No. If he’d been hanged, then someone had had the instructions to make it all public. He must have been killed by someone who intended either to destroy all the pictures or to use them himself. God, what an unimaginable horror!

IT WAS WORSE EVEN than Rathbone had expected. When he told her, she stood in the center of the morning room, her face sheet-white, swaying a little on her feet.

Afraid she was going to faint, he took a step toward her. She backed away sharply, almost as if she feared he was going to strike her.

“Margaret!” he said hoarsely.

“No!” She shook her head and put her hands up to ward him off.

“No. You’re lying.”

“I’m sorry—,” he began.

“Sorry! You’re not sorry. You made this happen,” she accused. “If you hadn’t put your career before your family—”

“I couldn’t defend him.” He was burning with a sense of the injustice of her charge. “He was guilty, Margaret. He killed Mickey Parfitt.”

“Parfitt was vermin,” she retorted. “He should have been killed.”

“And Hattie Benson?”

“She was a prostitute, a whore who was going to lie to protect Rupert Cardew.”

“Protect him from what? He didn’t kill Parfitt. And you’ve just said Parfitt needed killing. You can’t have it both ways.”

The tears were running down her cheeks, and she was gasping for breath. “My father’s been murdered, and you’re standing there justifying yourself! You’re disgusting. I used to love you so much, because I thought you were brave and loyal and you fought for the truth. Now I see you’re just ambitious. You don’t even know what love is!”

He felt as if he had been slapped so hard that his flesh was bruised. He stood without moving as she turned away and walked to the door. When she was in the hall she looked back at him. “I’m going home to look after my mother. She will need me. I will send for my belongings.” With a rustle of silk and the sound of her footsteps on the floor, she was gone.

Rathbone could not measure how grieved he was or how deep the wound, or how, and if ever, it would heal.

THE OVERCAST WAS SO heavy that it was dusk before five in the afternoon. Monk came home to find a fire, bright and warm in the parlor, and Hester and Scuff sitting beside it. There was a pot of tea on the table between them, and they were eating hot crumpets with butter. Scuff had crumbs on his chest. He was sitting in Monk’s chair and looked a little guilty when Monk opened the door, but he did not move. He was waiting to see what would happen, maybe how much he belonged here.