William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

Mayfair, Park Lane, and Kensington. He mentioned that a piece of jewelry had been lost and he wanted to return it to its owner discreetly. No one argued with him, and he had no conscience about lying.
    He found the Honorable Alexander Bledsoe, who answered the description of the man in Cremorne Gardens with extraordinary accuracy. His well-cared-for but unusually large hands removed any doubt. He chose to see Monk without family or servants present.
    “What can I do for you, Officer?” he said with carefully judged casualness.
    “I’m looking for the gentleman who lost a rather fine silk cravat,” Monk replied smoothly. “I believe he might be a friend of yours.”
    “Not that I know of.” Bledsoe smiled slightly, his shoulders relaxed,and the uneasiness vanished. “But if anyone mentions it, I’ll tell them it’s been found. Leave it at the local station, there’s a good fellow. Someone’ll pick it up.” He seemed to consider looking into his pocket for a coin. His hand moved, and then stopped. He turned as if to leave.
    Monk pulled the picture of the cravat out of his pocket and held it up. “It’s rather distinctive,” he observed.
    Bledsoe glanced at it and frowned. “What the hell is this?” he said sharply. “If you’ve found the thing, where is it?”
    “At the police station, in safekeeping,” Monk replied.
    “Well, get the damn thing and bring it to me. I’ll see that it’s returned,” Bledsoe said irritably.
    “It’s important that I return it to the right person. Do you know who that is, sir?” Monk persisted.
    “Yes, I do!” Bledsoe snapped. “Now go and fetch it! Dammit, man, what’s the matter with you?”
    Monk folded the picture and replaced it in his pocket. “Whose is it, sir?”
    Bledsoe glared at him. “Rupert Cardew’s. At least it looks like one he wore. For God’s sake, why are you making such a hell of a fuss about a damn cravat?”
    Monk felt a void open up inside him. He knew how much Hester liked Rupert Cardew, and how he had helped the clinic. His generosity had enabled them to buy far more medicine than before, and so treat more people.
    “Are you sure?” He was startled by the hoarseness in his voice.
    “Yes, I am!” Bledsoe was losing his temper. “Now fetch it, and I’ll give it back to him, or I’ll see that you pay for your insolence.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t return it to you in the foreseeable future, or to Mr. Cardew. It was used in a crime. It will be evidence when the case comes to court.”
    “What do you mean, a crime?” Bledsoe was taken aback, his skin losing its color, his stance suddenly changed.
    “It was used to strangle a man,” Monk told him with some satisfaction.
    The blood rushed hot into Bledsoe’s face. “You tricked me!” he accused him.
    “I asked you if you knew whose it was. You answered me,” Monk said icily. “Do you mean that had you known it was used in a crime, then you would have lied?”
    “Damn you!” Bledsoe said between his teeth. “I shall deny it.”
    Monk looked at him, lifting his own lip in a suggestion of disdain. “If that is what your code of honor says you must do, sir, then you must follow your conscience. It is very noble of you.”
    Bledsoe looked startled. “Noble?”
    “Yes, sir. Now that I know whose it is, it will be easy enough to prove. You will look something of a fool in court, and everything of a liar, but you will have been loyal to your friend. Good day, sir.” He turned on his heel and strode away. He was furious, but far more than that, he was filled with misery. He desperately did not want the suspect to be someone he liked—worse, someone Hester liked.
    Mickey Parfitt had been a monster. Any of his victims could have been tempted to destroy him, even if afterward they would have regretted either their rage or their loss of the fuel he’d supplied for their appetite. It simply had not occurred to Monk that Rupert Cardew, with his wealth, his privilege, and above all his charm, should have become entangled in such filth.
    Why not? Dependency had nothing to do with position. It was about need.
    Perhaps someone had stolen the cravat from him? Monk hoped so. It would not solve the crime, but then, perhaps that did not matter.
    Over the next two days he traced Rupert Cardew to various prostitutes in the Chiswick area and farther south along the riverbank. The water and its people seemed to fascinate Rupert, as if there were both a vitality and a danger in