Acceptable Loss (7 page)

“Bravo, Papa,” Margaret said with a faint flush of pink across her cheeks. “How perfectly you balance the head and the heart. You are
right, of course. We cannot favor loyalty over justice, or we betray not only those who trust in us, but ourselves as well.” She looked at Rathbone, waiting for him to concede her father’s point.

In that instant he realized how deep her loyalty was to her father, so deep that she did not even perceive that it was instinctive rather than a matter of reason. It made her side against Monk without hesitation. Was that what it came to—the loyalty of blood? Or was her devotion to her father stronger than any other love?

Did he feel any less for his own father?

She was waiting now, the question in her eyes. It was not really about the law. It was about Monk, and the long past they shared, the battles Margaret had not been part of, and it was perhaps also about Hester.

“My loyalty has always been to the truth,” Rathbone replied, choosing his words with intense care. “But I believe that Monk’s has also. On occasion he has been mistaken. So have I. He was slipshod in his prosecution of Jericho Phillips, and the man got off because I was more skilled, and more diligent. However, if you recall, Phillips was undoubtedly guilty, which means that Monk’s judgment of the man’s character was not at fault.”

Ballinger rested his large square-ended fingers very gently on the leather arm of his chair. “That may be true, Oliver, but you have missed the point. Monk has no right to be judging Jericho Phillips, or anyone else. He is a collector of evidence to present before the court—no more than that.”

“A sort of collector of moral refuse,” George added smugly, glancing at Ballinger, and away again.

Celia smiled.

“Then, what are we?” Oliver said, hearing the cutting edge of his own voice. “Sorters of that same refuse? Personally I am quite happy if the police at least begin the process, and give me some sort of pattern, either to confirm or deny.”

“Oh, really!” Wilbert protested.

Margaret looked unhappy, a mounting shadow in her eyes. Rathbone realized with surprise that she had not expected him to argue. In
her opinion he should not have defended either Monk or himself. This quiet room was like thousands of other withdrawing rooms in London, but in subtle ways he felt alien in it. The painted walls were very similar to all the others—the heavily swagged curtains, the long windows onto the great garden, certainly the busy red and green carpet, even the brass fire irons in the hearth. It was the beliefs that were foreign to him, things as invisible and as necessary as the air.

“Perhaps we should speak of something else,” Ballinger said, leaning a little farther back in his armchair and crossing his legs. “I had a most amusing evening last Thursday …”

For the best part of the next hour he regaled them with a detailed and amusing account of his journey across the river, with lurid descriptions of the ferryman and his interests. Apparently he had gone to visit an old friend named Harkness who lived in Mortlake.

When at last he finished, Celia began to laugh. “Really, Papa! You had me hanging on every word you said! I could see the wretched ferryman, bowlegs and all.”

“You think I’m joking? To entertain you?” Ballinger asked.

“Of course,” she rejoined. “And I thank you for it. You are superb, as always.”

“Not at all.” He turned to Rathbone. “Go to the ferry at Fulham and look for him. You’ll find him there. Ask him about our conversation. I challenge you! Any of you!” He looked back at Wilbert, and then George.

“I believe you,” Margaret stated, still smiling. “It explains why you go to dine with a bore like Mr. Harkness. It isn’t the dinner at all; it’s the ride!”

This time they all laughed.

T
HEY LEFT LATE, AFTER
more wine, Belgian chocolates, and a last cup of tea.

“Thank you,” Margaret said quietly as their carriage moved out into the traffic and she and Rathbone sat side by side in the back. The silk of her gown spread out and covered his knees, rustling slightly as
she turned toward him. He could see her face in the flickering glow from the lamps of carriages moving in the opposite direction. She was smiling, her eyes soft.

For an instant he felt a complete belonging, a sweetness that ran right through him. He understood without effort exactly why Ballinger found his other sons-in-law irritating, why he had to bait them, and then in the end make them laugh. Whatever the trivial differences between all of them, there was an underlying loyalty that remained steadfast through the surface ruffles caused by a moment’s annoyance or trivial misunderstandings. One did not have to like in order to belong. True loyalty was deeper than that, stronger, impervious to superficial emotions.

He put his hand out and took Margaret’s where it lay on the silk of her skirt. It was warm, and her fingers closed over his with a sudden strength.

