William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

understand. We cannot allow any one of us to be the unappointed judge and executioner of another. The simple answer is that I don’t know why Rupert killed him. I didn’t have the chance to ask him. And to tell you the truth, I am not sure whether he would tell me …” He struggled for a moment to find words for what he could hardly bear to say.
    Rathbone put an end to it, as one would put an animal out of its pain. “Of course,” he said, cutting across him, “it is often easier to speak to someone whose opinion does not touch your emotions. It happens to many of the people I see in my office. With your permission, I shall go to the prison and speak to Rupert immediately.” He rose to his feet. “I think we should address this as soon as possible. I will see that he is being reasonably treated, and that he has all that he is permitted for his comfort. I will speak to you as soon as I have something of value to say.” He held out his hand.
    Cardew rose to his feet slowly. It seemed to cost him some effort, but when he clasped Rathbone’s hand, it was with surprising power. A drowning man, reaching for help amid the overwhelming waves.
    B Y EARLY AFTERNOON R ATHBONE was in the entrance of Newgate Prison. The huge iron doors closed behind him, and a sour-faced warden beckoned him along the narrow corridors toward the cell where he would be permitted to interview Rupert Cardew. His footsteps sounded hard on the floor, but the echo died almost immediately, as if the stone of the walls suffocated it. The place was a curious mixture of life and death. Rathbone was acutely conscious of emotional pain, of fear, remorse, the dread of physical extinction and what might lie beyond in the nightmares of the soul. And yet the place stifled life. There was no energy, nothing could breathe here, nothing could grow or have will.
    The warden walked ahead of him without ever turning to ascertain if he was following. But, then, who would wish to wander alone in this maze of corridors, all the same and all leading nowhere?
    The man stopped, took a key from the chain at his belt, and unlocked the iron door, swinging it open with a squeal of unoiled hinges.
    “Thank you,” Rathbone said curtly, walking past him. “I’ll knock when I’m ready to leave.”
    The man acknowledged with a silent nod and slammed the door shut. The sound of the lock going home on the outside was as loud as the clang of iron on stone had been.
    The cell was bare except for two wooden chairs and a small table, which was scarred and dented. One leg was shorter than the other three, so that when Rathbone touched it, the table wobbled before settling back to its place.
    Rupert Cardew stood in the center of the small space. He was wearing the shirt and trousers in which he must have been arrested, and he was crumpled and unshaven. However, he held himself upright and met Rathbone’s eyes without wavering.
    “I’m here at your father’s request,” Rathbone began. He was used to meeting accused men or women in circumstances like these, but it never grew any easier. For almost all of the major cases he dealt with, it was the person’s first time in prison, and the sheer shock of it caused either numbness or a panic that was close to hysteria. All too often, the shadow of the hangman’s noose darkened all reason and hope. Even the innocent were terrified. There was no trust in the judgment of the law when it was your own life in the balance.
    Rupert nodded. He found it difficult to speak, and when he forced the words out, his tone was uneven.
    “I knew he would … help. I … I’m not sure what you can do. The evidence seems to be … to be …” He breathed in and out deeply. “If I were Monk, I would believe as he does. The cravat is mine—no argument.”
    Rathbone heard the nervousness in his voice, the tension. He put his hand out and pulled the chair nearest him away from the table. He waved at the other. “Sit down, Mr. Cardew. I need you to tell me as much as you can, from the beginning. It might be simpler if I ask you questions.”
    Rupert obeyed, unintentionally scraping the chair legs on the floor. He sat down awkwardly, but his hands on the table were strong and lean, and Rathbone saw with respect that they did not tremble.
    “You do not question that it was your cravat?” Rathbone asked.
    “No,” Rupert said wryly. “I don’t imagine there are many like that. My father gave it to me. I expect he had it made. His