William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

should leave that subject.
    “Mr. Ballinger, where were you on the evening that Mickey Parfitt was killed?”
    Ballinger carefully repeated the exact story he had told before, and which had been borne out by the witnesses.
    Rathbone smiled. “Inspector Monk has testified that he followed your route, to the minute, and discovered that he could find a smallcraft and row down to Parfitt’s boat at its moorings, spend the time on board that it would take to kill Parfitt, and then row back to Mortlake again. He took a cab back to the crossing opposite Chiswick Eyot, and still was there at the time you said you were. Did you do that?”
    Ballinger smiled back. “Mr. Monk is the best part of a generation younger than I am, and leads a very physical life. He is a river policeman. He probably rows a boat every day. I wish I were as young and as fit as he is, but, unquestionably, I am afraid I am not. I did not do it, nor had any desire to. But even had I wished, it would have been beyond my ability.”
    “You did not?”
    “I did not. It is my misfortune that I happened to spend that particular evening visiting an old friend in Mortlake, instead of at home with my wife, or out to dine in a public place. It is my additional misfortune that Inspector Monk has never forgiven me for acting for Jericho Phillips, insofar as I obtained your services to defend him when he faced trial. Monk appears not to believe that a man accused of evil acts is not guilty until he is proved so in law, and he is entitled to a lawyer to defend him of as high a quality as the one who accuses him. It is the very foundation of justice.”
    There was a murmur of approval from the gallery. Ballinger eased a little where he stood in the witness box, and met Rathbone’s eyes across the distance between them.
    Rathbone felt a sense of warmth himself, as if he had achieved what duty required of him.
    “Thank you, Mr. Ballinger. Please wait there in case Mr. Winchester has any questions to ask you.” He returned to his seat.
    Winchester stood up and walked forward. “Oh, I have. I most certainly have.” He looked up at Ballinger.
    Rathbone had been very careful. Hattie Benson’s name had not even been mentioned. Winchester was bluffing, putting off the acknowledgment of defeat, lengthening out the tension.
    “A most moving testimony, Mr. Ballinger,” Winchester observed. “And interesting. I notice that Sir Oliver very wisely did not ask you if you were acquainted with the prostitute Hattie Benson, who was so sadly murdered in the exact manner that Mickey Parfitt was. Even tothe use of the knotted rag to strangle her, leaving bruises at intervals around her throat.”
    “Because he knows that I have no knowledge of it,” Ballinger replied levelly. “I may speculate, of course, as we all may, because we know with whom she was involved, by his own admission.”
    “Ah, yes.” Winchester nodded. “Mr. Rupert Cardew. But of course since she is dead, her testimony remains unspoken.”
    “It might have remained unspoken even if she were alive,” Ballinger pointed out. “It is possible she repented of it, and told him that she could not go through with it.”
    Rathbone’s sense of ease was slipping away from him. He rose to his feet. “My lord, this is a piece of speculation that has no place here. We cannot know what Miss Benson would have said, nor can we question her to prove its truth, or otherwise. If my learned friend has something to ask Mr. Ballinger, please instruct him to do so. Otherwise, he is wasting the court’s time.”
    The judge leaned forward, but before he could speak, Winchester apologized.
    “I’m sorry, my lord. I shall proceed. Mr. Ballinger, you said that you had no direct knowledge of the trade that was carried on by Mr. Parfitt in the boat you helped him purchase?”
    “That’s right. None at all,” Ballinger replied coolly.
    “And to the best of your knowledge, you were not acquainted with any of the men who patronized it and indulged in these acts, and, as a result, were blackmailed?”
    Rathbone stood up again. “My lord, Mr. Winchester is merely repeating evidence we have already been through.”
    The judge sighed. “Mr. Winchester, is there some point to all of this?”
    “Yes, my lord. I intend to call Mr. Ballinger’s honesty into very grave doubt—in particular, with regard to this last issue.”
    “To what purpose?” Rathbone demanded. “He has said that he does not know any of these men, as