Execution Dock

chapter Eleven
Claudine Burroughs arrived early at the Portpool Lane Clinic. It was not that there was a particularly large amount to do, it was more that she wanted to tidy up linens, make certain of supplies, and put things in order. She had started working there because she needed something to occupy herself that left her feeling less empty than time spent with her acquaintances. She could not call any of them friends. She felt that hardship had a warmth to it, an implicit trust in kindness, even a common purpose or dream. She found none of these things in the visits, tea parties, dinners, and balls she attended. Even church had seemed more a matter of discipline than of hope, and of obedience rather than kindness.

She had chosen this particular charity because no one else she knew would ever involve themselves in anything so vulgar, or so practical. They wished to appear virtuous; they did not wish to put on old clothes, roll up their sleeves, and actually work, as Claudine was now doing, sorting out kitchen cupboards. Of course, at home she would not have dreamed of doing such a thing, nor even would her cook. Any respectable household had scullery maids for that kind of task.

Actually she found it rather satisfying, and while her hands were in the hot, soapy water, her mind was turning over the small signs of anxiety and unhappiness she had seen in Hester lately. She appeared to be avoiding Margaret Rathbone, who was also distant and on occasion a trifle sharp.

Claudine both liked and respected Margaret, but not with the same warmth she felt for Hester. Hester was more spontaneous, more vulnerable, and less proud. Therefore when Bessie came into the kitchen to say that Hester was here, and she was going to make her a pot of tea and take it to her, Claudine told Bessie to finish restocking the cupboards, and said that she herself would take the tea.

When she put the tray down on the table in the office she could see at a glance that Hester was still just as worried as before, if not more so. She poured the tea to give herself an excuse to stay. Right at this moment she wanted, more than anything else, to help, but she was not certain what was wrong, there were so many possibilities. The first was money, either personally or for the clinic. Or it might be a serious case of injury or health that they did not know how to treat. That had happened in the past, and no doubt would again. Or it could be quarrels with the staff, differences of opinion in management, or domestic trouble or unhappiness. But what she considered most likely was something to do with the criminal trial where Hester and her husband had given evidence. But she could not ask. It would be both clumsy and intrusive to do so.

"I think Mrs. Rathbone... I mean, Lady Rathbone... will not be in today," she said carefully. She saw Hester stiffen, and then relax a little, and she went on. "But she looked at the finances yesterday, and we are really doing quite well."

"Good." Hester acknowledged it. "Thank you."

That seemed to be the end of the conversation. However, Claudine would not give up so easily. "She looked concerned to me, Mrs. Monk. Do you think she may be not quite well?"

Hester looked up, giving it her full attention now. "Margaret? I hadn't noticed. I should have. I wonder if..." She stopped.

"She is with child?" Claudine finished for her. "Possibly, but I don't think so. To be honest, she looks anxious rather than sickly to me. I was being less than honest when I said 'not well.'"

Hester did not bother to hide her smile. "Not like you, Claudine. Why don't you fetch another cup? There's enough tea here for two."

Claudine did as she was asked and returned a few moments later. They sat opposite each other, and Hester spoke candidly. "This case of Jericho Phillips has divided us. Naturally, Margaret sides with her husband, as I suppose she should..."

Claudine interrupted. She was aware that it might be unseemly, but she could not hold her peace. "I do not believe that God requires any woman to follow her husband to hell, Mrs. Monk," she said decisively. "I promised to obey, but I'm afraid that is a vow I could not keep, if it should go against my conscience. Maybe I will be damned for it, but I am not prepared to give my soul over into anyone else's keeping."

"No, I don't think I am either," Hester agreed thoughtfully. "But she is only recently married, and I think she loves Sir Oliver very much. Also, she may well believe that he is absolutely right. I have not troubled her with the investigation I have been making, or the horrors of the case that I have learned, because it would place her in a position where she might have to stand against him."

Claudine made no reply but waited for Hester to explain.

Hester told her the barest outline of Phillips's business, and what she had since learned of the extent of his power to blackmail.

Claudine was disgusted but she was not greatly surprised. She had seen behind the masks of respectability for many years. Usually it was far pettier than this, but perhaps great sins start as simple weakness, and the consistent placing of self before others.

"I see," she said quietly, pouring more tea for both of them. "What can we do about it? I refuse to accept that there is nothing."

Hester smiled. "So do I, but I confess that I don't yet know what it is. My husband knows the name of at least one of the victims, but cutting them off is not much use. We need the head of it."

"Jericho Phillips," Claudine put in.

"He is central, certainly," Hester agreed, sipping her tea. "But I have been thinking about it a lot recently, and I wonder if he is alone in his enterprise, or if perhaps he is only part of it."

Now Claudine was surprised.

Hester leaned forward. "Why would one of Phillips's victims pay to have him defended and able to continue with his blackmail?"

"Because he also provides the pornography to which this wretched creature is addicted," Claudine replied without hesitation.

"True," Hester agreed. "But when Phillips was in custody, who went to this man and told him to pay for Phillips's defense? Phillips would hardly have sent for him, or the man's secret would be out, and he would have destroyed his power over him."

