Read Online William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss by Anne Perry - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Perry
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as necessary as the air.
“Perhaps we should speak of something else,” Ballinger said, leaning a little farther back in his armchair and crossing his legs. “I had a most amusing evening last Thursday …”
For the best part of the next hour he regaled them with a detailed and amusing account of his journey across the river, with lurid descriptions of the ferryman and his interests. Apparently he had gone to visit an old friend named Harkness who lived in Mortlake.
When at last he finished, Celia began to laugh. “Really, Papa! You had me hanging on every word you said! I could see the wretched ferryman, bowlegs and all.”
“You think I’m joking? To entertain you?” Ballinger asked.
“Of course,” she rejoined. “And I thank you for it. You are superb, as always.”
“Not at all.” He turned to Rathbone. “Go to the ferry at Fulham and look for him. You’ll find him there. Ask him about our conversation. I challenge you! Any of you!” He looked back at Wilbert, and then George.
“I believe you,” Margaret stated, still smiling. “It explains why you go to dine with a bore like Mr. Harkness. It isn’t the dinner at all; it’s the ride!”
This time they all laughed.
T HEY LEFT LATE, AFTER more wine, Belgian chocolates, and a last cup of tea.
“Thank you,” Margaret said quietly as their carriage moved out into the traffic and she and Rathbone sat side by side in the back. The silk of her gown spread out and covered his knees, rustling slightly asshe turned toward him. He could see her face in the flickering glow from the lamps of carriages moving in the opposite direction. She was smiling, her eyes soft.
For an instant he felt a complete belonging, a sweetness that ran right through him. He understood without effort exactly why Ballinger found his other sons-in-law irritating, why he had to bait them, and then in the end make them laugh. Whatever the trivial differences between all of them, there was an underlying loyalty that remained steadfast through the surface ruffles caused by a moment’s annoyance or trivial misunderstandings. One did not have to like in order to belong. True loyalty was deeper than that, stronger, impervious to superficial emotions.
He put his hand out and took Margaret’s where it lay on the silk of her skirt. It was warm, and her fingers closed over his with a sudden strength.
CHAPTER
4
M ONK BEGAN TO LOOK more deeply into the life of Mickey Parfitt, his friends and enemies, his patrons, and the men he had used and cheated, and whose appetites he had fed. And if Parfitt were truly like Jericho Phillips, then of course there would also be those he had blackmailed. But does a blackmailed man turn on the one who supplies his addiction? Only if he has reached the last shreds of despair and has nothing left to lose.
Perhaps Monk should see if any well-known man had committed suicide in the last few days, or had met with a death that was open to that interpretation.
Mickey Parfitt was not in himself a person of any importance. People were dying up and down the river every week. The River Police could spare only a couple of men to investigate a crime of such little effect on the city or its population. One petty criminal more or less did not stir fear or righteous outrage, not really even interest.
It was a still, hazy morning when Monk and Orme took a hansomfrom Wapping all the way out to Chiswick. They would have gone by water, but that would have meant following the twists and turns of the river, and rowing that distance would have been backbreaking work. They could certainly not have spared two more men for the task.
“Hardly know if I care,” Orme said grimly as he sat staring straight ahead of him inside the cab. It was going to be a mild day, but he was dressed as always in a plain, dark jacket and trousers with a cap pulled over his brow.
Monk knew what was in his mind: the frightened, blank-eyed children he had seen on Phillips’s boat, and that
“Perhaps we should speak of something else,” Ballinger said, leaning a little farther back in his armchair and crossing his legs. “I had a most amusing evening last Thursday …”
For the best part of the next hour he regaled them with a detailed and amusing account of his journey across the river, with lurid descriptions of the ferryman and his interests. Apparently he had gone to visit an old friend named Harkness who lived in Mortlake.
When at last he finished, Celia began to laugh. “Really, Papa! You had me hanging on every word you said! I could see the wretched ferryman, bowlegs and all.”
“You think I’m joking? To entertain you?” Ballinger asked.
“Of course,” she rejoined. “And I thank you for it. You are superb, as always.”
“Not at all.” He turned to Rathbone. “Go to the ferry at Fulham and look for him. You’ll find him there. Ask him about our conversation. I challenge you! Any of you!” He looked back at Wilbert, and then George.
“I believe you,” Margaret stated, still smiling. “It explains why you go to dine with a bore like Mr. Harkness. It isn’t the dinner at all; it’s the ride!”
This time they all laughed.
T HEY LEFT LATE, AFTER more wine, Belgian chocolates, and a last cup of tea.
“Thank you,” Margaret said quietly as their carriage moved out into the traffic and she and Rathbone sat side by side in the back. The silk of her gown spread out and covered his knees, rustling slightly asshe turned toward him. He could see her face in the flickering glow from the lamps of carriages moving in the opposite direction. She was smiling, her eyes soft.
For an instant he felt a complete belonging, a sweetness that ran right through him. He understood without effort exactly why Ballinger found his other sons-in-law irritating, why he had to bait them, and then in the end make them laugh. Whatever the trivial differences between all of them, there was an underlying loyalty that remained steadfast through the surface ruffles caused by a moment’s annoyance or trivial misunderstandings. One did not have to like in order to belong. True loyalty was deeper than that, stronger, impervious to superficial emotions.
He put his hand out and took Margaret’s where it lay on the silk of her skirt. It was warm, and her fingers closed over his with a sudden strength.
CHAPTER
4
M ONK BEGAN TO LOOK more deeply into the life of Mickey Parfitt, his friends and enemies, his patrons, and the men he had used and cheated, and whose appetites he had fed. And if Parfitt were truly like Jericho Phillips, then of course there would also be those he had blackmailed. But does a blackmailed man turn on the one who supplies his addiction? Only if he has reached the last shreds of despair and has nothing left to lose.
Perhaps Monk should see if any well-known man had committed suicide in the last few days, or had met with a death that was open to that interpretation.
Mickey Parfitt was not in himself a person of any importance. People were dying up and down the river every week. The River Police could spare only a couple of men to investigate a crime of such little effect on the city or its population. One petty criminal more or less did not stir fear or righteous outrage, not really even interest.
It was a still, hazy morning when Monk and Orme took a hansomfrom Wapping all the way out to Chiswick. They would have gone by water, but that would have meant following the twists and turns of the river, and rowing that distance would have been backbreaking work. They could certainly not have spared two more men for the task.
“Hardly know if I care,” Orme said grimly as he sat staring straight ahead of him inside the cab. It was going to be a mild day, but he was dressed as always in a plain, dark jacket and trousers with a cap pulled over his brow.
Monk knew what was in his mind: the frightened, blank-eyed children he had seen on Phillips’s boat, and that
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