He moved more quickly and caught up with her. It was warm in the drawing room, comfortable to the body, and familiar to the mind. It was not cold yet outside, but the fire gave an added pleasure. It should have allowed him to relax, think of something other than the anxieties and the dangers of tomorrow, but it did not. He wanted to go to bed and pretend to be asleep. He needed to be alone, away from her fears and her loyalties. But if he did, he would have to explain it to her, and that would make it worse.
The effort of finding small conversation now was unbearable, but he knew that she needed him, needed to draw on his strength to calm the mounting fear inside her, and he must do that. That it was difficult was irrelevant.
In the morning the courtroom was packed. Once again there were people lining up outside, angry to be turned away.
When Rathbone stood up to begin his cross-examination of Monk, the tension in the air was palpable. Winchester was silent, appearing at a glance to be at ease, but the constant slight movement of his head, the flexing of his fingers, betrayed him.
Everyone was waiting, all eyes on Rathbone.
He walked out into the middle of the floor and looked up at the witness stand.
“Mr. Monk, let us discuss this curious note that Mr. Jones found in his pocket and gave to you. As I recall, you said he had been given it so as not to forget the time Mr. Parfitt was to go to keep his appointment on his boat.”
“That is what Mr. Jones told me,” Monk agreed.
“And you traced it back, with the help of your wife, to the clinic on Portpool Lane where she works, helping sick women in the area?”
“Yes.”
“Did you trace it any further than that? By which I mean did you ask Lady Rathbone where she had left it after she’d purchased the items and given them to Mrs. Burroughs?”
“She didn’t give the list back,” Monk replied. “There was no need. All the items that were bought had the apothecary’s receipts.”
“So the note could have ended up anywhere,” Rathbone pointed out. “In the possession of Mrs. Burroughs, on a table somewhere, in the rubbish basket, on the apothecary’s counter, or even in the possession of Mr. Robinson, the man who keeps the financial accounts for the clinic?”
Monk’s face became suddenly bleak, his body stiffer where he stood in the witness box. As Rathbone met his eyes, he saw that Monk knew exactly what he was going to say next.
Rathbone smiled very slightly. “Mr. Monk, what was Mr. Robinson’s occupation before he kept the finances of the clinic?”
Monk’s face was almost expressionless. “He ran the same premises as a brothel, which you know perfectly well. It was you who perceived his skill at bookkeeping and the use he could be if he remained.”
“Indeed,” Rathbone conceded, his smile a little wider. “He had many acquaintances in the district, and an excellent knowledge of where to buy things at a good price. And since the patients are largely prostitutes, he would be familiar with their associates, their lives and habits. He would be hard to deceive. However, unfortunate as it may be, is it possible that Mr. Robinson could have reverted to his original profession and be involved with the trade in prostitution on the river?”
Monk hesitated. Rathbone had caught him exactly as he’d meant to. To say it was not possible would be ridiculous and would leave Rathbone the way open to make Monk seem absurdly naive.
“Of course it’s possible,” Monk said harshly. “It is possible almost anyone could invest in such a trade. By its very nature, it is well hidden.”
“Naturally,” Rathbone agreed. “No one is likely to admit to such a vile thing. Would it be true to say that you have been looking, with some diligence, for this mysterious investor for some time?”
“Yes.”
“Might you have failed to find him precisely because he has been under your nose the whole time?”
There was a ripple of laughter around the courtroom, tense, a trifle high-pitched as nerves were stretched in both horror and excitement.
Monk smiled wolfishly, with no pleasure. “The deepest sin is too often right under the noses of good people,” he replied. “It remains hidden precisely because good people cannot imagine that those they trust could do such things. Perhaps I am so blinded. On the other hand, perhaps you are?”
Winchester put his hand over his face to hide his expression.
George rose to his feet in the gallery, and was sharply pulled back by Wilbert.
A sigh of horror, stifled laughter, and apprehension swept around the gallery.
A juror had a fit of coughing and could not find his handkerchief. Someone lent him one.
Rathbone had a choice, and he had to make it instantly. He could either attempt to defend himself-and there was no defense; Monk’s shot had been deadly-or he could retreat with dignity. He chose the latter. It had the virtue of grace.
“Indeed,” he said with an inclination of his head. “But considering the comparative history of your bookkeeper and my client, my assumption is more reasonable than yours.”
“My bookkeeper is not in the dock,” Monk pointed out.
“Not yet,” Rathbone agreed, now smiling also.
The judge glanced at Winchester, but Winchester made no objection. He was enjoying the battle.
Rathbone took a deep breath and steadied himself. “The point at issue, Mr. Monk, is whether this note could have fallen into the hands of Mr. Robinson even more easily than into the hands of Mr. Ballinger, who, after all, has never even visited the clinic.”
“That depends upon whether Lady Rathbone left the list at the clinic, or at her home, or her parents’ home,” Monk replied. “Since the accused is her father, and she is your wife, her testimony has to be compromised. Or it is possible that she simply does not remember.”
Now Rathbone really had nowhere to turn, except to abandon that line of question. He started again.
“Mr. Monk, you said in your testimony yesterday that you discounted Mr. Rupert Cardew as a suspect in the murder of Mickey Parfitt. This was in spite of the fact that it appears to be absolutely undeniable that his cravat, which he was seen wearing earlier in the day, was the ligature used to strangle Parfitt. You gave as your reason for this a witness who swore that this highly individual cravat had been stolen from Mr. Cardew late in the afternoon of the same day. I am sure the jury wonders, as I do, how a man can have a cravat stolen from around his neck, and we wait eagerly for Mr. Winchester to call this person, so that we may hear.”
Rathbone could see the sudden misery in Monk’s face, in spite of his attempt to disguise it. The previous moment’s triumph had vanished. He stiffened a little and his shoulders altered almost indefinably, pulling the fabric of his excellent jacket a little more taut. Did the court see it also? Winchester would, surely?
Monk did not speak.
Winchester did not rise to his feet and ask if there was a question in all this preamble. That in itself was indicative of danger, complexity, something hidden.
“How did you find this witness, Mr. Monk?” Rathbone went on.
“At the time, we suspected Mr. Rupert Cardew of having killed Parfitt,” Monk replied levelly. His voice sounded emotionless, belying the tension in his body. “That was from having found the cravat, and having identified it as being his. In following his actions on the day Parfitt died, we learned where he had been, and of the loss of the cravat.”
“And exactly how did you find out that it was Rupert Cardew’s?” Rathbone affected innocence, even admiration.
“There was a reasonable assumption that it belonged to someone who knew Parfitt,” Monk replied. “Since it was clearly expensive, that suggested one of his wealthier patrons. Such people do not fall within Parfitt’s social circle, nor could he seek them out. It is far more likely that his reputation spread by word of mouth, and by suggestion from his patrons. Since we could not go to them-”
Rathbone interrupted, “Because you do not know who they are?”
“Exactly,” Monk was forced to agree. “Therefore we started at the type of place where word of mouth would spread, or gentlemen with such tastes might be easily found.”