M
ONK BEGAN TO LOOK
more deeply into the life of Mickey Parfitt, his friends and enemies, his patrons, and the men he had used and cheated, and whose appetites he had fed. And if Parfitt were truly like Jericho Phillips, then of course there would also be those he had blackmailed. But does a blackmailed man turn on the one who supplies his addiction? Only if he has reached the last shreds of despair and has nothing left to lose.

Perhaps Monk should see if any well-known man had committed suicide in the last few days, or had met with a death that was open to that interpretation.

Mickey Parfitt was not in himself a person of any importance. People were dying up and down the river every week. The River Police could spare only a couple of men to investigate a crime of such little effect on the city or its population. One petty criminal more or less did not stir fear or righteous outrage, not really even interest.

It was a still, hazy morning when Monk and Orme took a hansom
from Wapping all the way out to Chiswick. They would have gone by water, but that would have meant following the twists and turns of the river, and rowing that distance would have been backbreaking work. They could certainly not have spared two more men for the task.

“Hardly know if I care,” Orme said grimly as he sat staring straight ahead of him inside the cab. It was going to be a mild day, but he was dressed as always in a plain, dark jacket and trousers with a cap pulled over his brow.

Monk knew what was in his mind: the frightened, blank-eyed children he had seen on Phillips’s boat, and that other boy’s thin, broken body they had pulled out of the water. Monk didn’t care himself if they caught Mickey’s killer or not, and to Orme, of all people, he could not pretend that he did.

“Perhaps we won’t find whoever did it,” he said wryly.

Orme looked at him, weighing how seriously he meant it.

Monk shrugged. “Of course murder deserves to be punished, whoever the victim is. If we get close, we’ll scare the wits out of him.” That was not a joke. In the past many people had been frightened of Monk. It was not something he was entirely proud of. Some of them had been the men he worked with, who were younger, less able, less agile of mind, afraid of his cutting judgment. He’d been admired, but also feared.

But that had been before the accident that had robbed him of his memory, and when he had still been in the Metropolitan Police. Then, after he had been dismissed, he had worked for himself, solving crimes for those who’d employed him privately. It was only after Durban’s death that he had been offered this position to lead the Thames Police on the river.

Durban had not possessed Monk’s ruthless skill in hunting down the truth—few people did. But he had known how to lead men, how to earn their loyalty, draw out the best in them, even inspire a kind of love. Above all they had trusted him.

Monk had known him all too briefly. They had been friends. It was Durban, knowing he was dying, who had suggested that Monk take his place. Now Monk had to justify that honor placed on him.
He had to learn the art of leading men, starting with Orme, who had been Durban’s closest ally.

“And we’ll catch him if we can,” he added, as if it were an unnecessary afterthought.

Orme smiled as if he understood beyond the words, and said nothing. He sat back a little in the seat and his shoulders relaxed.

At the small local police station in Chiswick they were greeted cautiously, and taken into a warm, poky office that smelled of strong tea and tobacco smoke. The walls were lined with shelves; the table was piled with papers.

Monk and Orme requested as much local knowledge as possible, and Monk asked the sergeant in charge a number of questions. Orme listened and took notes, writing rapidly and with surprising neatness.

“ ’E were a nasty piece o’ work,” the sergeant said, describing Mickey Parfitt. “Can’t let murder go, but if we could, ’ooever done ’im in’d be my first pick not ter find, as it were.” He sighed. “ ’Owever, seems we can’t do that, or Gawd knows where it’d finish. We’ll do all we can to ’elp yer find the poor sod ’oo did it.” A look of amusement flashed across his broad face. “Mind, yer’ve got a lot ter choose from, an’ that’s the truth.”

“What was he doing out there on the boat by himself?” Monk asked, perching on the edge of one of the rickety chairs. “Any ideas? If you could prove anything, you’d have had him locked up already, but whom do you suspect? And don’t tell me there’s too many to choose from.”

The sergeant smiled widely, a warm, spontaneous gesture that lit his bony face. “Wouldn’t think of it, sir. We’re too far up the river for smuggling. There in’t nobody up ’ere worth thievin’ from, although I used ter wonder if ’e were fencin’ stuff, so I made the chance to go out an’ look, but I didn’t see a thing.”

