“Ah! So you’re Monk.” He was a tall man, maybe an inch or so taller than Monk himself, broad-shouldered with a mane of straight black hair liberally threaded with gray. He had a somewhat hawkish face with a long nose and intensely dark eyes. The most remarkable aspect of him was the humor in his features, the readiness for wit, which seemed to be always just beneath the surface.

“Winchester,” he introduced himself. “Sit down.” He gestured toward a well-worn, comfortable-looking leather chair. He himself half sat on the edge of the desk.

“Tell me your evidence,” he invited.

Monk detailed it meticulously, and only what he could prove.

“Good,” Winchester said, pursing his lips. “I can see that you’re remembering the last time you faced Oliver Rathbone, and got mauled.” He said it without apology, a rueful amusement in his eyes. “We need to do better this time.”

“I intend to,” Monk assured him. He told him detail by detail how he had copied Ballinger’s trip up to Mortlake, exactly as he had sworn to, leaving time to kill Parfitt, and then back again.

Winchester did not laugh, but his eyes betrayed that inside he was highly amused.

“Ballinger was an excellent oarsman in his youth,” Monk went on. “But of course you will need to find testimony that he is still perfectly capable of rowing the distances now, and of climbing up the rope ladder at the side of Parfitt’s boat.”

“Thank you,” Winchester said wryly. “I had thought of that.”

Monk did not apologize.

“And I have a great deal of evidence as to exactly what trade Parfitt carried on,” Monk added. He recounted that as well, hating the words, even more the pictures they conjured in his mind.

Now all the light was gone from Winchester’s face, and he looked almost bruised. His anger was palpable. “I’ll call whoever I believe may help the case,” he said grimly. “I cannot promise to spare anyone. I hope you haven’t made any guarantees, because I will not keep them.”

“I haven’t.”

“Not to your wife? Or Margaret Rathbone?”

“Not to anyone.”

“Cardew? Are you prepared to crucify Cardew, if it’s unavoidable?”

Wordlessly Monk passed him a copy of the list of names Rupert had given him, including Tadley, with a note of his suicide.

Winchester read it, his mouth pulled tight and crooked with revulsion. “Thank you. That cannot have been easy.”

“I don’t intend to spare anyone either,” Monk told him.