Execution Dock

chapter Twelve
When Squeaky Robinson left Hester's office he went straight to his own office, intending to wait for her. The discussion between her and Rathbone sounded as if it might become personal, and rather heated. Squeaky had not thought about it much before, but it seemed to him now as if there was a bit more to that friendship than he had supposed. He hoped Hester was not going to get hurt by it. She had already been hurt more than enough by her meddling in the Jericho Phillips affair. Women would be a lot better off, and a lot less trouble, if they had smaller hearts, and bigger brains.

And that certainly went for Claudine Burroughs too. Stupid mare! Now he would have to go and look for her, wherever she had gotten to. And the sooner that was done the better. Dress up as a match seller! Hadn't the wits she was born with! No wonder her husband was as cross as a wet hen. Not that Squeaky knew anything about hens, wet or dry. It was just something he'd heard someone say, and it seemed to fit the kind of pointless and ineffectual temper he imagined of Wallace Burroughs.

It was up to Squeaky to do something sensible. He would do it right now, before Hester could come and tell him differently. He wrote a short note to her and left it on the very top of the ledgers on his desk. "Dear Miss Hester, I know where Mrs. Burroughs might be. Gone to look for her. S. Robinson."

He went to his bedroom and changed into some far scruffier and more disrespectable clothes than the ones he had taken to wearing in his office recently, and set out from the back door. He picked up a cab in Farringdon Road and asked to be taken to Execution Dock. That was as good a place to start as he could think of.

On the way he tried to let his mind follow what Claudine would have thought. According to what Hester had from Ruby, Claudine was going to look for shops that sold pornographic photographs of little boys. He let out a howl of anguish at the idiocy of such a thing, but fortunately the driver did not hear him, or took no notice. A man could die in here, and no one would care, he thought aggrievedly And yet if the driver had stopped and come to inquire if he was all right, he would have been even angrier.

On arriving he alighted, paid the cabby the fare, and gave him a tuppence tip, then started walking along the dockside to the nearest alley leading inland. The alleys were narrow, stifling in the heat as the sun rose towards midday. He had not been here in some time, and he had forgotten how disgusting they smelled.

He knew where the brothels were, and the shops that sold pornography of all sorts. He began asking, casually at first. He wanted to know if anyone had seen a match seller answering Claudine's description. It was tedious. Many people were disinclined to reply with any degree of honesty.

He had been working at it for two or three hours before he was mimicked, very disrespectfully, by a couple of urchins, and he realized with a shiver of horror how polite he had become. It was appalling. He had changed beyond all recognition from the man he used to be. He sounded like some daft old stranger.

He lunged after one of the boys and caught him by the scruff of the neck. He lifted him right off the ground, feet dangling, and held him in the air.

"Treat yer elders wi' respect, yer piece o' vermin," he hissed at the child. "Or I'll teach yer the 'ard way, an' yer'll wish yer 'adn't been born. Now I'll ask yer nice, one more time, because I don' like twistin' children's 'eads off. Makes me tired, most especial it does on a summer day. Where did the match woman go as was 'ere two days ago? Tell me no lies, 'cause if yer do, I'll come lookin' fer yer, in the middle o' the night, when no one'll see wot I do ter yer. Got it?"

The boy squealed, his eyes bulging with the savagery of the grip around his collar.

Squeaky dropped him on the ground, and he howled.

"Answer me, or yer'll be sorry," Squeaky whispered, bending down till his face was close to the boy's. "She's a friend o' mine, an' I don't want nothin' bad to 'appen to 'er, got it?"

The boy whispered out a reply. Squeaky thanked him and walked away, leaving him to scramble to his feet and make for the nearest alley.

Squeaky set out in the direction suggested, feeling guilty and a little self-conscious. What on earth was happening to him? He used to behave like that all the time. He had not actually hurt the child at all. In the past he might well have cuffed him round the ear until his head had buzzed. Was this what working for Hester Monk had done for him, made him soft? He would not be able to go back to the streets even if he wanted to. He was ruined!

That wasn't the worst of it. He loped along the narrow footpath at alarming speed, always deeper into the warren of alleys, dead ends, and tunnels bending back on themselves towards the river again. But worse than actually becoming respectable was the secret knowledge he would admit to no one: he rather liked it.

