William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

in the swollen flesh.
    “Struck on the head with a blunt instrument, such as a log of wood, a piece of a branch?” Winchester repeated.
    “Yes.”
    “And then when he was lying there unconscious, his killer looped Mr. Cardew’s silk cravat around his neck—”
    “After having tied the knots in it,” the surgeon corrected him.
    Winchester looked as if he had been caught in an error, although Rathbone knew that he had done it on purpose. “Of course. I apologize. After having tied the knots, either then or earlier, the assailant looped the cravat around Mr. Parfitt’s neck and then tightened it until he choked to death.”
    “Yes.”
    “Why the knots, sir?”
    “To exert a greater pressure on the windpipe, I assume,” the surgeon replied. “It would be much more effective.”
    “But take time?”
    “Not if you did it in advance.”
    “Of course. Then hardly a crime of impulse, would you say?”
    “Impossible. Vandalism to do that to a good piece of silk.”
    Winchester nodded. “A premeditated act. Thank you, sir.”
    There was nothing Rathbone could do except not call more attention to the doctor’s testimony by going over it again. He declined to cross-examine.
    A FTER LUNCHEON W INCHESTER CALLED Stanley Willington, the ferryman who had taken Ballinger from Chiswick to the Lonsdale Road on the south shore and then back again at about twelve-thirty in the morning. All the times were exactly as Ballinger had told Rathbone, and there was nothing to add, nothing to doubt.
    Winchester then called Bertram Harkness, who was a very different proposition. He was both nervous and angry. He clearly wanted very much to account for Ballinger’s time in such a way as to make it clear that he could not possibly have killed Parfitt, and yet he was not aware of what the ferryman had said, since being a later witness, he had not been permitted in court at that time.
    He blustered. He did not like Winchester, and Winchester was clever enough to play on it. He was charming, even amusing in a mild way, as if to give them all a respite from the seriousness of the crime. Some people in the audience even laughed, although possibly more out of nervous relief than humor.
    Harkness was furious. “You find this amusing, sir?” he demanded, his face scarlet. “You drag a good man here, blacken his name in front of all and sundry, accuse him of murder, and by implication God knows what else. Then you stand around in your elegant suit … and make jokes! You are a nincompoop, sir! An irresponsible nincompoop!”
    Winchester looked startled, then embarrassed.
    Rathbone swore under his breath. It was Harkness who looked ridiculous, not Winchester. The crowd in the gallery was already on Winchester’s side; now they were all but rising to defend him.
    “I apologize if I have hurt your feelings, Mr. Harkness,” Winchester said gently. “Perhaps you would explain to me again exactly what happened, and the lie of the land around the area in which you live, so the jury may have that uppermost in their minds, and not some frivolous remark of mine.”
    But Harkness had lost the thread of the story he had been trying to concoct, somewhere between the truth as he guessed it and a later and longer version that would protect Ballinger.
    “I understand your predicament,” Winchester said softly. “You would have had no idea that you would be called upon to account for every minute of your time with such precision. Let us agree that your judgments are approximate.”
    “Ballinger did not kill that wretched creature!” Harkness said tartly. “If you knew him as I do, you wouldn’t even have entertained the idea. Look among Parfitt’s own ghastly confederates, or some miserable victim of his disgusting trade.”
    “Your loyalty does you credit, sir,” Winchester replied.
    “It’s not loyalty, you damn fool!” Harkness shouted at him. “It’s simply the truth, man. If you can’t see that, you should be occupied in some trade where you can do no harm.”
    Winchester smiled patiently and turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
    Rathbone considered for only a moment, weighing, judging, deciding. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester, but I believe Mr. Harkness has already told us exactly what happened.” He drew in his breath and plunged on. “This witness of yours, Miss Benson, is apparently reluctantto testify as to the theft of the cravat that Mr. Cardew was wearing that afternoon. You have conclusively proved it