There was nothing Rathbone could do except not call more attention to the doctor’s testimony by going over it again. He declined to cross-examine.
After luncheon Winchester called Stanley Willington, the ferryman who had taken Ballinger from Chiswick to the Lonsdale Road on the south shore and then back again at about twelve-thirty in the morning. All the times were exactly as Ballinger had told Rathbone, and there was nothing to add, nothing to doubt.
Winchester then called Bertram Harkness, who was a very different proposition. He was both nervous and angry. He clearly wanted very much to account for Ballinger’s time in such a way as to make it clear that he could not possibly have killed Parfitt, and yet he was not aware of what the ferryman had said, since being a later witness, he had not been permitted in court at that time.
He blustered. He did not like Winchester, and Winchester was clever enough to play on it. He was charming, even amusing in a mild way, as if to give them all a respite from the seriousness of the crime. Some people in the audience even laughed, although possibly more out of nervous relief than humor.
Harkness was furious. “You find this amusing, sir?” he demanded, his face scarlet. “You drag a good man here, blacken his name in front of all and sundry, accuse him of murder, and by implication God knows what else. Then you stand around in your elegant suit … and make jokes! You are a nincompoop, sir! An irresponsible nincompoop!”
Winchester looked startled, then embarrassed.
Rathbone swore under his breath. It was Harkness who looked ridiculous, not Winchester. The crowd in the gallery was already on Winchester’s side; now they were all but rising to defend him.
“I apologize if I have hurt your feelings, Mr. Harkness,” Winchester said gently. “Perhaps you would explain to me again exactly what happened, and the lie of the land around the area in which you live, so the jury may have that uppermost in their minds, and not some frivolous remark of mine.”
But Harkness had lost the thread of the story he had been trying to concoct, somewhere between the truth as he guessed it and a later and longer version that would protect Ballinger.
“I understand your predicament,” Winchester said softly. “You would have had no idea that you would be called upon to account for every minute of your time with such precision. Let us agree that your judgments are approximate.”
“Ballinger did not kill that wretched creature!” Harkness said tartly. “If you knew him as I do, you wouldn’t even have entertained the idea. Look among Parfitt’s own ghastly confederates, or some miserable victim of his disgusting trade.”
“Your loyalty does you credit, sir,” Winchester replied.
“It’s not loyalty, you damn fool!” Harkness shouted at him. “It’s simply the truth, man. If you can’t see that, you should be occupied in some trade where you can do no harm.”
Winchester smiled patiently and turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone considered for only a moment, weighing, judging, deciding. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester, but I believe Mr. Harkness has already told us exactly what happened.” He drew in his breath and plunged on. “This witness of yours, Miss Benson, is apparently reluctant to testify as to the theft of the cravat that Mr. Cardew was wearing that afternoon. You have conclusively proved it to be the instrument with which Mr. Parfitt was strangled to death. Without this witness’s testimony, it seems to me, as it must to the jury, that there is every reasonable doubt of Mr. Ballinger’s involvement with any part of this unhappy matter, let alone his guilt in Parfitt’s death. Surely the answer is exactly what it appears to be? The man was killed by some victim of his revolting trade.”
For once Winchester was genuinely startled. “My lord,” he began, “that … that is an unjust conclusion regarding Miss Benson’s reluctance-”
“Whether it is doubt, remorse, or fear that some punishment will be visited on her for lying,” Rathbone responded, now suddenly sure that Winchester was hiding something, “that is surely irrelevant. She is not here to tell us about the cravat, or to suggest that it ever left Rupert Cardew’s possession!”
Now Winchester was pale, the tension in him palpable. “Hattie Benson is not here to testify because her dead body was carried out of the Thames at Chiswick, three days before Mr. Ballinger was arrested,” he said hoarsely. “Strangled exactly the same way as Mickey Parfitt!”
A woman in the gallery screamed. Someone else muffled a cry, and a man let out a gasp.
One of the jurors lurched forward as if to rise to his feet.
The judge banged his gavel and demanded order, and was ignored.
Rathbone felt himself go cold, as if there were ice water in the pit of his stomach. His mind was numb, darkness at the edges of his vision. How in God’s name had that happened? No wonder Monk looked like a ghost. He must have known.
Suddenly Rathbone was overwhelmed with pity-and a profound and terrible fear.
CHAPTER 11
“I’m sorry,” Monk said quietly as he and Hester sat in the parlor. “I wanted to have a better answer before I told you. I hoped I could find out enough to say that there was never anything you could have done.”
Hester sat perfectly still, as though she were frozen. Tears prickled in her eyes, and she was furious with herself because they could be out of guilt and an sense of overwhelming failure as much as out of grief for Hattie. Was she too used to the death of street women, even young ones, long before their bloom was gone and they were riddled with disease? They came in injured, and she knew that patching them up was often only temporary.
But Hattie had trusted her. Monk himself had trusted her to keep Hattie safe.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have been able to protect her. I suppose it ruins the case too, and Ballinger will get off. Without Hattie’s testimony, there has to be reasonable doubt, and Rupert’s name will be shadowed again too. Oh, damn! Damn! Damn!” She wanted to cry properly, to let the sobs come, and to swear as she had heard soldiers do, words Monk had never heard, and she would rather he never knew that she had heard them, let alone remembered them.
But there was no time for that now, and there were far more urgent uses for her energy. One of the worst things she would have to do was tell Scuff, because he had been with her when they’d first met Hattie. It was after nine in the evening now, but there would be little time in the morning. She would have to stay with him tonight, judge very carefully how much comfort to offer. She had no idea how he would take it. He had grown up on the dockside and must have seen death many times before, possibly the deaths of people he knew. How she reacted would mark him, perhaps for all his life. She must not show fear, but neither must she ever let him think she did not care.
Monk was saying something. She looked up and saw the anxiety in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said very gently. “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Do you want me to tell Scuff? He’ll have to know.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You have enough to do. You need to sleep. I’ll tell him, and stay with him. Besides, if he needs to cry, we can do it together.” She smiled, and the tears slid down her cheeks. “He’ll expect it of me, and it’ll be all right.” She stood up and turned to go.
“Hester!”
She looked back. “Yes?” She thought he was going to thank her, and she did not want to be thanked. It wasn’t as if she’d given him a gift.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
She drew in a shaky breath, using all her strength not to go back and cling to him and let the tears come. “I know. If I didn’t, do you think I could do any of this?” Then, without waiting for him to answer, she went up to waken Scuff and tell him Hattie was dead.
She knocked on the door because she always did. He must have a place where no one else entered without his permission. As she had expected, there was no answer. She turned the handle and went in. The night-light was still burning. He had to have enough to see by if he woke up. He must never have that first moment of terror not knowing where he was, of imagining the bilges of Jericho Phillips’s boat, even for an instant.
“Scuff,” she said quietly.