He asked more people: peddlers, shopkeepers, pawnbrokers, beggars. Some he threatened, some he bribed-which was really very painful indeed, because it was his own money.

He traced her as far as the tobacconist and bookseller, where she had apparently collapsed and knocked into a man buying postcards, sending them all on to the floor. What on earth was the stupid woman playing at? But through his anger, which was really fear, he knew exactly what she was doing.

With a little more threat, bribing, and invention he heard about her sudden hysterical flight, but no one knew where she had gone after two or three twists. Mad woman, they said. Who could explain anything she did? Drunk, most like. He wanted to knock them over for that. Claudine would never be drunk! Might be happier if she were, now and then.

It was getting dark, and the clammy air of the day was cooling off Where the devil in hell was the woman? Anything could have happened to her in these miserable alleys. At the very least she would be frightened, possibly worse than that. Another night was coming on. He began to lose his temper with people more genuinely. Perhaps the old Squeaky wasn't so completely lost, just a little submerged under layers of newfound habits in politeness. That thought did not make him as happy as he had expected it to.

It took him another hour of questions, tracking down strangers, and several false hopes and misidentifications before finally, close to eleven o'clock, he found her sitting in a heap on the steps of a tenement off the Shadwell High Street. What on earth was she doing here? She looked utterly wretched. Had he not been looking for her specifically he would never have recognized her.

He stopped squarely in front of her, blocking her chance to get up and run away. He saw the fear in her face, but she was too tired to move, and she simply stared at him, defeated, not even knowing who he was.

The words of anger died on his lips. He was horrified at himself at how relieved he was to see her-if not well, at least alive and uninjured. He swallowed and drew in his breath.

"Well," he said to her. Then he lost his temper. "Wot the bleedin' 'ell are yer doin' 'ere, yer daft cow?" he shouted. "Scared the bleedin' daylights out of us, yer did! 'Ere!" He thrust out his hand to help her up. "Well, come on then! Wot's the matter with yer? Broken yer bleedin' legs?" He waved his hand, almost jabbing it at her. Now he was afraid that she really was hurt in some way. What on earth was he going to do if she was? He couldn't carry her; she was a substantial woman, built the way women were supposed to be.

Very cautiously she grasped his hand. He heaved to pull her up, overcome with relief when she stood. He was about to shout at her again when he saw the tears in her eyes, and the gratitude.

He sniffed and turned away, to avoid embarrassing her. "Well, come on then," he said gruffly. "We better be gettin' 'ome. If we're lucky we might find some sort of a cab in the ' Igh Street. Can yer walk in them great ugly boots?"

"Of course I can," she said stiffly, and promptly stumbled. He had to catch hold of her and support her weight to stop her from falling. He made no remark about it, and tried hard to think of some other subject to talk about.

"Why din't yer go 'ome then?" he demanded.

"Because I was lost," she replied, not looking at him.

They walked in silence for another fifty yards.

"Find any pictures?" he asked. He was not sure if that was a good thing to say or not, but perhaps it was worse to take her failure for granted.

"Yes, I did," she said immediately. She named the shop and the exact address. "I have no idea which boys they were." She shuddered violently. "But it was the sort of thing that Phillips does, I imagine. I would prefer not to know any more about it."

"Really?" Squeaky was surprised. He had not expected her to succeed at all. That must have been when she knocked the cards out of the man's hand. "So you din't really faint then?"

She stopped abruptly. "How do you know about that?"

"Well, 'ow d'yer think I found yer?" he demanded. "I been askin'! D'yer think I just 'appened ter be wanderin' along 'ere, fer summink ter do, then?"

She started to walk again, hobbling a bit because her feet were so sore. She said nothing for quite a long time. Eventually all the words she could find were "Thank you. I am grateful to you."

He shrugged. "It's nothin'," he replied. He did not mean that it was of no importance to him, he meant that she did not owe him any debt. He wondered if she understood that, but it was far too awkward to explain, and he did not know where it might lead.

"Mr. Robinson," she said about a hundred yards later. They were in the Shadwell High Street, but there were no cabs in sight, only the usual traffic of carts and drays.

He looked at her to indicate his attention.

"I saw some customers go in and out of that shop," she said a little hesitantly. "I recognized one of them," she went on. "That was why I ran away."

"Oh yeah? 'Oo was it?" He was not sure if it would matter, and who could possibly recognize her, looking like this?

