William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

willing to have him come with me of his own volition, without anyone else knowing the seriousness of it.”
    Rathbone was still prepared to argue, but the door opened behind him, and George came into the room.
    “What on earth is going on? Can’t you deal with this, Oliver?” he asked angrily.
    Rathbone felt his own temper rise. He wanted to snap back at someone, and held himself in check with difficulty.
    “It would be better if you asked Papa-in-law to come out here.”
    George stared at Monk. “Look, I don’t know what you think you want … Inspector … or whatever you are, but this is not the time to arrive at a gentleman’s home, delaying dinner and making a vulgar scene—”
    “For God’s sake, George, just go and fetch him!” Rathbone snarled, his voice thick with anger. “If it were as simple as that, don’t you think I’d have dealt with it?”
    George’s temper flared in instant response. “How the devil do I know what you’d do? He’s a friend of yours.”
    The drawing room door opened wider, sending a stream of brighter light into the hallway. Margaret crossed to the entrance of the morning room, the silk of her gown gleaming, her face tight with anxiety.
    “What is it, Oliver?”
    “Nothing!” George told her sharply.
    “Please ask your father to come out,” Oliver contradicted him.
    She hesitated.
    It was Monk who moved forward now. “Please, Lady Rathbone, ask your father to come out. It will be less distressing for your mother and sisters if we can discuss this matter privately.”
    She looked at Rathbone, and then, as he nodded, she turned and went back into the drawing room. George followed her. A moment later Ballinger came out, but he left the door ajar behind him. The room was silent, as if everyone within it was listening.
    “Well, what the hell do you want?” he asked Monk. “You had better have a very good explanation for bursting in here like this.”
    Rathbone walked quickly to the drawing room door and closed it, then returned.
    “I have,” Monk said quietly. “I have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering Michael Parfitt—”
    “What?” Ballinger was aghast. “The wretched little pimp who was drowned in Chiswick? That’s absurd! You’ve really exceeded yourself, Monk. You’ve let your hunger for revenge addle your brain. I’ll have your job for this.”
    “I advise you to say nothing!” Rathbone cut in desperately, trying to prevent it from getting even worse.
    Ballinger’s face was red, ugly with anger. He swiveled to face Rathbone, then seemed to recall his composure and very deliberately forced himself to relax, lower his shoulders, and breathe out.
    “That was not a threat,” he said to Monk. “You are an incompetent fool, jumped up beyond your ability, but I mean you no harm. I will do everything according to the law.”
    “Of course you will,” Monk agreed with a flash of humor so brief it was barely visible. “You are far too wise to add assault of a police officer to the situation.”
    “Are you intending to take me into custody, at this hour of the night?” Ballinger’s tone was tinged with disbelief.
    “I imagined you would prefer it in the dark,” Monk responded. “But I can come back to your office in daylight, if you would rather. And if you should not be there, I can send police to look for you.”
    “God almighty, man!” Ballinger swore. “Your reputation will never recover from this!”
    Monk did not answer. He looked for a moment at Rathbone, then turned and went out to the front door, waiting there for Ballinger to follow.
    When the door closed behind them, Rathbone went at once to Margaret. She was white-faced, her eyes hollow. The muscles in her neck and shoulders suddenly looked as hard as cords, as if she might snap.
    “You must get this stopped, Oliver.” Her voice shook. “Tonight! Before anyone knows. I’ll tell Mama and the others that Monk needed help with something. I won’t have to think what, because I’ll just say that he didn’t tell us. You must—”
    “Margaret.” He put his hands on her shoulders lightly and felt how rigid they were. “Monk would not have come here if he didn’t believe that—”
    She pulled away from him, eyes blazing. “Are you saying he’s right?”
    “No, of course I’m not.” His answer was instant, and not wholly honest. He took a deep gulp of air. “I’m saying that he must think he has some evidence, or he wouldn’t dare come here and