Execution Dock

chapter Ten

It was the middle of the afternoon and Monk was busy catching up on some of the more pedestrian cases of theft from various yards along the waterfront when one of the men came to his door and told him that Superintendent Farnham had arrived and wished to see him, immediately.

Farnham was sitting down when Monk went into the room, and he did not rise. He was clearly unhappy and in a very bad temper. He indicated curtly for Monk to take the chair opposite him.

"The Phillips case is over," he said grimly, his eyes hard and flat. "You lost. In fact, not only you, Monk, but the whole of the River Police. You don't seem to be aware of quite how much." He held up his hand to keep Monk silent, just in case he should think of defending himself. "It was bad enough when the wretched man was acquitted, through your inefficiency and your wife's emotionalism, although one expects such a thing from women, but..."

Monk was so furious he could barely keep still. "Sir, that..."

"When I have finished!" Farnham exploded. "Until then, you will hold your peace. I am disappointed in you, Monk. Durban recommended you highly, and I was fool enough to listen to him. But thanks to your meddling, your obsession with this Phillips case, not only I, but most of the senior police in general, and half the ferrymen, lightermen, dockers, and warehousemen up and down both banks of the river also know a great deal more about the late Commander Durban than we wish to. Leave it, Monk. That is an order. There is quite enough crime on the Thames that genuinely needs your attention. Solve it, all of it, with speed and justice, and you may begin to redeem not only your own reputation but ours as well."

"Commander Durban was a good officer, sir," Monk said between his teeth, acutely conscious of everything Hester had told him the previous evening. "I have learned nothing about him to his discredit," he added bluntly.

"That only suggests that you are not a very good detective, Monk," Farnham replied. "There is a considerable amount that it seems, for all your effort, you failed to discover."

"No, sir, there is not," Monk contradicted. It was a firm lie, and he intended to stick to it. "I have traced him back to the day he was born. I just choose not to discuss it with others, when it is none of their business. He was a good man, and deserves the same dignity of keeping his family affairs private that is accorded to the rest of us."

Farnham stared at him across the table, and gradually some of the temper died out of his eyes and left only tiredness and anxiety.

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But now we have newspapermen asking more and more questions about him, why he was so obsessed with this damned Phillips case, and why you're just as bad, if not worse, and we are doing nothing to curb you. You're leaving half the regular work that should be your responsibility for Orme to do. He denies it, but others say it's true. He's a loyal man, Orme. He deserves better than to be lumbered with your job while you chase after Phillips. Phillips beat us. It happens sometimes. We can't catch every single villain on the river."

"We need to get this one, sir. He's like a malignant wound, one that if it isn't cut out will poison the whole body."

Farnham raised his eyebrows.

"Is he? Or have you just convinced yourself of that because he beat Durban, then he beat you? Can you swear to me that it isn't pride, Monk? And prove it to me?"

"Sir, Phillips murdered a young boy, Figgis, because Figgis wanted to escape the servitude Phillips had him in, which was far more than labor. He was an object of pornography for the use and entertainment of Phillips's customers..."

"It's filthy." Farnham shivered with disgust. "But there are brothels all over London, and every other city in Europe. In the world, for all I know. Yes, he murdered the boy, God knows why. It would surely have been much simpler to have put him on one of the ships leaving port, and much less of a risk..."

It was discipline, sir, Monk interrupted. To demonstrate to the rest of his boys what happens to those who defy him."

"Not very efficient," Farnham countered. "They wouldn't go if they didn't believe they'd be the ones who'd get away."

"Then he'd simply kill one of the others," Monk explained, watching Farnham's face. "One of the younger, more vulnerable ones, whoever the escapee was most fond of."

Farnham paled, and started to swear, then bit it off.

"It's more than that also," Monk went on. "Have you considered, sir, what kind of men his clients are?"

Farnham's lips curled; it was a subconscious expression of revulsion. "Men with obscene and uncontrolled appetites," he replied. "The use of street women may, by some stretch of the imagination, be understandable. The abuse of terrified and cowed children is not."

"No, sir, it's not," Monk agreed vehemently. "But that was not the aspect of them that I was thinking of. They are deplorable, but Phillips's clients are also rich, or they couldn't pay his prices. It's not a brothel he runs, it's entertainment, costumes, charades, photographs. They pay well for it."

"Your point, Monk? We know Phillips profits. That's why he does it. It's hardly worth making a point of."

"No, sir," Monk said urgently. "That's only part of the reason. Perhaps even more important than that is its power." He leaned forward a little, his voice becoming sharper. "They are important men, some of whom hold high office. They know their appetites are not only twisted, but because it is boys, they are also criminal." He saw a hideous understanding dawn in Farnham's eyes. "They are highly corruptible in all sorts of other ways, sir. Have you never wondered why Durban couldn't catch Phillips before? He was close many times, but Phillips always got away. Oliver Rathbone conducted his defense, but who hired him, do you know that? I don't, but I would dearly like to."

"It could be..." Farnham stopped, his eyes wide.

"Yes, sir," Monk finished for him. "It could be almost anyone. A man in bondage to a devil inside himself, and a monster like Phillips outside, is capable of all manner of acts. He could lie at the heart of our justice, our industry, even our government. Do you still want me to forget about Phillips, and concentrate on warehouse robberies, and the odd theft from cargoes on the water?"