"Oh!" Claudine was beginning to understand. "There is someone else with power who, for his own reasons, wishes Phillips to be safe and to continue to profit. One has to assume that if Phillips were found guilty, this man's loss would overall be greater than his gain."

Hester winced. "Very direct. You've seized the point admirably. I am not sure how much we can succeed until we know who that person is. I am afraid that he may be someone we will not easily outwit. He has managed to protect Phillips very well up until now, in spite of everything either Durban or we could do."

Claudine was chilled. "You surely don't think Sir Oliver was black mailed, do you?" She felt guilty even for having the thought, let alone asking. She knew the heat burned her face, but it was too late to retreat.

"No," Hester said without resentment. "But I wonder if he wasn't manipulated into defending Phillips, without realizing what it really meant. The trouble is, I don't know what I can do now to reach Phil lips. We're all so..."-she sighed-"so... vulnerable."

Claudine's mind was racing. Perhaps she could do something. In her time here in the clinic she had learned about sides of life she had not previously even imagined in nightmare. She understood at least something of the people who came and went through these doors. In clothes and manners they were different from the Society women she knew, and in background and hopes for the future; in health, ability, and the things that made them laugh or lose their temper. But in some ways they were also heartbreakingly the same. Those were the things that twisted inside her with a warmth of pity, and all too often of helplessness.

She finished her tea and excused herself without saying anything more about it, and went to see Squeaky Robinson, a man with whom she had a most awkward relationship. That she spoke to him at all was a circumstance that had been forced upon her, at least to begin with. Now they had a kind of restless and extremely uneasy truce.

She knocked on his door; heaven only knew what she might find him doing if she went in without that precaution. When he answered she opened it, walked through, and closed it behind her.

"Good morning, Mr. Robinson," she said a little stiffly. "When we have finished talking I will fetch you a cup of tea, if you would like it. First I need to speak with you."

He looked up warily. He was wearing the same rumpled jacket as usual, and a shirt that had probably never felt an iron, and his hair was standing up at all angles from where he had obviously run his fingers through it in some degree of frenzy.

"Good," he said immediately. "Say what yer 'ave to. I'm thirsty." He did not put his pen down but kept it poised above the inkwell. He wrote all his figures in ink. Apparently he did not make mistakes.

Her temper flared at his dismissiveness, but she kept it under control. She wanted his cooperation. A plan was beginning to take shape in her mind.

"I would like to have your attention, if you please, Mr. Robinson," she said carefully. "All of it."

He looked alarmed. "Wot's 'appened?"

"I had thought you were as aware of it as I, but perhaps you are not." She sat down uninvited. "I shall explain it to you. Jericho Phillips is a man who..."

"I know all about that!" he said tartly.

"Then you know what has happened," she responded. "It is necessary that we conclude the matter, so that we can all get back to our own business without the distraction of his behavior. He is causing Mrs. Monk some distress. I would like to be of assistance."

A look of total exasperation filled his face, raising his wispy eyebrows and pulling the corners of his mouth tight. "Yer got no more chance o' catching Jericho Phillips than yer 'ave o' marryin' the Prince o' Wales!" he said with barely concealed impatience. "Get back ter yer kitchen an' do wot yer good at."

"Are you going to catch him?" she said frostily.

He looked uncomfortable. He had expected her to be deeply affronted and lose her composure, and she had not. That gave him a surprising and inexplicable satisfaction. It should have infuriated him.

"Well, are you?" she snapped.

"If I could, I wouldn't be sittin' 'ere," he retorted. "Fer Gawd's sake, fetch the tea."

She sat without moving. "He takes and keeps small boys to be photographed performing obscene acts, is that so?"

He blushed, annoyed with her for embarrassing him. She should have been the one embarrassed. "Yes. Yer shouldn't even be knowin' about such things." That was a definite accusation.

"A lot of use that's going to be," she told him witheringly "I assume he does it for money? There could be no other reason. He sells these pictures, yes?"

"O' course 'e sells them!" he shouted at her.

"Where?"

"What?"

"Don't pretend to be stupid, Mr. Robinson. Where does he sell them? How much more plainly can I put it?"

"I dunno. On 'is boat, in the post, 'ow do I know?"

"Why not in shops as well?" she asked. "Wouldn't he use every place he could? If I had something I knew I could sell, I would offer it everywhere. Why wouldn't he?"

"All right, so 'e would. Wot about it? That don't do us no good."

With difficulty she forebore from correcting his grammar. She did not want to anger him any more than she had already.

"Is there not any law against such things, if it involves children, boys?"

"Yes, o' course there is." He looked at her wearily. "An' 'oo's goin' ter force it, eh? Yer? Me? The cops? Nobody, that's 'oo."

"I am not quite certain that there is nobody," she said softly. "You might be surprised what Society can do, and will, if it feels itself in danger, either financially or more important, in comfort and self-respect."

He stared at her, surprise and the beginning of a new understanding dawning in his eyes.

She was not quite sure how much she wished to be understood. Perhaps she needed to change the subject rapidly, if she could do so and still learn from him what she needed to know. The wild idea that had begun in her mind was becoming stronger all the time.

"There is a law against it?" she repeated urgently.

"O' course there's a law!" he snapped. "It don't make no difference. Can't yer understand that?"