"Mr. Arthur Ballinger," she replied.

He stopped abruptly, catching her arm and swinging her to a halt as well. "Wot? Ballinger, as Lady Rathbone were?" he said incredulously.

"Yes." Her eyes did not waver. "He is her father."

"Buyin' pictures o' little boys?" His disbelief sent his voice up almost an octave.

"Don't look at me like that, Mr. Robinson," she said sharply, her voice catching in her throat. "I am acquainted with Mr. Ballinger. I ran because he looked at me very closely indeed, and I was afraid that he had also recognized me."

"Where d'yer know 'im from?" he asked, still dubious.

She shut her eyes, as if her patience were exhausted. Her voice was flat and tight when she answered. "It is part of my duty, and I suppose my privilege, as Mr. Burroughs's wife, to attend a great many social functions. I met him at several of those, along with Mrs. Ballinger, of course. Much of this time the ladies are separate from the gentlemen, but at dinner we will all sit where we are directed, according to rank, and I have had occasion to sit opposite Mr. Ballinger, and listen to him speak."

It was an unknown world to him. "Listen ter 'im speak?" he asked.

"It is not appropriate for ladies to speak too much at table," she explained. "They should listen, respond appropriately, and ask after interests, welfare, and so on. If a gentleman wishes to talk, and usually they do, you listen as if fascinated, and never ask questions to which you suspect he does not know the answer. He will almost certainly not listen to you, but he will certainly look at you closely, if you are young and pretty."

He caught a sadness in her voice, possibly even a shadow of real pain, and felt an upsurge of anger that startled him.

"Ask opinions or advice," she continued, lost in memory. "That is flattering. But it is unbecoming to offer either. One is not supposed to have them. But I am quite sure it was Ballinger. I have listened to him on several occasions. One has to listen, or one cannot ask appropriate questions. Sometimes it is even moderately interesting." She stopped suddenly.

For a moment he was not sure if it was because she was still remembering something of the past that alarmed her, or if it was simply that her feet pained her too much to continue. Then he realized that they had reached an intersection of two fairly busy streets, and she was hoping at last to find a cab.

When he had hailed one and they were at last sitting side by side, necessarily rather close together, she spoke again.

"If Mr. Ballinger is involved in this business," she said, looking towards him in the dark, her voice anxious, "it is going to be... very distressing."

That was an understatement, he thought. It would be monumental. Lady Rathbone's father!

"It may even reflect upon Sir Oliver," she added. "Since he was the one to defend Phillips. There will be many people who will not accept that he had no idea of the connection. He may be accused of participating in the profit, being... tainted by it. Mrs. Monk will be very unhappy."

He said nothing. He was thinking of just how awful it would be. The few moments of conflict in Hester's office would be a summer's day compared with what might be to come.

"So I would be very grateful, Mr. Robinson, if you would say nothing about my seeing Mr. Ballinger, at least not yet. Please?"

It would be the honorable thing to do, the right thing. "No," he agreed without hesitation. "No, I won't tell 'er. Yer say when yer ready."

"Thank you."

They rode in silence for quite a while. He was not sure, but he thought she might even have gone to sleep. Poor creature, she must be so tired she would have slept on her feet, now that she knew she was safe. Guaranteed she was hungry too, and would like a clean, hot cup of tea more than anything in the world, except maybe a bath. Funny how women liked a bath.

When they arrived at Portpool Lane it was after midnight but Hester was still there. She had fallen asleep in one of the chairs in the big entrance hall where they first saw people as they arrived. She was curled up with her feet half underneath her, her boots on the floor. She woke as soon as she heard their footsteps, jerking her head up, blinking. She recognized Squeaky before she realized that it was Claudine with him. She scrambled to her feet and ran across to throw her arms around Claudine, then with flushed face and eyes shining with relief, she thanked Squeaky profoundly.

"That's all right," he said a bit self-consciously. "Weren't nothin'. She were lost, that's all." He made a casual gesture as if to dismiss it.

Hester decided to allow it to pass. Just at the moment she was dizzy with relief that Claudine was safe. She realized only now how deeply afraid she had been that some harm had come to her. If she had gone around asking about Phillips, he was quite capable of killing her, and they would probably never even know. She would appear to be just one more beggar woman dead of cold or hunger, or some unspecified disease. Even a knife attack or a strangling would not occasion a great deal of remark.