"I could tell this damn journalist this," Farnham said very quietly. "God knows what he'd do with it. He's saying now that the corruption in the River Police is deep and lasting, and that the public has a right to know exactly what it is, and where it leads. He's even suggesting, so far only verbally, but print will follow, that we should cease to exist as a separate body at all but be broken up and come under the local stations. Our survival depends on this, Monk."

"Yes, sir. I've heard rumor of it already. But then he may be one of Phillips's customers, or in the pay of one."

Farnham looked as if Monk had slapped him, but he did not retaliate. It was himself he was furious with, because he had not thought of it. "He even put up the possibility that Durban was a partner in Phillips's trade," he said bitterly. "And his pursuit of Phillips was in order to take over all of it. That's what he'll write, if we don't find a way of stopping him." His shoulders hunched tightly, as if every muscle in his body were knotted. "Tell me, Monk, don't leave me defenseless when I talk to this bastard. What did you find out about Durban? We can't afford dignity now, for the living or the dead. I won't tell him, but I need to know, or I can't defend any of us."

Monk weighed his trust and his loyalties. He needed to trust Farnham, for the sake of the future. "He lied about his family, sir," he admitted. "Said his father was a schoolmaster in Essex. Actually I don't think he knew who his father was. His mother died in a foundling hospital, giving birth to him. He grew up there. He was put out in the streets to earn his own way when he was eight. That's why he had such compassion for mudlarks and other children, or women on their own, the hungry, the frightened, the abused. It was fellow feeling. He'd known it himself."

"Oh, God!" Farnham ran his hands through his sparse hair. "Any crime known against him? And tell me the truth, Monk. If I get caught in a lie just once they'll never believe me again."

"Not known, sir," Monk said reluctantly. "But friends of his robbed a bank. Bad associates. Growing up in the streets, that's unavoidable. It was just after that that he joined the River Police."

"Thank God. Now who is this Mary Webber he was hell bent on finding? Childhood sweetheart? Common-law wife? What?"

"Sister, sir. Older sister. She was adopted, but the family who took her, the woman was crippled and couldn't cope with a baby, so he was left behind. Mary used to save up pennies and send them to him. They lost touch when she married and later discovered her husband was a thief. She was too ashamed to let Durban know that. The hospital gave him the name of Durban, after one of their benefactors who happened to be from Africa. She changed her name when she married, and then again when her husband's creditors came after her."

"Where is she now?"

"I know, but it's irrelevant, sir. She's safe, for the time being."

Farnham blasphemed gently. "I apologize, Monk. You did a superb job finding out about Durban. I hope nobody but me ever has to know about it. I'll put a flea in this newspaperman's ear that will keep him busy, and far away from us for as long as possible. If he speaks to you, tell him you are under orders, on pain of losing your job, to say nothing. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"You'll keep me informed?"

"Yes, sir."

Monk told Orme briefly what Farnham had said, and was only just outside the station walking towards the stairs down to where the police boat was waiting when a man approached him. He was ordinary, slightly shambling, impossible to describe so he would be known again. He wore an old seaman's jacket, shapeless enough to hide his build, and a cap on his head, which hid his hair. His eyes were narrowed against the bright light off the water.

"Commander Monk?" he said politely.

Monk stopped. "Yes?"

"Got a message fer yer, sir."

"From whom?"

"Din't give me no more, sir. Said as yer'd know." The man's voice was innocent, even courteous, but there was something knowing in his manner, and the creases that almost concealed his eyes suggested a sneer.

"What's the message?" Monk asked, then half wished he had refused to listen. "Never mind. If you can't tell me who it's from, maybe it doesn't matter."

"Gotta deliver it, sir," the man insisted. "Paid ter do it. Wouldn't reckon my chances if I mess wi' this gentleman. Nasty, he would be, real nasty... if yer get my meanin'?" He looked up at Monk and he was definitely smiling now. "Glad ter see yer listenin', sir. Save my neck maybe. Gentleman said ter tell yer ter back off the Durban case, whatever that is? D'you know?" He lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, I can see yer do. 'E said it would be best people think like they do, 'cause Durban did wot 'e did. Otherwise, this gentleman said 'e'd make the 'ole thing public. Said 'e 'as all the evidence that yer took on this Durban 's job wi' the police, wi' all 'is papers and things. An' yer took over 'is other interests an' all, the business o' getting little boys, that is. Yer got one special trained up fer yerself, an' all. Clean and bright, 'e is. Go down a treat wi' certain gentlemen wi' special tastes. Scuff, I think 'e called 'im. That sound right to yer, sir?"

Monk felt sick to his stomach, his body cold. It was obscene, as if a filthy hand had reached out and touched everything that was decent and precious, staining them with its own dirt. He wanted to lash out at the man, hit him so hard he broke that leering face and left it a bloody pulp so he would never smile again, never speak clearly enough to say words anyone could distinguish.

But that would be exactly what he wanted. And he was probably not unarmed. An attack would be the perfect excuse to knife him in the stomach. It would be self-defense. Another example of River Police brutality. He could say honestly that he had accused Monk of procuring a small boy for Phillips's use. Who could prove otherwise?

Was this what Durban had faced, threats of blackmail? Do what I want, or I'll paint every decent act of compassion as an obscenity. The accusation will stain your name. Because of their own filth, there will be those who believe it. You will be unable to do your job. I'll cripple you.

