William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

tailor would swear to it.”
    “I see.” He was not surprised, but it might have been an advantage if the point could have been argued. “What time did you leave home that evening?”
    “I expected you to ask me that. Early. It was a lovely evening.” He gave a twisted grimace, not quite a smile, as if the bitter humor of it were momentarily overwhelming. “I walked down by the river for an hour or more. I lost track of time.…”
    Rathbone held up his hand to stop him. “Down by the river where? You don’t live anywhere near Chiswick.”
    “Of course not. Who the devil lives in Chiswick? But I didn’t want to wander along the Embankment and run into half a dozen people I know who would want to talk politics, or gossip. I took a boat up the river, and I’ve racked my brain to recall anyone I knew who saw me. But the whole charm of going up on the water is the peace of it, the very fact that you don’t meet anyone you know. I’m sorry.” He shrugged very slightly, with barely a movement of his shoulders.
    “You didn’t row yourself!” Rathbone observed.
    “Well, actually, I did.”
    “You hired a boat? From whom? They’ll have a record of it.”
    “No. I have my own. At least, I share it with a fellow I know. But he’s in Italy at the moment. No use, is it!”
    “No,” Rathbone agreed. “Where did you go—exactly?”
    “Chiswick. I tied it up at one of the mooring posts up there opposite the Chiswick Eyot. Then I went along the Mall and had a drink at the pub off Black Lion Lane. I spoke to a few lads I know, but I doubt they’d remember it. Just stupid remarks about the weather, that sort of thing.”
    “Then what?”
    Rupert looked down at his hands on the table. “Then I went and visited a woman I know—a girl.”
    “Is that a euphemism for a prostitute?” Rathbone inquired.
    A dull color marked Rupert’s cheeks. “Yes.”
    “Her name?”
    “Hattie Benson.”
    “You know her? Other than in the carnal sense?”
    Rupert looked up quickly. “Yes. But I don’t imagine her word is going to help a lot. I still had my cravat then. I remember taking it off, so it must have been before Parfitt was killed with it. Unless someone killed him with another silk cravat, exactly like mine. That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?” There was a flicker of hope in his voice, but he killed it himself, before Rathbone had the chance.
    “Yes. I’m afraid it is,” Rathbone replied. “Where did you go after you left Miss Benson?”
    “I don’t know. I was pretty drunk. I fell asleep somewhere, I don’t remember where. When I woke up, it was dark, and I felt like hell. I went over to the horse trough, stuck my head into the water, sobered up a bit, and then rowed home.” He looked at Rathbone, waiting for the condemnation he expected.
    “The prosecution won’t be able to make a case unless they can prove that you knew Mickey Parfitt, and had some reason to want him dead,” Rathbone told him. “Tell me of all your dealings with him, and don’t lie to me. If they catch you out even once, it will be sufficient to shatter any credibility you might have with the jury.”
    Rupert stared at him, the skin tight across his cheeks, his mouth drawn into a line of pain.
    “It is too late for discretion,” Rathbone warned him. “I shall not tell anyone anything you can afford for me to hide. Particularly I shall not tell your father. He will suffer quite enough in spite of all I can do.”
    Rupert looked as if Rathbone had struck him and bruised his face deeper than the flesh.
    “I did not kill Parfitt,” he said clearly.
    Rathbone continued exactly as if he had not spoken. “What was your connection with him? When and where did you first meet? If any of this is verifiable, I’d like to know that too.”
    Rupert looked down at the scarred tabletop. “I met him just over two years ago. I was out with a group of friends, at Black Lion Lane again. We were all pretty high and bored. Somebody began telling tall stories about women they’d had, not just in London, but Paris, somebodysaid Berlin, and someone else said Madrid. The stories got taller and taller, most of them lies, I expect.” He took a deep breath. “Then someone said he knew of a place a lot more daring than anything mentioned so far. He said danger was the thing that really made your heart beat, and the blood—” He stopped. He was looking at Rathbone’s exquisite suit, his crisp, clean shirt.
    “I can imagine,” Rathbone