William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

there must be a market for such …” He searched for a word acceptable in court that would describe what he felt, and did not find it.
    Monk smiled sourly. “Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But the market that would pay most highly, again and again, is the men who are shown in the pictures.” There was rage in his voice, almost choking him, but looking up at him across the space of the open floor, Rathbone saw a pity in him also, and it took him by surprise.
    “Oh.” Winchester bit his lips. “Of course. How dull-witted of me.Blackmail. And have you some reason to suppose that Parfitt did not commit the blackmail himself?”
    “Parfitt came from a poor family of manual laborers and petty thieves on the riverside,” Monk answered. “He was uneducated and lived by his wits. According to those who knew him, he had neither good looks nor charm, and was not particularly eloquent. His skills were his cunning and his encyclopedic knowledge of human weakness and depravity. How could he find the victims for such blackmail? It is hardly his social circle, and one cannot advertise the goods he had for sale.”
    Winchester looked as if he had been suddenly enlightened. His eyes widened. Then he smiled at his own attempt at playacting. He looked at the jury as if to apologize to them. Several of them smiled back at him.
    “Of course,” he said mildly. “There has to be a man of more sophistication, higher social connections, and possibly money to have provided him with this boat, and obviously excellent photographic equipment, in the first place.”
    “Yes.”
    Rathbone considered objecting, but a look at the jurors’ faces, and he knew he would earn only their contempt. He would seem to be making ridiculous objections by which to try to distract them, which would only lend more credence to what Winchester was saying. And if he was honest, Rathbone himself believed there was someone behind Parfitt, pretty much as Monk and Winchester assumed.
    “But you do not know who he is?” Winchester pursued.
    “I believe that I do,” Monk contradicted him. “But the proof is what I came here to present.”
    The jurors looked stunned. There was a buzz of excitement in the public gallery, rustles of movement and indrawn breath.
    Winchester himself played it for all it was worth.
    “Are you suggesting, Mr. Monk, that it was this … this investor who murdered Mickey Parfitt? Why, for heaven’s sake? Was the boat not making him a fortune?”
    Rathbone stood up at last. “My lord, this is the wildest speculation!”
    “It is indeed,” the judge answered tartly. “Mr. Winchester, you know better than this!”
    “I apologize, my lord,” Winchester said humbly. “I’m sorry.”
    It was only at that moment that Rathbone realized that Winchester had had nothing more to add anyway. Rathbone’s intervention had saved him from the jury’s realizing it.
    “Have you anything else pertinent to say, Mr. Winchester?” the judge asked with evident impatience. “For example, something tangible, such as either of the weapons used in the attack of Mr. Parfitt, or a timetable of his movements? Or for that matter, a witness to anything at all? You have so far only a handful of obscene and repulsive photographs and a web of speculation, none of which you have connected to the accused.”
    Winchester looked suitably chastened and once again addressed Monk. “Sir, his lordship has excellent points, and has graciously reminded me that I have yet to mention the weapons used to take the life of this repulsive man. Did you seek them, and did you find them?”
    “I did not find the weapon with which his head was struck,” Monk replied. “It is difficult to know what that would have been, but any strong length of branch from a tree would have served, or a broken plank of wood, or an oar. There were many such lying on the bank, or floating in the water.”
    Winchester looked faintly disconcerted, but he did not interrupt.
    “However, we did find the weapon with which he was strangled,” Monk continued. “It was a dark blue cravat with an unusual pattern on it of leopards, very small and in threes, one above the other, in gold. It was made of silk, and there were six very tight knots in it, at slightly irregular distances matching the bruises perfectly.”
    Winchester allowed the jury a few moments to absorb this information. “Really! And where did you find the cravat, Mr. Monk?”
    “The police surgeon cut it from around