Or do what I say, turn a blind eye to the cases I tell you to, and I'll keep quiet. And when you've turned away from some, out of fear of me, I'll have another unbreakable thread to bind you with, and this one will be true. You will have denied your duty, corrupted yourself to stay safe.

"I hear you," Monk replied. "Tell your paymaster to go to hell."

"Oh, very unwise, Mr. Monk, sir. Very unwise." The man shook his head, still smiling. "I'd think again on that, if I were yer."

"You probably would," Monk agreed. "But then you are obviously for sale. I am not. Tell him to go to hell."

The man hesitated only seconds, then realized that he would gain nothing by remaining, and turned and went away at a surprisingly rapid pace.

Monk walked back into the station. What he had to do was best done immediately, before he had time to weigh his words and be afraid.

Orme looked up, surprised to see him back so soon. He must have read the concern in Monk's face. He stood up, as if to follow him into his office.

"I need to speak to everyone," Monk said distinctly. "Now."

Orme sat down again slowly and one by one the other men stopped what they were doing and faced him.

He had their attention. He must begin. "As soon as I stepped outside a few minutes ago," he said, "I was accosted by a man who delivered a message. He did not say from whom, but the implication was obvious." It was difficult to trust. He hated making himself so vulnerable. He looked at their waiting faces. This was his future. He must trust these men, or lose their respect and the one chance he had to lead them.

"This man told me to leave the Jericho Phillips case alone," he went on. "If I don't, Phillips will make sure that I am accused of procuring small boys for use on his boat, to be rented to his clients, and then photographs taken in obscene and illegal acts to be sold for entertainment." He drew in his breath and let it out slowly to try to stop the terror in his voice. It embarrassed him that he could not stifle it completely.

"He will say to the press that initially Commander Durban was not Phillips's enemy, but his partner, and that they fell out over sharing the profits. He will say also that when I took over Commander Durban's position here, I took over his business interests as well, and that the boy my wife and I have taken into our home is intended for that purpose also." He had committed himself He had not intended to. He had also said that Scuff was remaining with them. He realized without any real surprise that he meant that, and he knew Hester had long ago stopped debating with herself. It remained only to hear what Scuff thought, once the immediate danger to him had passed-if it did.

He looked around at the men's faces, afraid of what he would see: amusement, disgust, disappointment, the struggle whether to believe him or not, fear for their own positions.

"We must stop him," he went on, avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone in particular. He would not try to demand or intimidate, and certainly not beg. "If we don't, he will do all he can to bring down the whole River Police. We are the only force standing between him and running his filthy trade unhampered." Should he tell them the rest, the even greater danger? He had trusted them this far; now was the time to win or lose them altogether. He looked at Orme and saw his steady gaze, grave and unwavering.

There was hardly a sound in the room. It was too warm for the black stove at the end to be lit. The doors to the outside were closed, muffling the noises of the river.

"It's worse than just the boys as victims," he went on, now looking at their faces one by one. "Phillips's patrons are men of wealth, or they couldn't afford his prices. Rich men have influence, and usually power, so his opportunities for blackmail are limitless. You can imagine them for yourselves: port authorities, harbormasters, revenue men, lawyers." He clenched his hands. "Us."

No one moved.

"You see the danger." He made it a statement rather than a question. "Even if we are not guilty, there is the high chance that we may be accused. And which of us would not be tempted to do as we were told, rather than have that charge made in public, no matter how innocent we were? The thought alone is enough to make you sick. What would your wives have to endure? Your parents or children?"

He saw in their faces the understanding, and the fear. He waited for the anger, but it did not come. He did not even sense it. "I'm sorry that my haste to convict Phillips allowed him to be acquitted for the murder of Figgis. I'll get him for something else." He said it calmly, but as he said it he knew the promise would bind him forever.

"Yes, sir," Orme said as soon as he was certain Monk was not going to add any more. He looked at the men, then back at Monk. "We'll get him, sir." That too was an oath.

There was a murmur of agreement, no dissenting voices, no half-heartedness. Monk felt a sudden ease, as if he had been given a blessing he did not expect or deserve. He turned away before they saw him smiling, in case anyone misunderstood the emotion of joy for something more trivial, and less profound in its gratitude.

Oliver Rathbone was increasingly unhappy about the Phillips case. It invaded his thoughts at the times when he had expected to be happiest. Margaret had asked him what it was that caused his anxiety, and he could not answer her. An evasion was undignified, and she was intelligent enough to know it for what it was. To lie was not even a possibility. It would close a door between them that might never again be opened, because guilt would bar it.

And yet in the quiet ease of his sitting room, with Margaret opposite him, wishing to talk with her, he remembered how much he had enjoyed it only a month or two ago. He recalled her smile in repose. She was happy. In his mind he could hear her laughter at some joke. She liked the subtle ones best, always catching the point. Even their long discussions when they disagreed were delicate and full of pleasure. She had an acute grasp of logic, and was surprisingly well-read, even in subjects he would not have expected a woman to know.

But he sat in silence, not daring to speak about the Phillips case, and the rift with Monk and Hester. It seemed to touch so many things. Like a drop of ink in a glass of clear water, it spread to stain everything it touched.

