William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

inhaled deeply, then let out a sigh, and smiled back. “Of course,” he agreed, not bothering to conceal the pleasure in his eyes.
    ———
    M ONK SPENT ANOTHER COMPLETE day checking on all the accounts he had from ’Orrie Jones, Crumble, Tosh, and various other people on the river who had serviced the boat, before he finally called on Bertram Harkness.
    Harkness was a portly man in his early sixties, roughly Ballinger’s own age. He had a military bearing, although he professed no retired rank and made no mention of service. His hair was short and graying, as was his bristling mustache.
    He received Monk in the study of his house, a room lined with books, drawings, and a curious mixture of exotic seashells and miniature bronzes of guns, mostly Napoleonic cannons.
    “I don’t know what you think I can tell you,” he said rather abruptly. “I was reasonably near the river that night, but I saw nothing and heard nothing. I had a late supper with Arthur Ballinger, whom I have known for years. Since our school days, actually. He often drops by. Been a bit out of it since my injury. Took a bad fall from my horse.” He tapped his right thigh. “Good of Ballinger. Keeps me up with the news I can’t get from the papers, you know?”
    “I see. Yes, it must be pleasant to hear a little deeper insight than is printed for the general public,” Monk agreed.
    “Damned right. So, what on earth is it you want from me, young man? Ballinger came up by river. Pleasant way to travel on an autumn evening. But for God’s sake, if he’d seen something of this wretched murder, don’t you think he’d have told you?” There was challenge in his voice, and the slightly aggressive cock of his head.
    “Yes, sir,” Monk said politely, increasingly aware that Harkness’s temper was thin. “He has already told me precisely what he saw. But it is the timing that matters, and he is not certain about it. I thought you might be able to help in that.”
    Harkness appeared mollified. “Ah! Bad business. Sorry for Cardew, poor devil. Lost his eldest son, and spoiled the younger. Happens. Easy mistake. Now he’s going to pay for it up to the hilt. Both sons gone. Family name ruined. Damned grief, children. I’d have the bastard horse-whipped, if they weren’t going to hang him anyway.”
    “The time, Mr. Harkness,” Monk reminded him. “It would help agreat deal if you could tell me enough for me to know precisely when Mr. Ballinger was on the river, both coming here and going home again.”
    “Doesn’t the damn ferryman know?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Well, I didn’t look at the clock,” he said brusquely. “We sat down to supper about ten, as I recall. Talked for an hour or so afterward. Dare say he left at midnight. Whatever he says, that’ll be the truth.” Harkness regarded Monk with disfavor. “Good sportsman, Ballinger. Always admire that, you know? No, I don’t suppose you do.” He looked Monk up and down. “Don’t look like a damn policeman, I’ll give you that.”
    Monk swallowed his temper with considerable difficulty. “ ‘Good sportsman’?” he inquired.
    “That’s what I said. Good God, man, isn’t that simple enough for you? Damn good at the oars. And wrestling. Strong, you see?”
    “Yes, sir.” Monk breathed out slowly. There it was, the sudden gift in all the other irrelevant evidence. The idea burned hot and bright in his mind. “Thank you, Mr. Harkness.”
    Harkness shrugged. “I like to be fair,” he replied, standing a little straighter.
    Monk forbore from making any reply to that, although one rested on his tongue. He thanked Harkness again and allowed the butler to show him out into the blustery darkness of the street, with the damp smell of the river in the air.
    He took nearly half an hour to find a ferryman willing to row him back from Mortlake to Chiswick, and he timed how long it took. While he was sitting in the boat he considered what Harkness had told him, and went over in his mind all the times and details that he had been able to confirm.
    Of course none of the times was exact. The only way to check them was against what other people had said. ’Orrie had taken Parfitt over to the boat where it was moored upriver, just short of Corney Reach, and had left him there, after quarter past eleven. For what purpose, he had said he did not know.
    ’Orrie was supposed to have gone back for him within the hour,but had been held up, and when he had done so, at about ten to one,