William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

sheet.
    He turned it over and saw on the other side what had apparently been part of a longer letter, or a list. This one was written in ink, but the words were harder to decipher, as if it were another language, perhaps Latin, although, with only half of some of the words, it was hard to tell. The letters were well formed, the script disciplined. He wondered where it came from.
    “Thank you, ’Orrie,” Monk said in a whisper, letting his breath out slowly. “That is just about perfect.”

CHAPTER
8
    T HE CHARGES HAD BEEN withdrawn against Rupert Cardew, and he was released from custody.
    Once again the case was open.
    Monk stood in the station at Wapping with the note ’Orrie had given him in his hand. It was strong evidence, but against whom? The pencil had smudged until it was only just legible, and the dirt and finger marks on that paper made it impossible to place. It could have been written by anyone.
    Monk was not even certain if it was the man behind the blackmail, except who else would Parfitt have turned out for at that time of night? Anyone else he would simply have told to come at a more convenient hour. Who else but someone he knew, and trusted, would he have met alone, at night on the boat?
    “Has to be,” Orme agreed. “But we aren’t going to tie it to anyone, with the note in that state. All it proves is that someone baited him to go there. And we know it was premeditated anyway, and withCardew’s cravat.” Orme picked up the paper, turning it over in his hands. “Any idea where it came from?” he asked, squinting a little as he tried to read it, then looking up slightly at Monk.
    “No,” Monk said honestly.
    “Ballinger?” Orme said.
    “Could be. Parfitt knew who it was from, or he wouldn’t have gone. Obviously he knew him well enough that no signature was necessary.”
    Orme’s face was grim in the yellow glare of the lamplight. Outside, the wind was rising, and it was beginning to rain. It was going to be a choppy crossing on the ferry.
    “Has to be the man behind the blackmail,” Orme said quietly. “We have to get it right this time.”
    Monk felt a faint heat in his face, a remembrance of shame. Orme had never referred to it, but Monk had let them both down with his carelessness in the Jericho Phillips case. He had underestimated Rathbone’s skill and his dedication to the processes of the law. After all his years dealing with crime, he had still been naïve because his emotions had been so intensely involved. He must not ever make that mistake again. Rathbone was his friend, and he would feel a desperate pity for him if Ballinger were guilty, but Monk must not for an instant forget that if that were so, then Rathbone would be the enemy, and would fight with every art and skill he had to defend Arthur. He would for any client—that was his duty. But for Margaret’s father, he would go to the very edge of the abyss. Perhaps even further. Wouldn’t Monk himself, for Hester?
    Orme shook his head. “We’ve got nothing except coincidence,” he said warningly. “Lot of possibles that won’t carry any weight with a jury. Maybe wouldn’t even get us to court.”
    “I know,” Monk told him.
    “Ballinger’s a highly respectable man,” Orme went on. “One of their own, so to speak. A solicitor. His wife and daughters’ll be in the gallery, all looking sweet and supportive, and like they believe every word he says. What we’ve got are out of the gutter, and look like it. ’Orrible Jones, with his eyes all over the place, like a horse that’s been spooked. Crumble, all quiet and sneaky. Tosh Wilkin, who’s a villainif ever I saw one. Hattie Benson, who’s a prostitute, an’ scared stiff. Looks like she’s lying, even when she isn’t.”
    “All right!” Monk said sharply. “I know! We haven’t got enough.”
    “We’ve got the ferryman, Stanley Willington, but he just bears out what Ballinger says himself. Picked him up at Chiswick, took him over the river, and brought him back again. And of course he has Mr. Harkness swearing to his being in Mortlake all the time between. It’s all very tidy, and hard to shake. He had time to row down as far as the boat, then back again, and catch a hansom to where Willington picked him up. And we know from Harkness that he was a strong rower, but will Harkness say that on the stand, when he understands what that means?”
    “Probably not,” Monk conceded. He took the piece of paper from where Orme had left it on