"Yes, I can." She wanted to crush him but could not afford to. She needed his help, or at the very least some co operation. "So it would have to be sold where the police would not see it."

"O' course it would," he said in exasperation.

"Where?"

"Where? All over the place. In back alleys, in shops where it looks like decent books, financial books, ledgers, tracts on 'ow ter mend sails or keep accounts, or anything yer like. I seen some as yer'd take fer Bibles, till yer looked close. Tobacconists sell 'em, or bookshops, printers, all sorts."

"I see. Yes, very difficult to trace. Thank you." She stood up and turned to leave, then hesitated. "Down in the alleys by the riverside, I suppose?"

"Yeah. Or anywhere else. But only where folks go as knows wot they want. Yer won't find 'em on the ' Igh Street or any place as the likes o' yer'd be going."

She gave him a slight smile. "Good. Thank you, Mr. Robinson. Don't look so sour. I shall not forget your tea."

Claudine was not happy to return home, but sooner or later it was inevitable; it always was.

"You are late," her husband observed as soon as she entered the drawing room, having gone into the house through the kitchen rather than be seen at the front in her clinic clothes. Now she was washed and changed into the sort of late-afternoon gown she customarily wore. It was fashionable, well-cut, richly colored, and a trifle restricting because of the tightly laced corset beneath it. Her hair was also becomingly dressed, as that of a lady in her station should be.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. There was no use explaining; he was not interested in reasons.

"If you were sorry, you would not keep doing it," he said tartly. He was a large man, broad-bellied, heavy-jowled, a highly successful property developer. In spite of his years, his hair was still thick and barely touched with gray. She looked at his sneering expression and wondered how she could ever have found him physically attractive. Perhaps necessity was the mother of acceptance as well as of invention?

"You spend far too much time at that place," he went on. "This is the third time in as many weeks that I have had to mention this to you. It will not do, Claudine. I have a right to expect certain duties of you, and you are not behaving appropriately at all. As my wife, you have social obligations, of which you are not unaware. Richmond told me you were not at his wife's party last Monday." He said it as a challenge.

"It was to raise money for charity in Africa," she replied. "I was working for a charity here."

He lost his temper. "Oh, don't be absurd! You insulted a lady of considerable consequence in order to go fetching and carrying for a bunch of whores off the street. Have you lost absolutely all sense of who you are? If you have, then let me remind you who I am."

"I am perfectly aware of who you are, Wallace," she said as calmly as she could. "I have spent years..." She nearly said "the best years of my life," but they were not. Indeed, they had been the worst. "I have spent years of my life performing all the duties your career and your station required..."

"And your station, Claudine," he interrupted. "I think too often you forget that." That was definitely an accusation. His face was reddening, and he moved a step closer to her.

She did not move back. She would refuse to, no matter how close he came.

"That station, which you take so lightly," he went on, "provides the roof over your head, the food in your mouth, and the clothes on your back."

"Thank you, Wallace," she said flatly. She felt no gratitude whatever. Would it have been so bad to have worked for it herself, and owned it without obligation? No, that was a fantasy. One then had to please whoever employed you. Everyone was bound to somebody else.

He did not hear the sarcasm, or chose not to. But then he had very little sense of irony or appreciation of the absurd. "You will oblige me by writing a letter to Mrs. Monk and telling her that you are no longer able to offer your assistance in her project. Tomorrow." He took a deep, satisfied breath. "I am sure that after her unfortunate appearance in criminal court she will not be in the least surprised."

"She was a witness!" Claudine protested, and instantly knew from his face that it was a technical error.

"Of course she was a witness," he said with disgust. "The kind of life she leads, the people she associates with, she is bound to see all sorts of crimes. The only miracle is that she was for the prosecution, not for the defense. I have been extremely tolerant so far, Claudine, but you have now exceeded the limit of what is acceptable. You will do as I have instructed. That is all I have to say on the matter."

Claudine could not remember ever having been so angry, or so desperate to fight back. He was taking from her everything that had brought her the most joy in her life. She realized that with a shock of amazement. It was absurd, but working in Portpool Lane gave her friendship, purpose, and a sense of belonging, of being valued, even a sense of mattering. She could not allow him to simply remove it because he thought he could.

"I am surprised," she said, controlling her voice as well as she could, although she was aware that it trembled.

"I do not wish to discuss it further, Claudine," he said coldly. He always addressed her by name when he was displeased. "I have no idea why you should be surprised, except that I have allowed it so long. It is totally unsuitable."

"I am surprised that you find it so." She was attacking now, and it was almost too late to draw back. She plunged in. "And I admit, it frightens me."

His eyebrows rose high. "Frightens you? That is a foolish thing to say. You are becoming hysterical. I have simply said that you are no longer to associate yourself with a clinic for whores. Forgive me for using the word, but it is the correct one."

"That is immaterial." She brushed it aside with a wave of her hand. She was not a beautiful woman, but her hands were lovely. "What alarms me is that I have allied myself with people who have publicly stood up against a man who traffics in children, small boys, to be precise, for the use of men in their more revolting appetites. Since we are using correct words," she mimicked his tone exactly, "I believe the term is sodomy. This abuse of children is practiced by all sorts of men," she continued, "of a bestial and debased nature, but this man caters to those with money, that is, largely of our own social class." She saw the blood rush to his face in a scarlet tide. "It frightens me," she continued relentlessly, her voice now quivering with real fear, although not of what she was claiming, "that you do not wish, very publicly indeed, to show yourself to be in the battle against it."