Still it was painful to sit in the same room, not talking to each other. He was being a coward. It must be addressed, or gradually he would lose all that he valued most. It would slip away, inch by inch, until there was nothing left to grasp. What was he afraid of, truly? That he had lost the respect of Monk and Hester? A sense of honor?

With Phillips he had won, but the victory was sour. He had been supremely clever, but he knew now that he had not been wise. Phillips was guilty, probably of having murdered Fig, but certainly of the vile abuse of many children. And, Rathbone was beginning to believe, also of the blackmail and corruption of many powerful men.

He looked across at where Margaret sat sewing, but he was careful not to meet her eyes, in case she read in him what he was thinking. He could not continue like this. The gulf was widening every day.

There was no answer other than to find out who had hired Arthur Ballinger to retain Rathbone in Phillips's defense. He had already asked, and been refused. It must be done without Ballinger's knowledge. Ballinger had said it was a client; therefore, it would be in his official books at his chambers. The money would have gone through the accounts, because it was the office that had passed it to Rathbone.

Since it was a client, and money was involved, it would have been noted by Cribb, Ballinger's meticulous clerk. It must have begun roughly the time Ballinger had first come to Rathbone and continued until the time of the trial and Phillips's acquittal. If Rathbone could find a list of Ballinger's clients between those times, it would be a matter of eliminating those whose cases had been heard in some other matter and would now be public knowledge, or of course those still pending but due to come to trial soon.

But he could hardly go to Ballinger's office and ask to see his books. The refusal would be automatic, and cause highly uncomfortable questions. It would make the relationships between Rathbone and his father-in-law virtually impossible, and obviously Margaret would be aware of it.

Yet it would be wildly dangerous to pay someone else to do it, even if he could find anyone with the requisite skills. The temptation to extort blackmail afterwards would be almost overwhelming, not to mention the chance to sell the information elsewhere, possibly to Phillips himself.

There was only one answer. Rathbone would have to devise a way to do it himself. The thought made him thoroughly miserable. A kind of sour chill settled in the pit of his stomach. After all, he had no idea who might be blackmailed by Phillips. Who were the victims of such appetites as he fed, and thus could be manipulated as Phillips wished? It could be any of the men Rathbone had previously considered his friends, honorable and skilled.

And then an even more painful thought forced itself into his understanding. If people were aware of Phillips and his trade, they might equally well think such things of Rathbone himself! Why not? He was the one who had defended him, and gained his acquittal at the price of his own previously treasured friendships.

Yes, tomorrow he must go to Ballinger's office and find the records. He really had no other endurable choice.

It was one thing to make up his mind; it was quite another to execute the plan. The following morning as his cab set him down outside Ballinger's offices, he realized exactly how far apart he and Ballinger were. He knew from past experience that Ballinger himself would not be in for at least another hour, but the excellent Cribb was always prompt. Had the offices been any other than those of his father-in-law, he would have considered trying to lure Cribb away and into his own service.

"Good morning, Sir Oliver," Cribb said with courtesy that bordered on genuine pleasure. He was a man of about forty-five, but with an ascetic air that made him seem older. He was of average height and had a lean, bony face that showed intelligence and a very carefully concealed humor.

"Good morning, Cribb," Rathbone replied. "I hope you are well?"

"Very, thank you, sir. I am afraid Mr. Ballinger is not in yet. Is there anything with which I can assist you?"

Already Rathbone loathed what he was doing. How much easier it was to be honest. The embarrassment and strain of this was awful.

"Thank you," he accepted. He must cast the die quickly or he would lose his nerve. "I believe there is." He lowered his voice. "It has come to my knowledge, and of course I cannot tell you from whom, that one of Mr. Ballinger's clients may be involved in something distinctly unethical. A matter of playing one person against another, if you understand me?"

"How very distasteful," Cribb said with some sympathy. "If you wish me to inform Mr. Ballinger, of course I shall do so. Perhaps you would prefer to leave it in writing for him? I can give you pen and paper, and an envelope with wax to seal it."

Rathbone smothered his scruples with an effort. "Thank you, but I have nothing sufficiently specific so far. I know only when the man in question was here. If I might glance at his diary for the period it would confirm any suspicions, or deny them."

Cribb looked troubled, as Rathbone had known he would. "I'm very sorry, sir, but I cannot show you Mr. Ballinger's diary. It is confidential, as I am sure your diary is." He shifted his weight very slightly from one foot to the other. "I know you would not wish anything... wrong..., sir."

Rathbone did not have to try to look confused. "No, I would not," he agreed. "I had hoped that if I explained my dilemma to you, you might have some idea how to solve it. You see, the difficulty is that the man may well be a personal friend of Mr. Ballinger's, so much so that he may refuse to believe it of him, until it is too late. Unless I can prove it."

"Oh dear," Cribb said quietly. "Yes, I perceive your difficulty, Sir Oliver. I am afraid Mr. Ballinger is more charitable in some of his judgments than perhaps the circumstances justify."

Rathbone understood exactly. That was Cribb's loyal way of admitting that Ballinger did not choose all his friends with care.

"Perhaps, sir, we might discuss this problem in my office? It might be more discreet, if you don't mind," Cribb suggested.

"Of course," Rathbone agreed. "Thank you." He followed Cribb to the tiny room, barely more than a large cupboard, where a well-polished desk was crowded in between walls covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of files. Cribb closed the door, as much for room so that they might both sit as for privacy. He looked at the wall briefly, knowing exactly where every file and folder was.

