He told the footman that he would wait until Mr. Cardew had had his breakfast, and asked to see the valet. He felt deceitful to show the picture of the cravat to a servant first, trading on his innocence, but in the end it was less cruel than placing him in the position where he could lie, and would feel obliged to do so.

When it was identified, Monk waited until Rupert came into the morning room. He looked as easy and charming as when Monk had met him at the clinic in Portpool Lane.

“Morning, Monk,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped. “God, man, you look dreadful! Nothing wrong with Mrs. Monk, I hope?” For a moment fear flickered in his face, as if it mattered to him.

Monk felt the deceit scorch inside him. He pulled the picture out of his pocket again and held it up.

“Your valet says that this is yours. It’s pretty distinctive.”

Rupert frowned. “It’s a piece of paper! Did you find my cravat?”

“If this is yours, yes. Is it?” Monk insisted.

Rupert looked at him with complete incomprehension. “Why on earth does it matter? Yes, it’s mine. Why?”

Monk had a moment’s doubt. Had Cardew no idea what he had done? Was Parfitt so worthless that he really didn’t think killing him mattered?

As if reciting something pointless, Monk told him, “It was used to murder someone called Mickey Parfitt. We found his body in the water at—” He stopped.

Rupert was ashen. Suddenly the meaning of it was clear to him.

“And you think I did it?” He had trouble articulating the words. He swayed a little, put out his hand to grasp something, but there was nothing there.

“Yes, Mr. Cardew, I do think so,” Monk said quietly. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I could believe he died of natural causes, but that is impossible. He was strangled with your cravat.”

“I …” Rupert made a jerky little movement with his hand, his eyes never leaving Monk’s face. “Is there any point in my denying it?”

“It’s not my decision,” Monk told him. “I might choose to believe you, whatever the facts say. But you knew him, you patronized his appalling boat. He blackmailed most of his clients. It was only a case of which one broke first.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Rupert said quietly, his face scarlet. “I paid.”

“And lent someone your cravat to kill him with?”

“It was stolen. Or … or I lost it. I don’t know.” Rupert’s expression said he did not expect to be believed.

Monk wished Rupert would stop. It was hopeless. “Please don’t make it worse than it is,” he said.

“Have you told my father?”

“No. You may, if you prefer. But don’t—”

“Run away?” Rupert asked with a flash of agonizing humor. “I won’t. Please wait here. I shall return in a few minutes.”