“What about ’Orrie Jones?”

“I dunno. Sometimes I think ’e’s ’alf-witted, other times I in’t so sure. But ’e wouldn’t do nuffink ’less Tosh told ’im ter, wotever ’e thought fer ’isself.”

“Did you ever hear the name of Jericho Phillips?”

“No. ’Oo’s ’e?”

“He’s dead now, but he used to run a boat like Mickey’s, but down the river.”

“An’ now Mickey’s dead, eh?” she said thoughtfully. “Could Mr. Cardew a killed ’im?”

“No. We know who killed Phillips. The man who did it killed himself also.”

She gave a little grunt.

“Why did you think it was the same person?” he asked. “Do you think Mickey and Phillips knew each other?”

“Dunno. Mickey din’t work for ’isself. ’E come from Chiswick, same like the rest of us. ’E never ’ad money ter get a boat. Someone else staked ’im. Mebbe it were the same person.”

“Rupert Cardew?”

“Don’t be daft!” she retorted. “Why’d ’e have me steal ’is necktie ter make it look like ’e killed Mickey if ’e were behind it all? It’s someone wi’ twice the brains ’e ’as.”

“More than Mickey, or Tosh?”

“They got cunning; it in’t the same.”

He did not argue. Deliberately he guided the conversation to other, more pleasant subjects, and finally they arrived at Portpool Lane. He took her inside, introduced her to Squeaky Robinson, and then to Claudine Burroughs, explaining the need to keep her safe.

“She can help me,” Claudine said decisively. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

Monk thanked her, wondering wryly how Hattie would take to that. It might well be the best care she had ever known.

IN THE MORNING MONK went to see Rathbone and told him that he had now found evidence that made it extremely unlikely that Rupert Cardew was responsible for the death of Mickey Parfitt.

Rathbone was startled. “And the cravat? Was it not his?” he asked, as if unable to believe in the release from the responsibility of an impossible task.

“Yes, it was his,” Monk replied, sitting down in the chair opposite Rathbone’s desk without being invited. “A prostitute stole it from him that afternoon and gave it to someone she is too afraid to name. But I believe her. She can describe it far too precisely for her to have only seen it around his neck. She had seen it undone, felt it, and knew it was silk. She admitted to taking it.”

Rathbone drew in his breath as if to speak, then changed his mind.

Monk smiled, sitting back a little in the chair. “Did Lord Cardew pay her to say this?” He said aloud what he knew was in Rathbone’s mind. “You could always ask him.”

“Where is she?” Rathbone did not bother to express his opinion of that remark.

“I would prefer not to tell you,” Monk replied. “For your safety as well as hers.”