She drew in her breath and let it out slowly, trying to control the shaking of her body. "I do not suspect you of such an appetite, Wallace, but I am more than slightly worried that you forbid me to continue in my support for Mrs. Monk, and all those who fought at her side. What will people think? It is bound to become even more public than it is now. I am not sure that I can oblige you by retreating from the conflict."

He stared at her as if she had grown horns and a tail.

She found herself gulping for air. She could never go back now, as long as she lived. She knew how Caesar must have felt when he crossed the Rubicon to declare war on Rome.

"Are you sure that is what you wish me to do?" she said softly.

"I don't know what has happened to you," he said, looking at her with loathing. "You are a disgrace to your sex, and to all that your parents hoped of you. You are certainly not the woman I married."

"I understand how that pains you," she replied. She was well on the far bank of the Rubicon now. "You are the man I married, and that pains me, which perhaps now you also understand. There is little for us to do but make the best of it. I shall do what I believe to be right, which is to continue to help those in need, and fight with every ability I have to bring men like Jericho Phillips to justice before the law. I think you would find it in your best interests to pretend that you support me. You would be hard put to justify any other course to your friends, and I know you value their opinion. Whatever their private habits, they could not be seen to think differently." And before he could reply, she left the room, and told her maid that she would take supper in her boudoir.

***

In the morning she left for the clinic very early indeed, before six. It was light at this time of the year, and when she arrived half an hour later, she found Ruby up and working in the kitchen. She had already decided that it was Ruby whose help she would ask.

"'Mornin', Mrs. Burroughs," Ruby said with surprise. "Summink 'appened? Yer look kind o' upset, bit feverish. Like a cup o' tea?"

"Good morning, Ruby," Claudine replied, closing the back door behind her. "Yes, I would like a cup of tea. I have not had breakfast yet, and I imagine you haven't either. I brought some butter and a pot of marmalade." She produced it and set it on the table. "And a loaf of fresh bread," she added. "I wish for your advice, in confidence."

Ruby looked at the excellent Dundee marmalade and the crusty bread, and knew that it must be serious. She was alarmed.

Claudine saw it. "There is no need to be concerned," she said, going over to the stove and opening the door, ready to make toast. "I wish to do something that I hope will help Mrs. Monk. It will be uncomfortable, and possibly a little dangerous, so I imagine she would stop me if she knew, which is why I am speaking to you in confidence. Are you willing to help me?"

Ruby stared at her in wonder. She was very aware that Hester was in trouble; everyone knew it. "'Course I am," she said decisively. "Wot'd'yer want?"

"I want to sell matches," Claudine replied. "I thought of bootlaces-that might also work-except people do not need to buy them very often. Flowers would be no use at all, nor would any kind of food." She straightened up from the stove and began to slice the bread. The aroma of it filled the room.

Ruby pulled the kettle over onto the burner and reached for the tea caddy, her mind whirling. "Why d'yer wanter sell matches?" She was utterly lost. She knew it could not possibly be for money. Claudine was rich anyway.

"As an excuse for standing in the street outside the sort of shop where they would sell the photographs that Jericho Phillips takes of little boys," Claudine replied. "We know the faces of some of his boys; perhaps I can find these photographs, or at least tell Commander Monk where they may be found. Then he will have another way in which to trap Phillips. Or he may trap some of the men who buy them..." The further she went in trying to explain her idea, the more desperate and foolish it sounded.

"Cor!" Ruby let out her breath in a sigh of amazement and admiration. Her eyes were wide and shining. "Then 'e'd 'ave the proof! 'E could make 'em split on Phillips, eh? It wouldn't be like 'angin' 'im, but it'd make 'im mad, for certain. An' it'd make 'is customers as mad as wasps in a fire, an' all! I'll 'elp yer, an' I won't tell no one, I swear!"

"Thank you," Claudine said with profound gratitude. "Now, shall we have breakfast? I trust you like marmalade?"

"Cor! Yeah, I do. Ta." Ruby looked at the jar and she could almost taste it already. "Yer'll 'ave ter 'ave a blouse an' skirt wot's right, an' a shawl. I can get yer one. It'll smell, mind. But it should. Yer can't go lookin' like that, or they'll con yer in a second. An' yer'll 'ave ter keep yer mouth shut as much as yer can. I'll tell yer wot ter say. Or better, pretend as yer deaf, an' can't 'ear nuffin'. An' boots. I'll get yer some boots wot look like yer'd already walked ter Scotland an' back in 'em."

"Thank you," Claudine said quietly. She was beginning to wonder if she really had the courage to go through with this. It was an insane idea. She was totally incompetent to carry off such a thing. It would be humiliating. They would see through her disguise in an instant, and Wallace would have her committed as a lunatic. He would have no trouble at all. What other explanation could there be for such behavior?

