William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

its moods, its sleeping surface, so often smooth, reflecting the light and hiding its own heart.
    He found other witnesses who had seen Rupert, who knew his tastes, women he had used from time to time. It was not difficult to follow the trail of the money he had gambled and lost, the debts he had paid only with his father’s help.
    Eventually there was no reasonable doubt left. Monk took Orme with him and went to the magnificent house in Chelsea where RupertCardew still lived with his father. He chose to go early in the morning on purpose, so there was little chance either Lord Cardew or Rupert would be out.
    The butler admitted him. Perhaps he should have gone to the back door, but that was something he had always refused to do, even when he had been a junior officer in the Metropolitan Police. Now, as commander of the Thames River Police he did not even think of it.
    “I require to speak to Mr. Rupert Cardew regarding a most serious matter,” he said gravely as he was shown to the morning room to await Rupert’s convenience.
    The interior of the house was magnificent, in the manner of one that has been lived in by the same family for generations. Little was new. The large hallway had a marble-flagged floor, worn uneven by the passage of feet over generations. The wooden banister sweeping down from the gallery above was darkened in places by the constant touch of hands. There was a carved chest with animals on it, which had been carefully mended.
    In the morning room the carpet was beautiful, but the sun of countless summers had muted the colors. The leather on the chairs was scuffed in places. At another time he would have loved the room. Today it hurt, fueling his anger against Mickey Parfitt and all that he’d soiled with his manipulation of weakness.
    He told the footman that he would wait until Mr. Cardew had had his breakfast, and asked to see the valet. He felt deceitful to show the picture of the cravat to a servant first, trading on his innocence, but in the end it was less cruel than placing him in the position where he could lie, and would feel obliged to do so.
    When it was identified, Monk waited until Rupert came into the morning room. He looked as easy and charming as when Monk had met him at the clinic in Portpool Lane.
    “Morning, Monk,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped. “God, man, you look dreadful! Nothing wrong with Mrs. Monk, I hope?” For a moment fear flickered in his face, as if it mattered to him.
    Monk felt the deceit scorch inside him. He pulled the picture out of his pocket again and held it up.
    “Your valet says that this is yours. It’s pretty distinctive.”
    Rupert frowned. “It’s a piece of paper! Did you find my cravat?”
    “If this is yours, yes. Is it?” Monk insisted.
    Rupert looked at him with complete incomprehension. “Why on earth does it matter? Yes, it’s mine. Why?”
    Monk had a moment’s doubt. Had Cardew no idea what he had done? Was Parfitt so worthless that he really didn’t think killing him mattered?
    As if reciting something pointless, Monk told him, “It was used to murder someone called Mickey Parfitt. We found his body in the water at—” He stopped.
    Rupert was ashen. Suddenly the meaning of it was clear to him.
    “And you think I did it?” He had trouble articulating the words. He swayed a little, put out his hand to grasp something, but there was nothing there.
    “Yes, Mr. Cardew, I do think so,” Monk said quietly. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I could believe he died of natural causes, but that is impossible. He was strangled with your cravat.”
    “I …” Rupert made a jerky little movement with his hand, his eyes never leaving Monk’s face. “Is there any point in my denying it?”
    “It’s not my decision,” Monk told him. “I might choose to believe you, whatever the facts say. But you knew him, you patronized his appalling boat. He blackmailed most of his clients. It was only a case of which one broke first.”
    “I didn’t kill him,” Rupert said quietly, his face scarlet. “I paid.”
    “And lent someone your cravat to kill him with?”
    “It was stolen. Or … or I lost it. I don’t know.” Rupert’s expression said he did not expect to be believed.
    Monk wished Rupert would stop. It was hopeless. “Please don’t make it worse than it is,” he said.
    “Have you told my father?”
    “No. You may, if you prefer. But don’t—”
    “Run away?” Rupert asked with a flash of agonizing humor.