Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [34]
He told the footman that he would wait until Mr. Cardew had had his breakfast, and asked to see the valet. He felt deceitful to show the picture of the cravat to a servant first, trading on his innocence, but in the end it was less cruel than placing him in the position where he could lie, and would feel obliged to do so.
When it was identified, Monk waited until Rupert came into the morning room. He looked as easy and charming as when Monk had met him at the clinic in Portpool Lane.
“Morning, Monk,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped. “God, man, you look dreadful! Nothing wrong with Mrs. Monk, I hope?” For a moment fear flickered in his face, as if it mattered to him.
Monk felt the deceit scorch inside him. He pulled the picture out of his pocket again and held it up.
“Your valet says that this is yours. It’s pretty distinctive.”
Rupert frowned. “It’s a piece of paper! Did you find my cravat?”
“If this is yours, yes. Is it?” Monk insisted.
Rupert looked at him with complete incomprehension. “Why on earth does it matter? Yes, it’s mine. Why?”
Monk had a moment’s doubt. Had Cardew no idea what he had done? Was Parfitt so worthless that he really didn’t think killing him mattered?
As if reciting something pointless, Monk told him, “It was used to murder someone called Mickey Parfitt. We found his body in the water at—” He stopped.
Rupert was ashen. Suddenly the meaning of it was clear to him.
“And you think I did it?” He had trouble articulating the words. He swayed a little, put out his hand to grasp something, but there was nothing there.
“Yes, Mr. Cardew, I do think so,” Monk said quietly. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I could believe he died of natural causes, but that is impossible. He was strangled with your cravat.”
“I …” Rupert made a jerky little movement with his hand, his eyes never leaving Monk’s face. “Is there any point in my denying it?”
“It’s not my decision,” Monk told him. “I might choose to believe you, whatever the facts say. But you knew him, you patronized his appalling boat. He blackmailed most of his clients. It was only a case of which one broke first.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Rupert said quietly, his face scarlet. “I paid.”
“And lent someone your cravat to kill him with?”
“It was stolen. Or … or I lost it. I don’t know.” Rupert’s expression said he did not expect to be believed.
Monk wished Rupert would stop. It was hopeless. “Please don’t make it worse than it is,” he said.
“Have you told my father?”
“No. You may, if you prefer. But don’t—”
“Run away?” Rupert asked with a flash of agonizing humor. “I won’t. Please wait here. I shall return in a few minutes.”
He kept his word. Ten minutes later he was in a hansom, sitting silently between Monk and Orme.
CHAPTER
5
RATHBONE FELT A TOUCH of chill in the pit of his stomach when his clerk told him Monk was in the waiting room, looking tired and rather drawn.
“Send him in,” Rathbone replied. He wanted to get it over with. He would find it hard to give his full attention to a client, with his imagination racing as to what it was that Monk had discovered. The fact that he had come to Rathbone at all made it inescapable that it had to do with Mickey Parfitt’s murder and the boat on which he’d practiced his particularly filthy trade.
Rathbone had tried to put from his mind Sullivan’s words blaming Arthur Ballinger for his downfall—first the temptation, then the corruption. Had his mind been deranged, and he had blamed Ballinger because he could not accept his own responsibility for what he had become? There had never been anything but words, perhaps hysterical—no facts, not even any details Sullivan could not have invented himself.
Monk came in through the door and closed it behind him. The clerk was right: he looked tired and miserable, almost defeated. The iron fist inside Rathbone’s stomach clenched tighter. He waited.
“I found out who killed Mickey Parfitt,” Monk said quietly. “The proof seems pretty conclusive. I thought you’d like to know.”
“I would!” Rathbone snapped.