Rathbone followed his glance to the diary for the month in question.

"This is a very difficult problem indeed," Cribb said, facing Rathbone again. "I really don't know what is for the best, Sir Oliver. I have the greatest respect for you, and I am aware that you are concerned for Mr. Ballinger's welfare, both professional and personal. I need to think on this very deeply. Perhaps I might fetch you a cup of tea so we may discuss it in some comfort?"

"Thank you," Rathbone accepted. "That would be very good of you."

Cribb hesitated an instant, looking very steadily at Rathbone, then he excused himself and left, closing the door behind him.

Rathbone felt vile, as if he were about to steal something. The diary was on the shelf. He was committed. Whether he looked at it now or not, Cribb would believe that he had.

What was Rathbone trying to do? Find the truth, whoever it saved, or lost.

He took the book down and searched the right pages. Rapidly, little more than scribbling, he took down the names. He was barely finished and had only just replaced the diary on the shelf when Cribb returned, carefully making a noise with his feet on the boards outside before he opened the door.

Cribb set the tea tray down on the desk.

"Thank you," Rathbone said, his mouth dry.

"Shall I pour, sir?" Cribb offered.

"If you please." Rathbone found that his own hands were shaking. He considered offering Cribb some kind of appreciation. What would be suitable, and not insulting? Thirty pieces of silver?

Cribb poured the tea, a cup for Rathbone, nothing for himself.

It was the most difficult thing Rathbone had ever swallowed. It tasted sour, and he was aware that it was he himself who had poisoned it.

"Thank you," he said aloud. He wanted to add something, but it was all contrived, insulting.

"You are welcome, Sir Oliver," Cribb replied calmly. He appeared to see nothing odd in Rathbone's manner, in fact to be totally unaware of his appalling discomfort. "I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and I am afraid I can think of no solution for it."

"I was wrong to have asked," Rathbone replied, and that at least he was absolutely certain about. "I must seek some other solution." He finished the tea. "Please do not trouble Mr. Ballinger with it until I can think of some way to ease his mind at the same time as I tell him of it. If I am fortunate, it may turn out to be an error anyway."

"Let us hope so, sir," Cribb agreed. "In the meantime, as you say, it would be better not to distress Mr. Ballinger unnecessarily."

Rathbone thanked him again, and Cribb walked with him to the front door. Rathbone went down the steps into the street heavy-footed, imprisoned within himself and weighed down with a moral dilemma from which there was now no escape.

He went straight to his own office and spent the next four hours comparing notes of cases he knew, court dates, and trials past and pending against the names he had copied down from Ballinger's diary. He pursued every one to its conclusion, finding out who the people were, of what they were accused, by whom they were defended, and what had been the verdict.

Most of the cases were trivial and easy enough to dismiss as regular business. In fact, many were to do with family estates, wills, and quarrels over property. Some were trials or settlements out of court for cases of financial incompetence or malfeasance. Those that had gone to trial and were concluded he could also discount. Their course was clear, and now in the public domain, simple cases of moral decline ending in tragedy, common enough.

In the end he was left with only three who could be Phillips's benefactor, or victim! Sir Arnold Baldwin, Mr. Malcolm Cassidy and Lord Justice Sullivan. It was that last name that caused him to freeze and his hands to clench the paper. But that was ridiculous. Lord Justice Sullivan had to have a solicitor, like any other man. He would have property, in all likelihood a house in London and a home in the country. Property always involved deeds, money, and possible disputes. And of course there were wills and inheritances and other matters of ownership and litigation.

His immediate task was to learn more about each of the men on the list, and if necessary to actually meet them. Although exactly how he would determine which of them it was, he realized he had no idea. What did a man look like who was driven by such an appetite? Was he frightened, plagued with guilt, compulsive like one who gambles or drinks to excess? Or did he look like anyone else, and that darker part of his nature emerged only when he permitted it, secretly, on the river at night?

This was forced upon him even more plainly upon meeting both Cassidy and Baldwin, the first at a luncheon, the latter at one of the gentlemen's clubs of which he was a member. He observed nothing about either of them that made him wary; indeed, it was only his own suspicions that caused him any preoccupation whatever.

Meeting Sullivan proved more difficult, and he felt a crowding sense of inevitability, as if in his mind he had already determined the man's guilt. Since he was the judge who had actually heard the case, the situation was hideously tangled, by that fact alone.

In order to meet the judge, Rathbone had to connive to obtain an invitation to a reception to which he had not originally been invited, a most unseemly act. And it was not easy to ask Margaret if she would come; to her it was even harder to offer any explanation that was not clearly an evasion.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he said, busying himself with sorting his cuff links so he did not have to meet her eyes. "I realize it is unfair to expect you to give up your evening at such little notice, but the opportunity only came today, or I should have told you in better time. There are people who will be there whom I wish very much to meet. I cannot discuss it, because it has to do with a case." Now he faced her. The words had come to him just in time, and it sounded perfectly reasonable. What was more, they were true, if taken obliquely enough.

"Of course," she replied, searching his eyes to understand his meaning.

He smiled. "I should enjoy it far more if you were able to come with me." That was untrue, but he felt he had to say it. It would be simpler if he were alone. He would not have to guard himself against being too closely observed, and possibly caught in an inconsistency.