“Lot of people coming and going?” Monk asked.

“Yeah. That’s part o’ why I thought ’e were fencin’ stuff.”

“What sort of people?” Monk found himself tense, waiting. He did not look at Orme, but he could feel Orme stiffen also.

“No women,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head. “So if that’s what ye’re thinking, ye’re wrong. If it was that simple, I’d ’ave stopped
’im meself. Always men, an’ if yer looked close enough, well-to-do men at that. Gamblin’s my thoughts. ’Igh stakes, life or death sort o’ stuff. ’Ad one top ’isself almost a year ago. No doubt of it—did it ’isself. Shot through the ’ead.” His amiable face twisted in an expression of pity. “Alone in a small boat, pretty little gun there with ’im. Pearl ’andled. S’pose ’e lost more ’n ’e could pay. Dunno wot gets into folk.” A tiredness touched him, as if he had seen too much and it exhausted his pity.

Monk thought of the man alone in the boat, holding the gun in his hands, probably cold, almost certainly shaking. It had to do with honor, as the sergeant supposed, but not money—the dishonor of being exposed as a man who looked at obscene photographs, and used the degradation and abuse of little boys to satisfy his dark hunger. But Monk did not need to tell the sergeant that now.

“Who works for him?” he asked. “I know about ’Orrie Jones, and Tosh Wilkin and Crumble. What can you tell me about them?”

“ ’Orrie’s a bit simple,” the sergeant replied. “But not as daft as ’e makes out. ’E can be sharp enough if it suits ’im. Crumble’s a follower. Does as ’e’s told. Tosh yer need to watch.” He shook his head. “ ’E’s another bad ’un. Never bin able ter catch ’im in enough ter put ’im away.” His face brightened. “Think ’e could’ve bin the one ter do Mickey?”

“I doubt it,” Monk said with regret. “I think it was very much in Tosh’s interest to keep Mickey alive and profitable, earning money for both of them.”

“Was ’e an opulent receiver, then?” That was the term for someone who bought and sold high-quality stolen articles, such as jewelry, works of art, ivory, or gold.

“No,” Monk replied with near certainty. “He was a pornographer, and probably a pimp of little boys, for a few select customers.”

The sergeant blasphemed quietly, half under his breath. He did not apologize, so perhaps he was taking the Lord’s name very much in earnest.

“Still willing to help us find whoever killed him?” Monk asked, a harsh smile twisting his mouth.

The sergeant looked straight at him, blue eyes steady. “O’ course, sir, but I’m sorry to say, I don’t think as I know anything as’d be of use to yer.”

Monk laughed, a harsh, oblique pleasure in it. “What a shame. I’m sure you would have a list of ferrymen, boatbuilders, cabdrivers, shopkeepers near the water, the kind of person who might have seen something.”

“Course, sir.”

“Did Mickey often go out to his boat alone?”

“No idea, sir. ’Ard to say on a misty night ’oo goes where. That’s the trouble with the river, but being River Police an’ all, I expect you know that better than I do.”

“Did Mickey own the boat?”

The sergeant looked startled. “Dunno. But I s’pose yer could find out.”

“I intend to.” Monk thanked him and went outside into the brightening morning air. The sharp light off the water shifted and glittered with the incoming tide. Barge sails showed rusty-red, canvases barely filled. A few leaves were beginning to turn color. Some even drifted down.

Already the street was busy. Carts rattled over the rough stones, and men shouted to one another as they loaded and unloaded sacks, barrels, lengths of timber.

“What d’you reckon he was out there for at that hour of night?” Orme asked quietly as they walked over the road to the water’s edge. “Someone set him up?”

“Possibly,” Monk conceded. “Hitting him over the head could be a crime of opportunity. The assailant could have used any piece of wood lying around, a broken oar, half a branch, anything. But who carries around a rope with knots in it?”

“Piece of rigging from a boat?” Orme questioned. “Always rope on boats, or in a boatyard.”

“True,” Monk agreed. “But did he carry it with him? Or did he kill Mickey somewhere else, then toss him into the water and let him drift? There aren’t any boatyards upstream of where he was found—at
least not near his own boat, which is where we think he went in. I suppose we could be wrong. But if the next boatyard is miles upriver, why carry him back again? Just to confuse us?”