“Which is?”
“Cremorne Gardens, among others.”
There was a flicker of recognition in the faces of the jurors, and a rustle of indrawn breath in the gallery. The reputation of the place was known to many.
“What led you to Cremorne Gardens?” Rathbone asked.
“Common sense,” Monk replied with a quiver of his lips that might almost have been a smile. “It is a natural place to seek clients for a trade such as Parfitt’s.”
Rathbone nodded with satisfaction. “I imagine so. And did you find Mr. Cardew there?”
“No, I found someone who could identify the cravat,” Monk answered him.
“And shall we hear their testimony?”
“If Mr. Winchester wishes it, although I can see no reason. Mr. Cardew does not deny that it is his, nor does he deny that it was stolen from him that afternoon. The police surgeon will confirm that he took it from around Parfitt’s throat.”
“And this elusive witness, whose name I have not yet been told-Curiously enough, Mr. Winchester has not spoken of him, or her. Are you aware of why that is, Mr. Monk?”
Monk breathed in deeply. “He will not be calling Miss Benson.” His voice was quiet, rough-edged. Even the judge leaned forward to hear him.
Rathbone affected amazement, but his pulse was racing, his mind suddenly filled with excitement.
“Indeed? This Miss Benson would appear to be key to your case, Mr. Monk? If you do not call her, you leave speculation in the minds of the jury either that she does not exist or that, if she did testify, she would not say what you wish her to. Can you explain such a decision to the court?” He made a slight, elegant gesture with his hand to include the rest of the room.
Monk was pale. “Yes, I can. Fearing for her safety, I had Miss Benson moved from her lodgings in Chiswick into the clinic in Portpool Lane. I believed she would be safe there. However, she chose to leave without telling anyone where she was going. I assume that she was afraid.”
“Ah, yes-the clinic where the dubious Mr. Robinson keeps the books. Are you saying that you now do not know where she is?”
“Yes.” There was something tight and strained in Monk’s face, a pain that possibly only Rathbone knew him well enough to recognize.
The look that passed over Monk’s face troubled Rathbone, but he did not know why. He had the feeling that he had missed something. “Then, we must draw our own conclusions, both as to why Miss Benson came up with her original story and why she now has taken flight and refuses to come forward and repeat it to us. Thank you, Mr. Monk. I do not believe I have anything further to ask you.”
Monk moved to leave the stand.
“Oh! Just one more thing!” Rathbone said.
Monk stopped and turned back, his face bleak.
“Will Mr. Winchester be calling Mr. Cardew to explain this … theft? I have no notice that he will be a witness.”
“I don’t know. Quite possibly.”
Rathbone inclined his head, satisfied. He waved dismissal graciously and returned to his seat.
Winchester rose and called Mr. Horrible Jones to the stand.
The judge frowned. “Is that his lawful name, Mr. Winchester?”
“It appears to be the only one he knows, my lord,” Winchester responded.
“Very well. I suppose we have no choice. Proceed.”
’Orrie climbed awkwardly up the winding steps to the stand and stood clutching the rail as if the whole edifice were swaying like a ship at sea. One eye swiveled dangerously; the other looked with grave apprehension at the jury, who either stared back at him or painfully avoided his gaze.
He was sworn in, and Winchester asked him with considerable courtesy to state his occupation and describe his relationship with Mickey Parfitt. When that was answered, Winchester asked him about finding Mickey’s body with Tosh Wilkin, calling the police, and later the arrival of Monk and Orme.
It was all very predictable, and there was nothing for Rathbone to object to, and nothing for him to add.
Winchester obtained an account from ’Orrie of the entire evening of Parfitt’s death, complete with reasonably accurate times. ’Orrie had an extensive knowledge of tides, and that was included, as well as the skills of rowing and general management of all river craft.
The jury’s attention might have been lost, were it not for ’Orrie’s remarkable appearance and the occasional wry observation that Winchester put in, which made people laugh.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” he said at length. “You have given us an excellent account.” He invited Rathbone to question the witness.
Rathbone looked up at ’Orrie. “So you were deeply involved in Parfitt’s affairs? He relied on you for much, especially personally. You rowed him when he was on the river. Was that necessary because of his withered arm?”
“Yes, sir,” ’Orrie replied, his tone indicating his contempt for such a foolish question.
“Was it always you, or did other people row him also?”
’Orrie looked indignant, grasping on to the rail till his knuckles gleamed.
“It were always me. Wot for’d ’e want anyone else?”
“No reason at all,” Rathbone assured him. He did not care what ’Orrie thought, but he was aware already of antagonizing the jury. Winchester had been scrupulous in avoiding any mention of Parfitt’s occupation, as if ’Orrie could have been unaware of it. If Rathbone raised it now, he would prejudice the jury against ’Orrie, and therefore his testimony.
“Mr. Jones, in the course of your assistance to Mr. Parfitt, did you ever meet Mr. Arthur Ballinger?”
“No, I didn’t,” ’Orrie said vigorously.
“Or hear his name mentioned?” Rathbone suggested. “Perhaps Mr. Parfitt might have had other meetings with him?”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Did you ever hear any of your colleagues speak of him?”
“No! ’Ow many times do I ’ave ter tell yer? I in’t got nothin’ ter do wif ’im at all!” ’Orrie said indignantly.
“I quite believe you, Mr. Jones,” Rathbone assured him. “I am certain your path and Mr. Ballinger’s never crossed, as neither did Mr. Parfitt’s. Thank you.”
Winchester next called the police surgeon, who testified to all the more lurid details of the corpse, the injuries, exactly what had caused Parfitt’s death and how it was most likely that it had been accomplished, including the surgeon’s removal of the cravat imbedded in the swollen flesh.
“Struck on the head with a blunt instrument, such as a log of wood, a piece of a branch?” Winchester repeated.
“Yes.”
“And then when he was lying there unconscious, his killer looped Mr. Cardew’s silk cravat around his neck-”
“After having tied the knots in it,” the surgeon corrected him.
Winchester looked as if he had been caught in an error, although Rathbone knew that he had done it on purpose. “Of course. I apologize. After having tied the knots, either then or earlier, the assailant looped the cravat around Mr. Parfitt’s neck and then tightened it until he choked to death.”
“Yes.”
“Why the knots, sir?”
“To exert a greater pressure on the windpipe, I assume,” the surgeon replied. “It would be much more effective.”
“But take time?”
“Not if you did it in advance.”
“Of course. Then hardly a crime of impulse, would you say?”
“Impossible. Vandalism to do that to a good piece of silk.”
Winchester nodded. “A premeditated act. Thank you, sir.”