Ruby shook her head. "Yer got some guts, Missus." Her eyes shone with awe. "I reckon even Miss 'Ester'd be proud o' yer. 'Course I won't tell 'er!" she added hastily. "I won't never give yer away."

That sealed the decision. There was no escape now. She could not possibly forfeit Ruby's faith in her, and that burning admiration. "Thank you," Claudine said again. "You are a loyal and excellent ally."

Ruby beamed with pleasure, but she was too thrilled to speak.

Naturally Claudine did not go until it was dusk, when she had far greater chance of being unrecognized. Even so, she walked with her head down, shuffling a little in unfamiliar and extremely uncomfortable boots. She must have looked dreadful. Her hair was greased with oil from the kitchen, the smell of which she found distasteful, like a stale pan. Her face was carefully smeared with grime, similarly her hands and as much of her neck as showed. She had an old shawl around her, and was glad to hold it tight, not for warmth, because the evening was mild, but to conceal as much of herself as she could. She carried a light tray that would be hung around her neck on a string, and a bag full of matchboxes to sell. She also had about one and sixpence worth of change, mostly in pennies and halfpennies. Ruby had told her that more would be suspicious.

She began on the dockside beyond Wapping and walked slowly until she found a corner between a good tobacconist and a public house, then stood there with the tray resting just below her bosom and felt as conspicuous as a squashed fly on a white wall, and about as useful.

She also felt afraid. As darkness settled she could see only the short stretches under the street lamps clearly, or wedges of broken pavement where light spilled out a window, or a suddenly opened door. There was noise all around. In the distance dogs were barking above the clatter of hooves from the traffic on the busy cross street seventy yards away. Closer to her people were shouting, and above it was the occasional burst of laughter.

She was ridiculously grateful when someone bought matches, and actually spoke to her. Just that they had seen her and acknowledged her as a human being broke the loneliness that had hardened around her like imprisoning glass. She smiled, and then with a shock of shame remembered that Ruby had also blackened two of her teeth. She said they were beautiful, far too even and white for the sort of woman she was pretending to be.

What was even stranger and more disconcerting was that the man did not even notice. He took her for exactly what she was pretending to be, a street woman too old and too plain to be a whore, but still needing to earn perhaps a shilling or two, standing alone in the night on a street corner selling matches, mild or freezing, wet or dry. She was relieved, but oddly "puzzled also. Was that really the only difference, clothes and a little dirt, the way she carried her head, whether she dared meet his eyes or not?

She could stand here all night, and those who were sorry for her might buy matches, but she would learn nothing. She needed to move closer to the shops that sold books and periodicals, tobacco, the sort of things a man would buy without arousing any interest or comment. Ruby had told her where they were, and what they were like. Maybe she should be closer to Jericho Phillips's boat? She wanted to catch his trade in particular. Maybe it was like most other trades; people had their own areas. One did not trespass. Certainly she was growing cold and stiff here, and achieving nothing except a little practice.

She began to walk back towards the river and the stretch half a mile or so to the south of Execution Dock. That was one of the places where Phillips had been known to moor his boat. Another was further south again, on the Limehouse Reach. There was another where the curve of the Isle of Dogs bends back to the Blackwall Reach, opposite the Bugsby Marshes. Too far for rich men to go for their pleasures, and certainly a less profitable place to sell books and pictures. Was she being intelligent? Or merely too stupid to know just how stupid she was? Wallace would have said the latter, if he were not too apoplectic with rage to say anything at all. She could not bear for him to be right; that would be almost as bad as letting Ruby down.

She kept walking. It was late and completely dark now. How long did shops stay open? Buying pornographic photographs of little boys was surely not a daytime occupation? At this time of the year maybe they stayed open all night? Perhaps people went to such places after the theater? The most obvious of all would be after visiting Jericho Phillips's boat.

That was her best chance, to go towards the river and the alleys leading off the waterfront.

But she paced up and down fruitlessly until after midnight. Then tired, cold, and dispirited, she went back to the clinic and Ruby let her in. It was then that she made the wild boast that she was not beaten, and would quite definitely return the following evening. She went into one of the empty bedrooms kept for patients with contagious diseases, and slept until she was woken in the morning by the sound of footsteps, and one of the maids cursing under her breath.

The next evening, Claudine found herself standing on the corner of the same street again in gusting wind and a fine summer rain, carrying a tray of matches, covered with oilskin, when a couple of well-dressed men passed by, apparently not even aware of her.

She turned, as if to cross the street, or possibly even to follow after them and beg them to buy a box of matches. But instead she passed by them, and took a quick, furtive glance at the photograph one of the men was looking at. She was too disappointed that it was an adult woman to be shocked at her total nakedness. All she felt was chagrin that it was not one of Phillips's boys. To her guilt, she was also relieved. They were pictures she did not actually wish to see; it was simply that she could hardly take any proof back to Hester if she could not swear what it was.

Then she realized that of course selling one kind of pornography does not exclude selling another kind. She stopped abruptly, as if she had forgotten something, then turned and went back again to take up her place a few yards from where she had been before. This time she was on the opposite side of the street, where she could watch whoever went into the shop from either direction.

She allowed several very ordinary-appearing customers to go in and come out again, but the next time a well-dressed man went in, she crossed over and went in after him. She stood in the corner as if waiting in the shadows for her turn, well out of the sound of his voice. At a glance one might have thought she was being discreet.

