William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

Phillips. Monk doesn’t understand that that is what lawyers do! I think he has never really forgiven you for defending Phillips in court. He doesn’t like to be beaten.” She took a step closer to him. “Poor people with little education can be very proud, very stiff, unable to accept criticism, let alone defeat, especially from a friend. He admires you and he can’t bear to be wrong in your eyes. It’s an ugly trait of character, a weakness, but it is not so rare.”
    Was she right? Monk was prickly, but a bit less so since his marriage to Hester. However, victory still mattered intensely to him. Rathbone could see in his mind’s eye Monk’s rage when Rathbone had beaten him in court over Phillips. Was this his revenge, even if Monk had not been aware of it himself? Was this the old Monk reasserting himself, the man who had been so feared before his accident and the loss of memory had made him so vulnerable?
    He looked at Margaret. The gentleness was back in her face.
    “I plan to take him through all the evidence tomorrow. I’ll show the jury just how preposterous it is,” he promised. “We will not be able to protect Rupert.” He took a deep breath. “I wish he were not Lord Cardew’s son. Poor man.”
    She touched his arm with her fingers, and he felt the warmth of it briefly. “You can’t do anything about that, my dear. The exposure of the law is cruel. There is nothing we can do but bear it with dignity, and loyalty to one another.”
    She smiled and turned. “Dinner will be ready soon. You must be hungry. I worry about you sometimes when you are in a big trial like this. Do you look after yourself?”
    Rathbone followed her, comforted, until another thought cameto him. It struck him so hard, it was as if he had fallen and bruised himself almost to numbness, knowing the pain would follow. What if Monk were so desperate to stop the pornographic trade on the river that he was prepared to hang Ballinger for the death of Parfitt, not because he believed Ballinger was guilty of it, but because he knew he was the man behind the trade, and behind Phillips? One reason was as good as the other; in fact, perhaps he saw the death of Parfitt as the lesser sin?
    Maybe the actual killer of Parfitt was some petty thief or extortioner, like Tosh Wilkin, or even one of Parfitt’s victims? Even Rupert Cardew himself? But Monk chose to overlook that rather than ruin the real killer for ridding the world of a man they were all grateful to see dead—and Monk used the circumstances to frame Ballinger, because he was the architect of the greater crime?
    Was Monk capable of such twisted thought?
    Even as the question formed in his mind, Rathbone was tempted to think the same way. If Ballinger were behind it—untraceable, uncatchable, simply going to walk away and begin again—would not Rathbone also have been tempted to let him pay the price for the secondary crime?
    Who had killed Parfitt? ’Orrie? Tosh Wilkin? Any one of his wretched victims first led into fornication, then abuse, then blackmail? It was a soft path to hell, one shallow step at a time, invited—not driven, not chased, but led.
    Rupert Cardew?
    Margaret turned, aware that Rathbone was not immediately behind her.
    He moved more quickly and caught up with her. It was warm in the drawing room, comfortable to the body, and familiar to the mind. It was not cold yet outside, but the fire gave an added pleasure. It should have allowed him to relax, think of something other than the anxieties and the dangers of tomorrow, but it did not. He wanted to go to bed and pretend to be asleep. He needed to be alone, away from her fears and her loyalties. But if he did, he would have to explain it to her, and that would make it worse.
    The effort of finding small conversation now was unbearable, buthe knew that she needed him, needed to draw on his strength to calm the mounting fear inside her, and he must do that. That it was difficult was irrelevant.
    I N THE MORNING THE courtroom was packed. Once again there were people lining up outside, angry to be turned away.
    When Rathbone stood up to begin his cross-examination of Monk, the tension in the air was palpable. Winchester was silent, appearing at a glance to be at ease, but the constant slight movement of his head, the flexing of his fingers, betrayed him.
    Everyone was waiting, all eyes on Rathbone.
    He walked out into the middle of the floor and looked up at the witness stand.
    “Mr. Monk, let us