Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [33]
“Are you sure?” He was startled by the hoarseness in his voice.
“Yes, I am!” Bledsoe was losing his temper. “Now fetch it, and I’ll give it back to him, or I’ll see that you pay for your insolence.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t return it to you in the foreseeable future, or to Mr. Cardew. It was used in a crime. It will be evidence when the case comes to court.”
“What do you mean, a crime?” Bledsoe was taken aback, his skin losing its color, his stance suddenly changed.
“It was used to strangle a man,” Monk told him with some satisfaction.
The blood rushed hot into Bledsoe’s face. “You tricked me!” he accused him.
“I asked you if you knew whose it was. You answered me,” Monk said icily. “Do you mean that had you known it was used in a crime, then you would have lied?”
“Damn you!” Bledsoe said between his teeth. “I shall deny it.”
Monk looked at him, lifting his own lip in a suggestion of disdain. “If that is what your code of honor says you must do, sir, then you must follow your conscience. It is very noble of you.”
Bledsoe looked startled. “Noble?”
“Yes, sir. Now that I know whose it is, it will be easy enough to prove. You will look something of a fool in court, and everything of a liar, but you will have been loyal to your friend. Good day, sir.” He turned on his heel and strode away. He was furious, but far more than that, he was filled with misery. He desperately did not want the suspect to be someone he liked—worse, someone Hester liked.
Mickey Parfitt had been a monster. Any of his victims could have been tempted to destroy him, even if afterward they would have regretted either their rage or their loss of the fuel he’d supplied for their appetite. It simply had not occurred to Monk that Rupert Cardew, with his wealth, his privilege, and above all his charm, should have become entangled in such filth.
Why not? Dependency had nothing to do with position. It was about need.
Perhaps someone had stolen the cravat from him? Monk hoped so. It would not solve the crime, but then, perhaps that did not matter.
Over the next two days he traced Rupert Cardew to various prostitutes in the Chiswick area and farther south along the riverbank. The water and its people seemed to fascinate Rupert, as if there were both a vitality and a danger in its moods, its sleeping surface, so often smooth, reflecting the light and hiding its own heart.
He found other witnesses who had seen Rupert, who knew his tastes, women he had used from time to time. It was not difficult to follow the trail of the money he had gambled and lost, the debts he had paid only with his father’s help.
Eventually there was no reasonable doubt left. Monk took Orme with him and went to the magnificent house in Chelsea where Rupert Cardew still lived with his father. He chose to go early in the morning on purpose, so there was little chance either Lord Cardew or Rupert would be out.
The butler admitted him. Perhaps he should have gone to the back door, but that was something he had always refused to do, even when he had been a junior officer in the Metropolitan Police. Now, as commander of the Thames River Police he did not even think of it.
“I require to speak to Mr. Rupert Cardew regarding a most serious matter,” he said gravely as he was shown to the morning room to await Rupert’s convenience.
The interior of the house was magnificent, in the manner of one that has been lived in by the same family for generations. Little was new. The large hallway had a marble-flagged floor, worn uneven by the passage of feet over generations. The wooden banister sweeping down from the gallery above was darkened in places by the constant touch of hands. There was a carved chest with animals on it, which had been carefully mended.
In the morning room the carpet was beautiful, but the sun of countless summers had muted the colors. The leather on the chairs was scuffed in places. At another time he would have loved the room. Today it hurt, fueling his anger against Mickey Parfitt and all