Ballinger appeared to have reached a decision. “No. I spent the evening with Bertie Harkness. Then I returned as I had come, crossing the river again at Chiswick. I may have passed Parfitt’s wretched boat, but I neither saw nor heard anything untoward, which the ferryman will tell you. My time is accounted for. And if I had paid Parfitt on some client’s behalf, I would have had more sense than to do it secretly and alone with such a man.” He breathed in deeply. “For God’s sake, Oliver, think about it! Would you go creeping around boats alone at night, in order to conduct a perfectly legal piece of business for a client, however desperate or foolish that client had been? And would you go alone?”

“No,” Rathbone said without hesitation. It all sounded very reasonable, but it was not a defense. “We will have to have far more than a mere denial.”

Ballinger managed a tight, bleak smile. “They have to prove that I was there, that I was in possession of Rupert Cardew’s cravat, and that I had a compelling reason to kill Parfitt. They can do none of those things, because none of them is true. I was on the river, crossing it from the south side, on my way home. I was in a ferry, and the ferryman will vouch for it. From there I took a hansom straight home. No one can prove differently, because that’s the truth.”

“And you are sure you didn’t have any dealings with Parfitt?” Rathbone pressed.

“For heaven’s sake, what dealings would I have?” Ballinger protested. “From what you say, the man’s unspeakable!”

“You were prepared to act for Jericho Phillips,” Rathbone pointed out. “And for Sullivan, who was using the filthy trade, and paying Phillips blackmail money. The prosecution would not find it difficult to suggest you did the same for Parfitt or, on the other hand, for one of his victims.”

Ballinger swallowed. There was still no color in his face, and he looked cornered and embarrassed. “I acted for Sullivan because the man was desperate.”

Rathbone could no longer put it off without very deliberately lying, both to Ballinger and to himself. He had pretended that he did not need an answer, and it lay like poison inside him.

“Sullivan told me that you were the one who introduced him to the pornography, and that you were behind Phillips financially.”

Ballinger stared at him.

Seconds ticked by.

Ballinger gulped. “He told you that?” he said incredulously.

“Yes.”

“And you said nothing … until now?”

“I chose to believe it was the hysterical accusation of a man whose mind was turned by despair, and who was about to take his own life.”