"I should be delighted," she replied, then turned away also, not having seen the candor she was looking for. "Is it formal?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is."

"It is not a concern. I have plenty of gowns." That at least was true. He had seen that she had more than sufficient in the latest fashion, simply for the pleasure of it. She could look superb, but always in the discreet taste of a woman of breeding. She would not know how to be vulgar. It was one of the things that most pleased him about her. He would like to have told her so, but to say so now would be forced. It would be robbed of all sincerity, and he did mean it.

They arrived at the reception at precisely the best time, neither early enough to seem too eager, nor late enough to appear as if wanting to draw attention to themselves. To be ostentatious was ill-bred, to say the least.

Margaret was dressed in cool plain colors, shading towards the blues rather than the reds, and subdued, as if in shadow. Her bodice was cut low, but she could wear it without showing more of herself than was modest, because she was slender. Her skirt was full, and she had always known how to walk with great grace.

"You look lovely," he said to her quietly as they came slowly down the stairs, her hand resting lightly on his arm. He saw the color warm her neck and cheeks, and was glad he meant it; it was no empty compliment.

They were greeted by the hostess, a thin, handsome woman of excellent family who had married money, and was a little uncertain whether she had been as wise as she thought. She smiled shyly and welcomed everyone, then fell back on polite conversation about nothing at all, leaving people wondering if they had accepted an invitation they were offered only out of courtesy.

"Poor soul," Margaret said quietly as she and Rathbone moved into the crowd, nodding to acquaintances, acknowledging briefly those whose names they could not immediately remember, or whom they wished to avoid. Some people did not know when to allow a conversation to die a natural death.

"Poor soul?" Rathbone questioned, wondering if there were something he should have known.

Margaret smiled. "Our hostess made a financially suitable marriage, and is more than a little out of her depth within 'trade,' instead of aristocracy," she explained. "But if one wishes to, one can learn."

He raised his eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"

For the first time in several days, she laughed outright. "You look concerned, Oliver. Do you regard yourself as trade? I had not seen myself as impoverished. And I certainly did not marry you for money I refused wealthier men than you. I thought you might be interesting."

He let out his breath slowly, feeling a certain warmth rise up his cheeks. This was the woman he had fallen in love with. "I am professional," he replied with mock tartness. "Which is nothing at all like trade. But it is still a considerable advantage to have a well-bred wife, even if she does have rather more wit and spirit than is entirely comfortable."

She gripped his arm for a moment, then eased away. "It is not good for you to be comfortable all the time," she told him. "You become complacent, and that is most unattractive. Perhaps you had better find whoever it is you wish to see."

He sighed. "Perhaps I had," he conceded, the misery swelling inside him again, making it hard to draw his breath.

It was not difficult to encounter Sullivan without it seeming forced, but Rathbone could feel his heart pounding; it was hard to get his breath, and when he spoke, to keep his voice steady. What would he do if Sullivan simply refused to see him alone? Rathbone must phrase it so that he had no suspicion. Or does a guilty man always suspect?

They were separated from the next group by a yard or two, and Sullivan had his back to an alcove full of books and objets d'art.

"Ah! Nice to see you, Rathbone," he said warmly. "Still celebrating your victory, I imagine? You achieved what I would have thought was damned near impossible."

Rathbone hid his feelings about his own part in the trial, which were growing more and more repugnant to him all the time. "Thank you," he accepted, since to do anything less would be discourteous, and he had to be civil at least until he could find a time and place to speak to Sullivan alone. He was used to seeing him in his wig and robes, and at a distance of several yards, from the floor of the court up to the judicial bench. Closer he was still a handsome man, but the features were a little less clearly defined, the skin blotchier, as if his health were compromised, perhaps by self-indulgence, and the resultant dyspepsia. "It proved less difficult than I foresaw," he added, since Sullivan seemed to be waiting for him to say something further.

"River Police dug their own graves," Sullivan replied grimly. "Both Durban and Monk. I think their power needs curbing. Maybe the newspapers are right, and it's time they were dispersed and command given entirely to the local stations on shore. Too much a law unto themselves at the moment."

Rathbone choked back his protest. He could not afford to antagonize Sullivan yet, and he would learn nothing if he put him on the defensive.

"Do you think so?" he asked, assuming an air of interest. "It seems they have a particular knowledge, and I must say, up to this point, an excellent record."

"Up to this point," Sullivan agreed. "But by all accounts, Durban was not as clever or as honorable as we had assumed, and this new man, Monk, has followed too much in his footsteps. You have only to look at the Phillips case to see that he is not up to the job. Promoted beyond his ability, I dare say."

"I don't think so," Rathbone protested.

Sullivan raised his eyebrows. "But my dear fellow, you proved it yourself! The man involved his wife, a good woman no doubt, but sentimental, full of well-meaning but illogical ideas. And he, apparently, fell victim to the same wishful thinking. He presented inadequate evidence to poor Tremayne, and so the jury had no choice but to find Phillips not guilty. Furthermore, we know that now he cannot be tried for that crime again, even if we find incontrovertible proof of his guilt. We cannot afford many fiascos like that, Rathbone."

"No, indeed," Rathbone said with perfectly genuine gravity. "The situation is now very serious indeed, more than perhaps Monk has any comprehension."

"Then you agree that perhaps the River Police should be disbanded?" Sullivan prompted.

