various sexual acts with older boys or men, for the entertainment of Mr. Parfitt’s clients. These acts were-”
Rathbone rose to his feet.
The judge looked at him. “Yes, Sir Oliver. I was wondering when you would object to this. Mr. Winchester, how does Mr. Monk know all this? Surely it was not apparent to the naked eye when he broke into the lower deck of this boat? And you have not yet shown any proof that it was indeed Mr. Parfitt’s boat. It could have been anyone’s.”
“My lord, I was going to ask what any of this appalling story has to do with Mr. Ballinger,” Rathbone responded.
