“I see,” Winchester said gravely. “And did you subsequently ask Mr. Ballinger to account for his whereabouts that evening?”
“Yes, sir,” Monk replied. “He never pretended that he was not in the area, but he did say that he was in Mortlake, some short distance up the river from Corney Reach, where the body was found. He was in the company of a friend, which the friend verified. However, it is possible, if you are a strong rower, to take a boat from Mortlake to Corney Reach and come back again, then catch a hansom at the south side of the river to the ferry where Mr. Ballinger originally crossed, all in the time that he stated and his friend confirmed.”
“Really?” Winchester affected surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. I did it myself, at the same time of the evening.”
“Remarkable. Thank you, Commander Monk.” Winchester turned to Rathbone with a smile.
Rathbone rose to his feet with a very slight tremble in his hands. He had just realized an astounding possibility. Neither Monk nor Winchester had mentioned Hattie Benson, either by name or occupation. Was that to spare Lord Cardew’s feelings? Or had she withdrawn her testimony, refusing now to take the stand? Without her, Rupert was still a prime suspect.
Could he discredit this wretched note somehow? Suggest it had a different date, a different meaning? Even that it had originally been addressed to someone else?
He needed time.
“It is late, my lord,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “I have several questions to ask Mr. Monk, of fundamental importance to the whole case-things that may lead us in an extremely different direction. I would prefer, out of respect to yourself and the jury, to begin this when there is the opportunity to carry the matter to its conclusion.”
The judge pulled out a magnificent gold pocket watch and regarded it soberly. “I hope your substance will equal your words, Sir Oliver? Very well. We shall adjourn until tomorrow morning.”
Rathbone spent a miserable hour with Ballinger.
“I’ve no idea who wrote the damn note!” Ballinger said furiously. “The Burroughs woman is lying, or is forgetful. Margaret would have given it back to her with the medicines from the apothecary, and she left it lying around. Anyone could have found it and used it. What about Robinson, the old whoremonger who runs the place for them? That’s the obvious answer. Use your brains, Oliver! Go for them. Go for him! He’ll never make a credible witness. Tear him apart.”
Rathbone said nothing. He disliked the idea, but it was reasonable, and perhaps the only course he had.
“I did not kill that filthy little man!” Ballinger’s voice was raised, brittle with anger and fear. “For God’s sake, do your job!”
Margaret was already at home when Rathbone arrived.
“How is he?” she said as soon as Rathbone was through the door, even before he had given his coat to the butler.
“Full of courage,” he said gently, kissing her cheek. There was no point in telling her anything else.
She pulled away from him so she could see his face, as if from studying it she could better tell if he was merely trying to comfort her.
He looked at her steadily, lying superbly.
Finally she smiled, her face catching some of its old calm and the loveliness that had first drawn him to her.
“He’s brave,” she said simply. “And of course he is innocent. He knows you can get this ridiculous charge thrown out. After this, Oliver, you cannot remain such close friends with Monk.” She looked at him gravely. “He has not the honor or the integrity you thought. I know that disillusion is terribly painful, but pretending it does not exist helps nothing. It doesn’t change the truth. I’m so sorry.” She smiled slightly, a warm little gesture. “Actually I’m sorry for myself too, because I admired Hester so much, and I shall lose her friendship over this as well. I doubt it will be practicable for me to remain at the clinic.”
He was taken aback. “Margaret, all he’s done is answer Winchester’s questions, and he has no choice in the matter.”
The warmth vanished from her eyes. “How can you say that? He was the one who went after Papa in the first place. We wouldn’t even be answering the charge at all if he had simply followed the evidence to Rupert Cardew.”
Suddenly he was cold. His whole fabric of certainty was tearing apart. He had drawn in his breath to say that Hattie could prove Cardew innocent, but he realized it was only her word that did, and Margaret would argue that Monk had coerced her. Rathbone knew that Monk was a man of passions and convictions, brave enough and perhaps ruthless enough to follow whatever he believed to be right.
What if Monk were tragically wrong? What if it had been Cardew all along, and Monk had simply refused to believe it? It is so easy to believe what we need to. He had been wrong before; everyone has.
Margaret was talking again.
“Consider it, Oliver. Think honestly. You know that Monk is convinced Papa had something to do with Jericho Phillips, because as Jericho’s solicitor, Papa convinced you to represent Phillips. Monk doesn’t understand that that is what lawyers do! I think he has never really forgiven you for defending Phillips in court. He doesn’t like to be beaten.” She took a step closer to him. “Poor people with little education can be very proud, very stiff, unable to accept criticism, let alone defeat, especially from a friend. He admires you and he can’t bear to be wrong in your eyes. It’s an ugly trait of character, a weakness, but it is not so rare.”
Was she right? Monk was prickly, but a bit less so since his marriage to Hester. However, victory still mattered intensely to him. Rathbone could see in his mind’s eye Monk’s rage when Rathbone had beaten him in court over Phillips. Was this his revenge, even if Monk had not been aware of it himself? Was this the old Monk reasserting himself, the man who had been so feared before his accident and the loss of memory had made him so vulnerable?
He looked at Margaret. The gentleness was back in her face.
“I plan to take him through all the evidence tomorrow. I’ll show the jury just how preposterous it is,” he promised. “We will not be able to protect Rupert.” He took a deep breath. “I wish he were not Lord Cardew’s son. Poor man.”
She touched his arm with her fingers, and he felt the warmth of it briefly. “You can’t do anything about that, my dear. The exposure of the law is cruel. There is nothing we can do but bear it with dignity, and loyalty to one another.”
She smiled and turned. “Dinner will be ready soon. You must be hungry. I worry about you sometimes when you are in a big trial like this. Do you look after yourself?”
Rathbone followed her, comforted, until another thought came to him. It struck him so hard, it was as if he had fallen and bruised himself almost to numbness, knowing the pain would follow. What if Monk were so desperate to stop the pornographic trade on the river that he was prepared to hang Ballinger for the death of Parfitt, not because he believed Ballinger was guilty of it, but because he knew he was the man behind the trade, and behind Phillips? One reason was as good as the other; in fact, perhaps he saw the death of Parfitt as the lesser sin?
Maybe the actual killer of Parfitt was some petty thief or extortioner, like Tosh Wilkin, or even one of Parfitt’s victims? Even Rupert Cardew himself? But Monk chose to overlook that rather than ruin the real killer for ridding the world of a man they were all grateful to see dead-and Monk used the circumstances to frame Ballinger, because he was the architect of the greater crime?
Was Monk capable of such twisted thought?
Even as the question formed in his mind, Rathbone was tempted to think the same way. If Ballinger were behind it-untraceable, uncatchable, simply going to walk away and begin again-would not Rathbone also have been tempted to let him pay the price for the secondary crime?
Who had killed Parfitt? ’Orrie? Tosh Wilkin? Any one of his wretched victims first led into fornication, then abuse, then blackmail? It was a soft path to hell, one shallow step at a time, invited-not driven, not chased, but led.
Rupert Cardew?
Margaret turned, aware that Rathbone was not immediately behind her.
