“You are certain that Ballinger killed Parfitt? It was not one of Parfitt’s other victims who did it?” Monk asked.

“Oh, yes. He told me as much.” A painfully bitter smile touched Rathbone’s lips. “Actually, he did it to ruin you, get you off his trail forever. He meant you to go after Rupert Cardew, and then he would have proved him innocent, at the last moment, carried Lord Cardew’s everlasting gratitude, and seen you off the force with your reputation shattered. Nothing you said about him after that would have been listened to. Even evidence would have been disregarded.”

Monk looked startled.

“He knew you suspected his part in Phillips’s boat and it would be only a matter of time before you came after him,” Rathbone went on. “With your care for Scuff, you wouldn’t have let it go.”

Hester looked across at Monk and felt a sense of warmth fill her, as if even in this ghastly situation she still wanted to smile, still trusted in a goodness, an inner beauty that would survive.

“I’m sorry,” Monk said with a little shake of his head. “What can we do? If we could think of any way of appealing, would you?”

“I don’t know,” Rathbone admitted. “But there isn’t. There’s no new evidence, and no legal grounds. I suppose the only thing I can think of is to find the photographs and destroy them. But I have no idea where to look. Who would he trust with such things? There can’t be so many people.”

“Are we sure he was telling the truth?” Monk looked from one to the other of them.

Rathbone pushed his hand through his hair. “I believe him. He still wants to go on forcing through the reforms he cares about. But I can’t think of any way of proving it, and can we afford to take the risk?”

Hester spoke slowly, weighing her words, uncertain of her own feelings. “Even if we could find these photographs and destroy them, and we were certain they were the only ones, do we want to? It is a sin and a crime to abuse children in such a way. Why do we want to protect men who are doing such things? I’m not sure that I do. And I’m not sure that I want to have that kind of power over people in anyone’s hands, even my own. How do you decide what to use it for, when to stop, how many people’s lives you can destroy along with the guilty?” She shook her head minutely, her shoulders rigid, aching, with the muscles knotted. “No one—”

“I see! I see,” Rathbone said sharply, his voice raw-edged. He pushed his hand through his hair again. “I should have seen it. But whatever he could do, I still don’t have grounds for an appeal.”