When he had agreed on the cards he wished for and paid his money to the shopkeeper, she moved forward, pretended to be dizzy, and swayed to one side. As though by accident, she knocked the cards out of his hand and they fluttered to the floor. Two lay facedown, three were faceup. They showed naked and frightened little boys in attitudes only grown men should adopt, and that in the strictest privacy. One of them had bloody weals on his flesh where any clothes at all would have concealed them.

Claudine closed her eyes and sank to the floor, not entirely having to pretend a feeling of nausea. The shopkeeper came around the counter and tried to assist her to her feet, while his customer scrabbled on the floor to pick up his treasures.

The next few moments passed in a daze. She staggered to her feet, now quite genuinely dizzy, and at the shopkeeper's insistence drank a small mouthful of brandy, probably all he could afford to offer. Then she told him her husband's tobacco would have to wait, she needed some air, and without accepting any further assistance she thanked him and blundered outside onto the dark street and the beginning of more rain. It was light, only a drifting mist blowing off the river, the mournful sound of foghorns echoing up from Limehouse Reach and the long stretch beyond.

She leaned against the wall of the tenement houses, a sickness in her stomach, the taste of bile in her mouth. She shuddered with cold, her back ached, and her feet were blistered. She was alone here in the dark and dripping street, but this was victory!

Three or four more men walked past. Two bought matches. She was going to earn enough for a loaf of bread. Actually she had no idea what a loaf of bread cost. A pint of beer was three pence, she had heard someone say that. Four pints for a shilling. Nine shillings a week was a fair rent, half a laborer's weekly wage.

They were well dressed, these customers of the tobacconist. Their suits must have cost two pounds or more. That one's shirt looked like silk. How much were the photographs? Sixpence? A shilling?

Another man had stopped in front of her. She had not even noticed him approaching. It must be midnight. He was a big man, solid, holding cards facedown like the ones she'd seen in the shop.

"Yes, sir? Matches, sir?" she said through dry lips.

"I'll have a couple of boxes," he replied, holding out two pennies.

She took them and he helped himself to two boxes off the tray. He looked up at her, and she glanced at his eyes to see if he was going to ask her for something more. Then she froze. Every shred of warmth vanished from her body. She must be as white as a winter sky. It was Arthur Ballinger. She had no doubt of it. She had met him at several social functions with Wallace. She remembered him because he was Margaret Rathbone's father. Did he remember her? Was that why he was staring at her? This was even worse than in the shop! He would tell Wallace, he would be bound to. There was no conceivable explanation she could give. What reason could a lady of Society have for dressing up like a pauper and selling matches on the street outside a shop that sold pornography of the most depraved kind?

No, it was far worse than that! Ballinger would understand the reason. He would know she was spying on him, and others like him. She must speak, say something to shatter his suspicion and make him certain she was just what she looked like, a peddler, a woman of grinding poverty.

"Thank you, sir," she said hoarsely, trying to imitate the voices of the women who came to the clinic. "Gawd bless yer," she added, and choked on the gasped air and the dryness of her throat, now so rasping it nearly strangled her.

Ballinger backed away a step, looked at her again, then changed his mind and strode away. Two minutes later he was out of sight and she was alone in the street, which was now so dark she could barely see the ends. The lamps hung like straight-edged towers girded by pale wreaths that moved, dissolved, and formed again as the wind from the water gusted between the dark housefronts.

A dog trotted by soundlessly, its shape indistinct. A cat ran, low to the ground, shinned up a wall, seemingly without effort, and dropped on the other side invisibly. Somewhere out of sight a man and a woman were shouting at each other.

Then three men came around the corner, abreast, swaggering towards her. As they passed under the lamp she saw their coarse faces. Two of them were looking at her with anticipation. One of them ran his tongue over his lips.

She dropped the match tray and ran, ignoring her ill-fitting boots on the uneven cobbles, the enclosing darkness, and the stench of garbage. She did not even look which way she was going, anything to get away from the pursuing men, shouting after her, laughing and yelling obscenities.

At the end of the street she turned left, around the nearest corner that allowed her not to cross the open stretch where she would be seen. This alley was darker, but she knew they would still hear her boots on the stones. She turned again, and again, always running. Her dread was that she would find one of the alleys blind, and they would trap her against a wall with nowhere else to go.

A dog was barking furiously. Somewhere ahead there were lights. A tavern door was open, and a yellow lantern gleam spilled out onto the cobbles. The smell of ale was strong. She was tempted to go in; it was bright and looked warm. Perhaps they would help her?

Or perhaps not. No, if someone tore at her clothes they would see the clean linen under them. She would be exposed for a fraud. They would be furious. They would feel mocked, duped. They might even kill her. She had seen the wounds of too many street women who had incurred someone's uncontrolled rage. Keep running. Trust no one.

Her breath stabbed in her aching lungs, but she dared not stop.

There was more shouting behind her. She tried to run faster. Her feet were slipping on the cobbles. Twice she nearly fell, only saving herself by swinging her arms wildly to keep her balance.

