William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

punished for something they did.”
    Monk looked at Orme’s face in the evening light, blunt, almost bruised by this new realization about himself. Orme had served the law all his life, and now he doubted what they were doing.
    A few days ago Monk had wondered if Orme had thought Monk was squeamish, too soft to do his job. Now he saw in Orme’s averted face exactly the same pain he felt himself. But victims need justice, not pity. He thought of Scuff, and wondered if either was really any good. What they needed was for it not to have happened in the first place.
    I T WAS FIRST THING the following morning when the police surgeon reported to Monk regarding the death of Mickey Parfitt. The surgeon was a dark man, thin-faced with a gallows humor. He found Monk in the Chiswick Police Station studying the records they had re-created regarding the finances of Parfitt’s business.
    “Morning,” the surgeon said cheerfully, closing the door behind him firmly.
    They had met several times before. “Good morning, Dr. Gordimer,” Monk replied. “I assume you have something on Parfitt’s death?”
    “Came for the hospitality,” Gordimer replied bleakly, staring around the small, chaotic office with its piles of books and papers balanced precariously on every available surface. Any misplaced addition would send at least one pile crashing. “This is better than the morgue—marginally. Well, warmer at least.”
    “I prefer the Dog and Duck,” Monk said drily.
    Gordimer grunted. “Do you normally make this much mess? Have you lost something? You’ll probably lose it all at this rate.”
    “Have you got anything new about Parfitt? I already know he was hit over the head and then strangled.”
    “Ah, but what with?” Gordimer said with satisfaction.
    “Rope? Twine? Something better?” Monk put down the paper he was reading and stared hopefully at the surgeon’s sardonic face.
    “Much better,” Gordimer said with a smile. He fished into his pocket and brought out a length of cloth. It was filthy and blood-spotted, but very recognizably knotted at regular lengths.
    Monk reached for it.
    Gordimer moved it just beyond his grasp.
    “What is it?” Monk said curiously. “Looks like a rag.”
    Gordimer nodded. “A very expensive silk rag, to be precise. From close and expert examination, I believe that when it is unknotted and carefully washed, even ironed, it will prove to be a gentleman’s cravat. From the little I have learned, it is made of heavy silk, embroidered with gold leopards—three of them, one above the other, very like those on the queen’s arms in the flag.”
    Monk’s stomach lurched. “You’re not—”
    “No,” Gordimer agreed drily. “I’m not. I said ‘like.’ There is nothing royal about this. Any gentleman of means—and, I would add, good taste—might acquire such a cravat.”
    “Expensive?”
    “Very.”
    “It was what killed him?”
    “I dug it out of his neck, man! What more do you want?”
    “Can you take a photograph of it and have it attested to?” Monk asked. “Then we can undo it and wash it and see it more clearly. If we can find out who owned it, we shall be a great deal further forward.”
    “Probably,” Gordimer agreed. “Very probably.”
    “Thank you,” Monk said sincerely.
    “My pleasure,” Gordimer replied. “At least I think so. Not totally sure, nasty little swine like Parfitt.”
    Monk smiled at him, and said nothing.
    ———
    B UT FINDING THE OWNER of the cravat was easier to say than to do. Monk had not expected any help from Tosh, Crumble, or ’Orrie Jones, nor did he receive it. The best places to try after that were where customers of that wealth and fashion might be picked up for the boat, such as Cremorne Gardens. But there was no point in visiting during the day; the people he was looking for were those of the night.
    He began just before dusk. The cravat itself was safely locked away as evidence—he could not risk being robbed of it. He had with him a very accurate drawing of it as it would have been had the valet just presented it to its owner to put on. It was even colored, very carefully, with paint, the little gold leopards standing out.
    He went in to Cremorne Gardens through the great arched wrought-iron gates with the name in huge letters over the top. There were little knots of people standing around, arms waving expressively, and there was lots of laughter and the sound of music in the air.
    He walked past them to begin