“What?” Ballinger was aghast. “The wretched little pimp who was drowned in Chiswick? That’s absurd! You’ve really exceeded yourself, Monk. You’ve let your hunger for revenge addle your brain. I’ll have your job for this.”

“I advise you to say nothing!” Rathbone cut in desperately, trying to prevent it from getting even worse.

Ballinger’s face was red, ugly with anger. He swiveled to face Rathbone, then seemed to recall his composure and very deliberately forced himself to relax, lower his shoulders, and breathe out.

“That was not a threat,” he said to Monk. “You are an incompetent fool, jumped up beyond your ability, but I mean you no harm. I will do everything according to the law.”

“Of course you will,” Monk agreed with a flash of humor so brief it was barely visible. “You are far too wise to add assault of a police officer to the situation.”

“Are you intending to take me into custody, at this hour of the night?” Ballinger’s tone was tinged with disbelief.

“I imagined you would prefer it in the dark,” Monk responded. “But I can come back to your office in daylight, if you would rather. And if you should not be there, I can send police to look for you.”

“God almighty, man!” Ballinger swore. “Your reputation will never recover from this!”

Monk did not answer. He looked for a moment at Rathbone, then turned and went out to the front door, waiting there for Ballinger to follow.

When the door closed behind them, Rathbone went at once to Margaret. She was white-faced, her eyes hollow. The muscles in her neck and shoulders suddenly looked as hard as cords, as if she might snap.

“You must get this stopped, Oliver.” Her voice shook. “Tonight! Before anyone knows. I’ll tell Mama and the others that Monk needed help with something. I won’t have to think what, because I’ll just say that he didn’t tell us. You must—”

“Margaret.” He put his hands on her shoulders lightly and felt how rigid they were. “Monk would not have come here if he didn’t believe that—”

She pulled away from him, eyes blazing. “Are you saying he’s right?”

“No, of course I’m not.” His answer was instant, and not wholly honest. He took a deep gulp of air. “I’m saying that he must think he has some evidence, or he wouldn’t dare come here and make such a claim.”

“Then, prove him wrong! He’s made some idiotic mistake, because he wants Rupert Cardew to be innocent.”

“That’s unfair. Monk has never …” He knew before he finished the sentence that it had been a mistake to defend him.

Her eyebrows rose. “Been wrong?”