She had no idea how long she ran, or where she was when finally she fell, exhausted, huddling in the doorway of some tenement house on a narrow street, walls above her almost meeting at the roofs. She could hear scuffling, the scrape of animal claws, and breathing, but no human boots on the road's surface, no voices shouting or laughing.

There was someone near her, a woman like a pile of laundry, all ragged and tied together with twine. She crept near her, glad of the warmth. Perhaps she could even sleep a little. In the morning she would try to find out where she was. For now she was invisible in the dark, another bundle of rags, just like all the rest.

Hester arrived at the clinic in the morning to find Squeaky Robinson waiting for her. She had barely sat down at her desk to look at the figures for medicines when he knocked and came straight in without waiting for her to answer. He closed the door behind him. He looked angry and worried. He had a piece of stiff, white notepaper in his hand. He started to speak without even the barest civility of a greeting.

Two days! he said sharply. "Nothing at all, not a word. And now 'ere's her 'usband writing us letters demanding 'er ter come 'ome." He waved the paper in proof.

"Who?" Hester asked him. She did not question his manners; she could see that he was very obviously distressed.

"'Er 'usband!" he snapped. He looked at the papers. "Wallace Burroughs."

Then she understood, and was instantly as concerned as he. "You mean Claudine hasn't been here for two days? And she hasn't been home either?"

He closed his eyes in exasperation. "That's wot I jus' said! She's gorn missing, taken off, the stupid..." He fumbled for a word violent enough to express his emotions, and failed to find one he could use in front of her.

"Show me." Hester held her hand out for the note, and he passed it to her. It was brief to the point of curtness, but perfectly explicit. He said he had forbidden Claudine to involve herself any more deeply in the affairs of the clinic, and she had apparently defied him, and had now been missing from her home and her duties for two whole days and nights. He required immediately that whoever was in charge of the clinic should send Claudine home, and not in future address her or importune her for further assistance, either with time or for financial offerings.

At another time Hester would have been furious with his arrogance and his patronizing and domineering manner, but she read in his tone not only injured pride but also genuine anxiety, not just for his own well-being but for Claudine's.

"This is serious, Squeaky." She looked up at him. "If she isn't at home, and she isn't here, then it may be that she is in some trouble."

"I know that!" he said sharply, his voice unusually loud. "Why d'yer think I came ter yer? She's gorn an' done summink stupid."

"What sort of thing? What do you know, Squeaky?"

"I dunno nothin' or I'd be tellin' yer," he said. His exasperation had reached the point where he could not keep still. He moved his weight from one foot to the other in agitation. "Nobody's gonna listen ter me. Yer'll 'ave ter ask Bessie an' Ruby an' anyone else, or put the word out. Tell Mr. Monk, if yer 'ave ter. We gotta find 'er, or she'll come ter some 'arm. Gawd knows, she's daft enough."

Hester drew breath to give a string of alternatives as to where Claudine could be, all of them safe, but of course she knew that Claudine would not have gone on any kind of social trip without telling them, and at the moment her mind was worried and angry over Jericho Phillips, just as they all were.

"I'll speak to Ruby and Bessie." She stood up. "Then if they have nothing, I'll start with the women we have in at the moment."

"Good," he said firmly. He hesitated over whether to thank her or not, and decided not to. She was doing it for herself, not for him. "I'll wait 'ere," he finished.

She left him and went to find Bessie, who knew nothing at all, except that she thought Ruby was looking busy and self-important these last couple of days, and now she was a bit preoccupied this morning.

"Thank you," Hester said fervently.

Ruby was alone in the scullery looking over what vegetables they had left.

Hester decided to preempt any denial by assuming guilt, not a practice she normally approved, but this was not normal. Claudine was lost, and they must find her, and ease any damage to any hurt feelings later.

"Good morning, Ruby," she began. "Please forget the carrots and listen to me. Mrs. Burroughs is missing and may be in trouble, or even danger. Her husband does not know where she is. She has not been home for two nights, and she has not been here either. If you know something, you must tell me, immediately."

"She were 'ere night afore last," Ruby said intently, dropping a bunch of carrots on to the bench.

"No one saw her here. Are you sure you have the correct night?" Hester asked her.

"Yes, Miss. She came in tired and pretty rough. Din't want no one ter see 'er. Slept in the fever room. Went out early. I saw 'er."

"Did you, indeed? Where did she go?"

Ruby looked straight at her. "I can't tell you, Miss. I gave 'er me word." Her eyes were shining, and her face was a little flushed.

Hester was assailed by a terrible thought. It was adventure in Ruby's eyes. Claudine had gone to do something Ruby held in supremely high regard, something wonderful. She found herself almost choking on her own breath. "Ruby, you have to tell me. She may be in terrible danger! Jericho Phillips tortures people and murders them!" She saw Ruby's face go white. "Tell me!" She lifted her hands as if to take Ruby by the shoulders and shake her, and only just restrained herself in time.

"I promised!" Ruby said in a whisper. "I gave 'er me word!"

"You are released from it," Hester said urgently. "Honorably released. Where did she go?"

"Ter find out where they sell 'em pictures wot Phillips takes," she answered huskily.

"What?" Hester was appalled. "How? Where did she go to? You can't just walk into a shop and ask if they sell pornography! Has she lost her wits?"