She thanked Squeaky again, told Ruby that Claudine was safe, and decided to allow Wallace Burroughs the privilege of having a good night's sleep, or not. She would send him a letter in the morning, unless Claudine wished to go home and tell him herself. If she did not, then that was up to her.

Another message she would definitely send would be to Rathbone, to tell him that Claudine was safe. It would be polite to address it to Margaret as well.

Over breakfast in the large kitchen she asked Squeaky what Claudine had discovered, if anything, but he told her he had no idea. He looked slightly surprised when he said it, and it was several moments before she realized that it was not Claudine's lack of discovery that startled him, but his own reply to Hester. That must be because it was a lie, to defend Claudine.

She looked at him more closely, and he returned her look with a straight, slightly belligerent gaze. She found herself smiling. Squeaky was definitely defending Claudine.

When she had eaten her toast and drunk her own tea, she made more, set it on a tray, and took it up to the bedroom Claudine was using. She found her just beginning to wake up, ravenously hungry and longing for a cup of tea.

Hester sat on the bed while Claudine ate and drank. She addressed the subject.

"What did you discover?" she asked.

Claudine stared at her over the top of her cup.

"I asked Squeaky, but he won't tell me," Hester explained. "He said he doesn't know, but he's lying. So that makes me think it's important."

Claudine finished her tea slowly, giving herself time to think. Finally she put the cup down on the bedside table and took a deep breath. "I found a shop selling pornographic photographs of young boys. I saw a couple. They were terrible. I don't want to talk about them. I wish I didn't have them in my mind. I didn't realize how hard it is to get something out of your memory once you've seen it. It's like a stain no amount of soap or water can remove."

"It dulls with time," Hester said gently. "As you get more and more things in there, there's less room for the horrors. Push it out every time it comes back, and eventually the details will fade."

"Have you seen them?"

"Not those. But I've seen other things, on the battlefield, and heard them. Sometimes when we have someone in here with a knife wound, the smell of blood brings it all back."

Claudine's face was gentle, full of pity.

"Why wouldn't Squeaky tell me that?" Hester asked her. "That doesn't make sense."

"That wasn't what he wouldn't tell you," Claudine replied. "It was who I saw on the pavement just outside the shop, with cards in his hand. He bought some matches from me and stared at me very closely. I was scared he'd recognized me."

Hester frowned, her imagination struggling. "Who did you see?"

Claudine bit her lip. "Mr. Ballinger, Lady Rathbone's father."

Hester was stunned. It seemed preposterous. And yet if it was true, it explained Rathbone's predicament exactly. "Are you certain?" she said aloud.

"Yes. I've met him several times, at dinners and balls. My husband is acquainted with him. He stood no more than two feet from me."

Hester nodded. It was hideous. How on earth could Margaret bear that, if she believed it? If it became known? Had Rathbone had any idea? How would he see it: disgust, pity, loyalty, protection for Margaret and her mother? She could not believe that he knew already. And yet he would have to one day. Perhaps he could in some way prepare?

"Your husband was worried about you," she said to Claudine. "Would you like me to send a letter? I could say you were kept in some kind of emergency, but we had better offer the same explanation."

A shadow crossed Claudine's face. "I don't think he is going to forgive me, whatever it is," she replied. "I am not quite sure what I am going to do. I shall have to give it a great deal of thought. If... if he puts me out, may I live here?" She looked frightened, and embarrassed.

"Of course," Hester said instantly. "If you wish to, for whatever reason." She nearly added that Rathbone would give her legal help, then she thought that was a little premature. Surely Wallace Burroughs would calm himself and behave a little more reasonably. Although his behaving reasonably was a very long way indeed from giving Claudine any kind of happiness. "I shall write to him that you were helping someone in an accident." There was a note of gentleness in her voice. "He will never know differently," she went on. "You had better say the same. You know enough details to give them to him if he should ask you."

"He won't. He is never interested in such things," Claudine told her. "But thank you."

Hester very briefly told Squeaky that she was going to the Wapping police station to find Monk, then she left immediately, dreading the chance of running into Margaret on the way out.

She caught a cab on Farringdon Road, and half an hour later was in Wapping. She had a further hour to wait before Monk returned from the water, but she was prepared to wait far longer, had it been necessary.

He closed the door of his office and stood waiting for her to speak.