Rathbone looked up at him. "No, no, I was thinking of the critical problem of blackmail." He watched Sullivan's face and knew from some movement of shadow in his eyes that he had struck a nerve; how deep he had yet to find out. He smiled very slightly. "Naturally, in order to defend Phillips, I had to study the evidence with extreme care, and of course, question him closely."

"Naturally," Sullivan agreed, his face oddly stiff. "But do be careful, Rathbone. Whatever he told you as your client is still confidential, regardless of the fact that the verdict is in, and he is acquitted. I am not the judge hearing the case now, and no privilege pertains to me."

"None at all," Rathbone said drily "I was not going to let anything slip, beyond generalities. He has never denied that he makes his living by satisfying the more pathetic and obscene tastes of men who have the money to pay to have their fantasies indulged."

Sullivan's face reflected a conflict of emotions, fear, contempt, and flickering excitement also. "With such knowledge, it must have cost you dearly to defend him," he observed.

While they might have pretended amiability, it was now gone completely, and both men knew it. What remained was mutual dislike, and a thin film of disgust.

"A lot of people I defend have practices that revolt me," Rathbone replied. "I am sure you have conducted cases where both the crime itself, and the character of the accused, offended you profoundly. It would not cause you to recuse yourself from the case, or some cases would never be heard."

Sullivan gave a slight shrug and half turned away. "I am aware of the difficulties of the law, and justice," he said without expression. "Is someone accusing blackmail? Or is all this merely theoretical?"

Rathbone steadied his breathing with difficulty. Sullivan was a judge. Rathbone had stolen the information from Ballinger, which he could not afford to have anyone know, for his own sake, for Cribb's, possibly even for Margaret's. But Rathbone had something to learn, and something to redeem. He must lie.

"Regrettably, I believe it to be fact, at least in one case, possibly more. Phillips does nothing unless there is profit for him in it. In the case of supplying boys to satisfy these appetites, there is double profit, first for the satisfaction itself, second to keep silence afterwards, because in some instances, if not all, it is illegal. It seems these men will not, or cannot, control themselves, even when it is of such fearful cost to them." He watched the blood ebb from Sullivan's skin, leaving his cheeks blotched. His expression did not change in the slightest.

"I see," he said very quietly, in little more than a whisper.

"I was certain you would," Rathbone agreed. "Since they are obviously men who can pay blackmail sufficient to keep Phillips's silence, they are wealthy men, and so likely to also be men of power, and even of far-reaching influence. We can have no idea who they are."

"You do not need to spell it out, Rathbone. I perceive where you are going. It is very grave, as you say. And if you throw around wild and rash accusations, you will place yourself in very great danger indeed. I imagine you realize that?" It was quite definitely a question, and it required an answer.

"Of course I do, my lord," Rathbone said grimly. "I have taken intense care regarding to whom I spoke about this." It might not be wise to let Sullivan think he had told no one else. "But I cannot ignore it. The potential for corruption is too great."

"Corruption?" Sullivan asked, staring at Rathbone. "Are you not exaggerating a trifle? If certain men have... tastes that you deplore, is their private behavior, or the company they keep, really your concern?"

"If they can be blackmailed for money, then I suppose that it is not," Rathbone replied, measuring every word. "Then they are victims, but until they complain, it is a private suffering."

A footman passed, hesitated, and moved on. A woman laughed.

"But if they are men of power," he continued. "And the price is no longer money but the abuse of that power, then it is the business of us all. Most particularly if the power concerned is high office in finance, or government, or most especially in the judiciary." His eyes met Sullivan's squarely, and it was Sullivan who flinched and looked away.

"What if this man were to pay his blackmail in blindness to bending the law?" he asked. "Or what if he used fraud, embezzlement of money to pay Phillips, after his own funds have run out? Or police authority, to allow or even abet in a crime? Port authorities might overlook smuggling, theft, even murder on the river. Lawyers, or even judges, may corrupt the law itself. Who can say who is involved, or how far it may seep into the fabric of all we believe in, all that separates us from the jungle?"

Sullivan swayed, his face gray.

"Get a grip on yourself, man!" Rathbone said between his teeth. "I'm not going to let this pass. Those boys are beaten and sodomized, and the ones who rebel are tortured and murdered. You and I have both connived to let Phillips get away with it, and you and I are going to put that right!"

"You can't," Sullivan said weakly "No one can stop him. You've seen that. You were used just as much as I was. If you turn against him now, he'll say you were a customer, and defended him to save yourself That your payment was blackmail." Hope flickered on his face, pasty and sheened with sweat. He took several steps backwards, but there was nowhere to escape to.

Rathbone followed him, even further away from the crowd. People assumed they were speaking confidentially and left them alone. The crowd swirled around them and away, oblivious.

"How in God's name did this happen to you?" Rathbone demanded. "Sit down, before you fall over and make a complete fool of yourself."

Sullivan's eyes widened as if the idea appealed to him. Insensibility! There was a way to get out after all.

"Don't entertain it!" Rathbone snapped. "People will think you are drunk. And it will only delay what is inevitable. If you could control yourself, if you could stop, surely to God in heaven, you would have?"

Sullivan shut his eyes to block out the sight of Rathbone's face. "Of course I would have, damn you! It all began... in innocence, before it became an addiction."

"Really?" Rathbone said icily.

