William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

creeping around boats alone at night, in order to conduct a perfectly legal piece of business for a client, however desperate or foolish that client had been? And would you go alone?”
    “No,” Rathbone said without hesitation. It all sounded very reasonable, but it was not a defense. “We will have to have far more than a mere denial.”
    Ballinger managed a tight, bleak smile. “They have to prove that I was there, that I was in possession of Rupert Cardew’s cravat, and that I had a compelling reason to kill Parfitt. They can do none of those things, because none of them is true. I was on the river, crossing it from the south side, on my way home. I was in a ferry, and the ferryman will vouch for it. From there I took a hansom straight home. No one can prove differently, because that’s the truth.”
    “And you are sure you didn’t have any dealings with Parfitt?” Rathbone pressed.
    “For heaven’s sake, what dealings would I have?” Ballinger protested. “From what you say, the man’s unspeakable!”
    “You were prepared to act for Jericho Phillips,” Rathbone pointedout. “And for Sullivan, who was using the filthy trade, and paying Phillips blackmail money. The prosecution would not find it difficult to suggest you did the same for Parfitt or, on the other hand, for one of his victims.”
    Ballinger swallowed. There was still no color in his face, and he looked cornered and embarrassed. “I acted for Sullivan because the man was desperate.”
    Rathbone could no longer put it off without very deliberately lying, both to Ballinger and to himself. He had pretended that he did not need an answer, and it lay like poison inside him.
    “Sullivan told me that you were the one who introduced him to the pornography, and that you were behind Phillips financially.”
    Ballinger stared at him.
    Seconds ticked by.
    Ballinger gulped. “He told you that?” he said incredulously.
    “Yes.”
    “And you said nothing … until now?”
    “I chose to believe it was the hysterical accusation of a man whose mind was turned by despair, and who was about to take his own life.”
    “And so it was.” Ballinger took an enormous breath, and the sweat beaded on his face, although the cell was cold. “My God, that makes sense of Monk’s insane behavior. You spoke to him, didn’t you!” That was a statement, not a question, close to the edge of blame.
    Rathbone found himself off balance. He almost started to make excuses for himself.
    “Are you telling me that you were not involved with Sullivan’s behavior?” he said, measuring his words very deliberately.
    Arthur Ballinger hesitated. He glanced down at his hands, strong and heavy on the table, then met Rathbone’s eyes. “Sullivan blackmailed me into representing him,” he said quietly. “Not for anything I did, but for Cardew. Helping him was his price for keeping Cardew out of it.”
    Rathbone was so amazed that for a moment he could think of nothing to say.
    Ballinger stared at him, waiting.
    “Cardew?” Rathbone said at length. “You were prepared to get involved with that sordid mess, to save Cardew?”
    Ballinger’s face softened, his shoulders eased a little bit, and he almost smiled. “I’ve admired him immensely, for a long time.”
    “He was involved with Phillips, and you admired him?” Rathbone’s voice carried his disgust, and his disbelief.
    “Rupert Cardew was involved with Phillips, for God’s sake! I admired his father!” Ballinger said witheringly. “And I was desperately sorry for him. You haven’t children yet, Oliver. You have no idea how you can love your child, regardless of how they behave, or what wretched things they do. You still care, you still forgive, and you can never abandon them, or stop hoping they will somehow change and be at least something of what you want for them.”
    Rathbone was totally confused. Was it possible?
    Ballinger leaned forward across the table. “I did all I could to save Sullivan, for his own sake. I should not have been surprised that he took his own life, but I regret to say I did not see it beforehand, or I might have stopped him. Or perhaps not. He was a man with nothing left, and death was the only answer remaining. Thank God that at least he took with him the evidence that would have ruined Rupert Cardew as well.”
    “Took with him?” Rathbone echoed.
    “I meant into oblivion,” Ballinger elaborated. “I don’t suppose he had it literally … in his pockets. It was