Ruby sighed impatiently. "'Course not. She went dressed like a match seller, all scuffed up an' dirty, like. She dressed proper, old boots an' all. I got 'er an old skirt and shawl from one o' the women wot comes in 'ere, an' greased 'er 'air an' blackened 'er face, an' 'er teeth. Yer'd never 'ave known 'er from the real, I promise yer."

Hester let her breath out slowly, her mind filled with horror. "Oh, God help us!" she said. There was no point in blaming Ruby. "Thank you for telling me the truth. Count the rest of the carrots."

"She goin' ter be all right, Miss 'Ester?" Ruby asked nervously.

Hester looked at her. Her face was twisted with fear, her eyes dark.

"Yes, of course," Hester said quickly. "We'll just have to go and find her, that's all." She turned again and left, going rapidly back to her office, her heels clicking on the wooden floor with a sharp, hasty sound.

She was almost at the end of explaining to Squeaky what she had learned when Margaret Rathbone came in. It was obvious from her expression that she had overheard a good deal of the conversation.

"Good morning, Margaret," Hester said with surprise. "I didn't know you were there."

"So I gathered," Margaret replied coolly. She was wearing a flattering green muslin dress and looked as if she had come to do no more than deliver messages. Her clothing contrasted strongly with Hester's blouse and blue-gray skirt, which was obviously made for working in. Margaret came further into the room, nodding to Squeaky but not speaking to him. "Were you going to tell me that Claudine is missing?"

Squeaky looked at her, then turned back to Hester, eyes wide.

Hester was caught off guard. "I hadn't thought about you at all," she replied honestly. "I was wondering what best to do to find Claudine. Have you some suggestion?"

"My suggestion would have been not to take Claudine into your confidence about your obsession with Jericho Phillips," she replied. "She admires you so much she would do anything to earn your friendship. She is a Society lady, bred to be charming, entertaining, obedient, and a good wife and hostess. She has no idea about your world of poverty and crime, except the bits she overhears from the street women who come here. She didn't come to the trial, she was too busy keeping the clinic working, and she certainly wouldn't read about it in the newspapers. Decent women don't read such things, and most street women can't read anyway. She is naive about your world, and if you'd taken any proper responsibility you would know that."

Hester could think of no defense for herself. To argue whether the streets were "her world" was to evade the point. Claudine was naive, and Hester knew it, or she would have, had she bothered to take any thought. She was just as guilty as Margaret had accused her of being.

"Let us hope to hear that it does not end in tragedy," Margaret added.

There was a movement at the door and they all swiveled round to see Rathbone come in. Presumably he had accompanied Margaret. Perhaps they had come from some function together, or were intending to leave for one.

He looked at each of them in turn, his face grave. His eyes rested on Hester for a moment, then he spoke to Squeaky. "Mr. Robinson, would you be good enough to leave us for a few moments? Thank you." The last was an acknowledgment as Squeaky glanced at Hester, and at her nod went out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Hester waited for Rathbone to endorse Margaret's accusation. Instead, he turned to Margaret. "Your criticism is unhelpful, Margaret," he said quietly. "And I think it is also unfair. Mrs. Burroughs took whatever action she did from her own belief, and from her desire to help. If it turns out to have been foolish, that is tragic. All we can usefully do now is set out to look for her in the hope that she may be rescued from whatever discomfort or distress she is in. Of course Hester is determined to do whatever is possible within the law to stop Jericho Phillips. It is her fault that he is free from the noose for having killed the boy Figgis. I understand her compulsion to put right that error. We would all do better if we acknowledged our mistakes, instead of making excuses for them, and did everything within our power to put them right. Occasionally we need help in that, which Claudine Burroughs realized. The fact that her assistance may be of more harm than use is regrettable, but it is not stupid, nor is it evil."

The color drained from Margaret's face, and she stared at him in astonishment.

His expression did not alter. "It takes courage," he went on. "I think those who have never made any grand mistakes do not realize how much that costs. It is to be admired, not criticized."

Margaret slowly turned from him towards Hester. Her eyes filled with tears. She swung around and walked out, her head high, her back stiff. She did not speak to either of them.

Rathbone did not go after her. "I know that, because I have made a few myself," he said with a slightly twisted smile, his voice gentler than before. "Phillips was one of them, and I don't know how to put it right."

Hester blinked, confused, her mind racing. What he had said was true, but she was astounded that he had expressed it aloud.

She looked at his face, remembering all the battles they had fought together in the past, before ever knowing Margaret. It had been more than friendship; there had been understanding, loyalty, and a belief and a cause shared. It was a bond too deep to break easily. He had made a mistake over Phillips; the thing that mattered was that he had owned up to it. Forgiveness was instant and complete.

She smiled at him, and saw the answering warmth in his face, and a flare of intense gratitude, bright and sweet.

"We must find Claudine," she said aloud. "Before we think of anything else. Squeaky should be the best person for that."

Rathbone cleared his throat. "Can I help?"

She looked away. "Not yet, but if you can, I'll ask you."

"Hester..."

"I will! I promise." Before he could say anything more, and she was suddenly afraid of what that might be, she brushed past him and went to look for Squeaky.