Anne Perry - Acceptable Loss

“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.

They 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.

Monk 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.