Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [65]
Ballinger hesitated, as if still puzzled as to its importance.
“Even if it merely confirms someone else’s story,” Monk added. “Or proves it false.”
“I couldn’t identify anyone,” Ballinger said, and gave a slight gesture of helplessness. “Apart from the ferryman, of course, Stanley Willington.”
“Of course,” Monk agreed. “But if you saw one person, or two, it could help. Or if you saw no one, at a time someone claimed to be there …” He allowed it to hang in the air, self-explanatory.
“Yes … I see. Let me think.” Ballinger’s eyes never left Monk’s, as if it were a kind of duel to which neither of them would admit. “I took a hansom as far as Chiswick. I think I arrived there about nine. There were still a number of people around, although it was dark. I saw them as figures on the quayside, talking, laughing. I smelled smoke—cigars. I recall that. It is a highly recognizable aroma. And it suggests gentlemen.”
Monk nodded. It was a clever observation, and he acknowledged it.
“I waited about ten minutes for a ferry. I preferred to have Stanley. He entertains me.” The description was good, and it matched Willington’s own account, as no doubt Ballinger knew it would.
Ballinger continued. All of it was in accordance with what Monk already knew, but it served the purpose he intended. He would check on it, not only with the men on the river, all the way up to Mortlake, a distance of nearly a mile and a half, but with Bertie Harkness, whose address Ballinger also offered.
“Thank you,” Monk said when he was finished and standing by the door. “It may help us catch someone in a lie.”
“I admit, I don’t see the purpose,” Ballinger replied. “Was I misinformed that you have evidence sufficient to bring Rupert Cardew to trial?”
Monk smiled, perhaps a little wolfishly, memory harsh in his mind. “He is defended by Oliver Rathbone,” he replied, “so I need every scrap of evidence I can find. There must be no surprises, no loopholes. I’m sure you understand.”
Ballinger inhaled deeply, then let out a sigh, and smiled back. “Of course,” he agreed, not bothering to conceal the pleasure in his eyes.
———
MONK SPENT ANOTHER COMPLETE day checking on all the accounts he had from ’Orrie Jones, Crumble, Tosh, and various other people on the river who had serviced the boat, before he finally called on Bertram Harkness.
Harkness was a portly man in his early sixties, roughly Ballinger’s own age. He had a military bearing, although he professed no retired rank and made no mention of service. His hair was short and graying, as was his bristling mustache.
He received Monk in the study of his house, a room lined with books, drawings, and a curious mixture of exotic seashells and miniature bronzes of guns, mostly Napoleonic cannons.
“I don’t know what you think I can tell you,” he said rather abruptly. “I was reasonably near the river that night, but I saw nothing and heard nothing. I had a late supper with Arthur Ballinger, whom I have known for years. Since our school days, actually. He often drops by. Been a bit out of it since my injury. Took a bad fall from my horse.” He tapped his right thigh. “Good of Ballinger. Keeps me up with the news I can’t get from the papers, you know?”
“I see. Yes, it must be pleasant to hear a little deeper insight than is printed for the general public,” Monk agreed.
“Damned right. So, what on earth is it you want from me, young man? Ballinger came up by river. Pleasant way to travel on an autumn evening. But for God’s sake, if he’d seen something of this wretched murder, don’t you think he’d have told you?” There was challenge in his voice, and the slightly aggressive cock of his head.
“Yes, sir,” Monk said politely, increasingly aware that Harkness’s temper was thin. “He has already told me precisely what he saw. But it is the timing that matters, and he is not certain about it. I thought you might be able to help in that.”
Harkness appeared mollified. “Ah! Bad business. Sorry for Cardew, poor devil. Lost his eldest son, and spoiled the younger. Happens. Easy mistake. Now he’s going to pay