William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

parents-in-law’s for dinner again when the butler announced that a Mr. Monk had called to see Mr. Ballinger and was waiting for him in the morning room.
    “What an inconvenient time to call!” Mrs. Ballinger said stiffly, her eyes wide. She looked at the butler. “Tell him to wait. In fact, better than that, tell him to come back tomorrow morning, at a reasonable hour.” She turned to Rathbone. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I know he is a friend of yours, more or less, but this is too much. The man has no breeding at all.”
    The butler had not moved.
    “What is it, Withers?” Ballinger said tartly. “Tell Monk, if he wants to wait, I’ll see him when I’ve had dinner. And when the evening is over and my visitors have gone home.”
    The butler, acutely embarrassed, moved from one foot to the other, his face a dull pink.
    Rathbone stood up. “I’ll go and see what he wants,” he offered, going toward the door as he spoke.
    “For heaven’s sake, Oliver, let the man wait!” George snapped. “You’re not his lackey to go jumping up and down after him simply because he arrives at the door.”
    Rathbone felt Margaret’s eyes on him as he left, but he did not turn back. He realized, as he closed the drawing room door behind him and walked across the wide hall with its sweeping staircase, that he was afraid. He knew Monk too well to imagine that he had called at this hour without a very compelling reason.
    Rathbone had seen the pride and the pain in Monk when Rathbone had beaten him in court over Jericho Phillips. He knew Monk would not let that happen again.
    He opened the morning room door and came face-to-face with him.
    “Why are you here?” Rathbone asked, closing the door behind him and remaining standing in front of it.
    “I’m sorry,” Monk apologized. “I thought this better than at his place of business. This affords him a less public exhibition, at least for the time being.”
    “What the devil are you talking about?” Rathbone demanded, although he felt a hollow fear that he knew.
    “And you are here also,” Monk continued. “Your clerk said that you would be. Perhaps it is as well.”
    “Monk!” Rathbone kept his voice level with difficulty.
    Monk straightened up and put his shoulders back, altering his weight from the easier stance he had held before. “I have new evidence that is compelling. I have come to arrest Arthur Ballinger for the murder of Michael Parfitt,” he replied.
    “Don’t be ridiculous!” Rathbone said sharply. It was like a bad dream spiraling out of control. “Ballinger was at Bertram Harkness’s house. You know that, and if you don’t, I certainly do.”
    “I know,” Monk said calmly. “It is not far from where Parfitt was found, and the movement of the tide can account for the difference. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be—”
    “I’ll make it as hard as I can!” Rathbone heard his own voice rising, losing control. “You can’t come in here to the man’s own house and accuse him, just because of what Sullivan said. He was desperate and on the brink of suicide. You know that as well as I do.”
    “Oliver—,” Monk began.
    Rathbone thought of Margaret in the quiet family withdrawing room across the hall, just beyond the closed doors. He must protect her from this. With an effort he lowered his voice.
    “Think of it, Monk. Even if you were right and Ballinger had some involvement with Phillips, and even with Parfitt, why on earth would he kill Parfitt? From what Sullivan said, supposing he were sane, and right about the facts—which we don’t know—Ballinger would have had every reason to keep him alive! He would be a source of considerable income for him.”
    Monk made no move to go round him. His face was grim, eyes hard and steady, but there was an emotion in them that Rathbone found chilling.
    Rathbone tried again. “He might have been acting for a client,” he protested. “After all, he is a solicitor. Perhaps he was trying to get Parfitt to stop blackmailing someone. Had you considered that?”
    There was a flicker of uncertainty in Monk’s face, there and then gone again. “Yes, it occurred to me,” he answered. “But if that is the case, then the charge would be accomplice to murder or, at best, accessory before and after the fact. He lured Parfitt to the boat, and he was in the immediate vicinity. So far we can’t place anyone else there. Don’t make a scene. It will only be harder for the family. I’m quite