Sullivan's eyes flew open. "I only wanted... excitement! You can't imagine how... bored I was. The same thing, night after night. No thrill, no excitement. I felt half alive. The great appetites eluded me. Passion, danger, romance was passing me by. Nothing touched me! It was all served up on a plate, empty, without... without meaning. I didn't have to work for anything. I ate and left as hungry as I came."

"I presume you are referring to sexual appetite?"

"I'm referring to life, you smug bastard!" Sullivan hissed. "Then one day I did something dangerous. I don't give a damn about relations with other men. That disgusts me, except that it's illegal." His eyes suddenly shone. "Have you ever had the singeing in your veins, the pounding inside you, the taste of danger, terror, and then release, and known you are totally alive at last? No, of course you haven't! Look at you! You're desiccated, fossilized before you're fifty. You'll die and be buried without ever having really been alive."

A world he had never thought of opened in front of Rathbone, a craving for danger and escape, for wilder and wilder risks.

"And do you feel alive now?" he asked softly. "Helpless to control your own appetites, even when they are on the brink of ruining you? You pay money to a creature like Jericho Phillips, and he tells you what to do, and what not to, and you think that is power? Hunger governs your body, and fear paralyzes your intellect. You have no more power than the children you abuse. You just don't have their excuses."

For an instant Sullivan saw himself as Rathbone did, and his eyes filled with terror. Rathbone could almost have been sorry for him, were it not for his complete disregard for the other victims of his obsession.

"So you went to Ballinger to find a lawyer who could get Phillips off," he concluded.

"Of course. Wouldn't you have?" Sullivan asked.

"Because he's my father-in-law, and I was Monk's friend, and knew him well enough to use the weaknesses that were the other side of his strengths."

"I'm not a fool!" Sullivan said waspishly.

"Yes, you are," Rathbone told him. "A total fool. Now you have not only Phillips blackmailing you, you have me as well. And the payment I shall require is the destruction of Phillips. That will silence me forever on this issue, and obviously it will get rid of Phillips, on the end of a rope, with luck."

Sullivan said nothing. His face was sweating, and there was no color in his skin at all.

"I won't ruin you now," Rathbone said with disgust. "I need to use you." Then he turned and walked away.

In the morning Rathbone sent a message to the Wapping Station of the River Police, asking Monk to call on him as soon as he was able to. There was no point in going to look for Monk, who could have been anywhere from London Bridge to Greenwich, or even beyond.

Monk arrived before ten. He was immaculate, as usual, freshly shaved and with a neatly pressed white shirt under his uniform jacket. Rathbone was mildly amused, but too sick inside to smile. This was the Monk he knew, dressed with the careless grace of a man who loved clothes and knew the value of self-respect. And yet there was no lift in his step, and there were shadows of exhaustion around his eyes. He stood in the middle of the office, waiting for Rathbone to speak.

Rathbone was horribly familiar with the charges against the River Police in general, and Durban and Monk in particular. He had resented it before. Since last night it woke an anger in him that he could hardly contain.

He wanted the rift between Monk and himself healed, but he avoided words; they only redefined the wound.

Monk was waiting. Rathbone had sent for him, so he must speak first.

"The situation is worse than I thought," he began. He felt foolish for not having seen it from the start. "Phillips is blackmailing his clients, and God only knows who they are."

"I imagine the devil knows too," Monk said drily. "I assume you didn't send for me to tell me that. You can't have imagined that I was unaware. I'm threatened myself, because I've taken in a mudlark, largely for his protection. Phillips is suggesting that I am his partner in procuring."

Rathbone felt the heat of guilt in his face. "I know where the money came from that paid me," he said. "I will donate it to charity, anonymously, I think. I am not proud of the way I obtained the information."

A flash of pity lit Monk's eyes, which surprised Rathbone. There was a temperance in Monk he had not seen before.

"The instructing solicitor was my father-in-law," he continued. The next was more difficult, but he would not prevaricate or attempt to excuse. "I will not tell you how I learned who his client is. There is no need for the guilt to be anyone's but mine. It is sufficient for you to know that it is Lord Justice Sullivan..." He saw the incredulity on Monk's face, then dawning perception and amazement. His smile was bleak. "Precisely," he said with bitter humor. "It throws a new light on the trial, does it not?"

Monk said nothing. There was no anger in his face, no blame, although it would have been justified.

"I faced him last night," Rathbone continued. "Obviously, he is one of Phillips's clients, and victims. He used the word addiction to describe his craving for the illicit thrills he gains from his pleasures. Perhaps it is. I never thought of pornography as anything but the grubby voyeurism of those who were incapable of a proper relationship. Perhaps it is more than that, a dependence of character, as with alcohol or opium. It seems with him it is the danger, the risk of being caught in an act that would unquestionably ruin him. I found him both pathetic and repellent."

Monk was beginning to think. Rathbone saw the ideas race in his mind, the keenness of his eyes.

"I imagine he may be of use to you," he suggested. "That was my purpose in unmasking him, at least to myself. But I advise you to handle him with care. He is erratic, both angry and frightened, possibly a little less than sane, as you or I would see sanity. He might very well rather put a bullet through his brain than face exposure."

"Thank you," Monk said, meeting his eyes.

Rathbone smiled. He knew in that moment that Monk understood how difficult it had been for him, in all its complexity of reasons. He said nothing, but words were far too clumsy, too inexact anyway.