Briefly, leaving out everything that was irrelevant to the issue, she told him of Claudine's adventure, and that she was certain beyond any doubt that it had been Arthur Ballinger she had seen.

"She must be wrong," he said. "She was tired, frightened, upset after seeing the cards..."

"No she wasn't, William," Hester said levelly "She knows Ballinger."

"How would she know him? He's not her solicitor, surely?"

"No. They move in the same circles in Society," she explained. "Claudine may scrub kitchens and cook for the sick in Portpool Lane, but in her own home she's a lady. She probably knows most people in Society, more or less. Now she is terrified because he looked so closely at her she was afraid he had recognized her too."

He did not fight any longer; the grief in his eyes showed his acceptance.

"We have to be prepared," she continued more gently. "I don't imagine Oliver knows, but perhaps he does. It may even be the reason he took Phillips's case in the first place. But I'll wager Margaret doesn't. Or her mother." She winced. "I can't imagine what that will be like for them, if they are forced to know."

Monk breathed out slowly. "God! What a mess!"

There was a sharp rap on the door and before Monk could answer, it opened and Orme stood there, ashen-faced, eyes hollow. Hester saw him before Monk did.

"What is it?" she demanded, fear gripping her like a tightening noose.

Monk swung around to Orme.

Orme handed him a sheet of paper, folded over once.

Monk took it and read, his hand shaking, the color draining from his cheeks.

"What is it?" Hester demanded more urgently, her voice high-pitched, her heart pounding.

"Jericho Phillips has Scuff," Monk replied. "He says that if we don't stop pursuing him, all of us, the River Police, then he will use Scuff in his trade. And when he's finished with him, he'll either sell him on to someone, or if he's a nuisance and causes trouble, then he'll kill him."

"Then we will stop." Hester nearly choked on the words, but she could not even imagine letting Scuff endure that. The possibility did not exist to consider.

"That's not all," Monk went on, his voice shaking now. "I must publicly condemn Durban and say everything bad about him that I can, including his early involvement with the men who robbed the bank. Then I must retract all the charges I've made against Phillips, and say that they were motivated by my desire to vindicate Durban 's name, and pay my debt to him. His price is Scuffs life. If I don't, his death will be slow, and very unpleasant."

She stared at him for interminable seconds, unable to grasp what he had said, then slowly it became clear, indelible, impossible to bear. "We must do it." She felt as if she were a betrayer even as the words were on her lips, and yet any other answer was unthinkable. What happiness or honor could there ever be again if they let Phillips keep Scuff, and one day torture him to death? The power of terror and extortion was sickeningly clear, and without escape.

She saw something else in Monk's face, intelligence, understanding, and deeper horror.

"What is it?" she demanded, leaning forward as if to grasp him, and at the last moment stopping. "What do you know?"

"I was thinking that I should go to Rathbone and tell him about Ballinger," he replied, almost in a whisper. "He needs to know, for his own sake, hideous as it will be for him. And he might be able to help; I don't know how."

"Poor Oliver," she said quietly. "But I would tell everybody any truth, if I had to, to get Scuff back."

"Claudine thought Ballinger might have recognized her," Monk said quietly, his voice rasping. "It seems he did, and told Phillips. That's why Phillips has taken Scuff now. They know the net is tightening." His face was very pale, eyes hollow. "We have to get Scuff back, or get some hostage of our own that will force Phillips to let him go. I'll go to Rathbone..."

"I'm coming too," she said instantly.

"No. I won't shut you out, I promise..."

"I'm coming! If you go after Scuff, and anyone is hurt, I can do more for them than any of the rest of you." For the first time her glance took in Orme, pleading. "You know that!"

Monk turned back and faced her. "Yes, I do know it. I also know that you would not forgive me if anything went wrong and you might have prevented it, and I couldn't live with that. I give you my word that I will not go without you. Or Orme, if you'll come?" he added, looking at the other man.

"I'll come," Orme said simply. "I'll get a boat ready, and some pistols."

Monk nodded his thanks, and touched Hester's hand in passing. It was just a momentary warmth, skin to skin, and then it was gone.

Monk went straight to Rathbone's office and asked to see Oliver.

His clerk, Dobie, was apologetic. "I'm sorry, Mr. Monk, but Sir Oliver is with a client at the moment. I expect him to be free in half an hour, if it is urgent," he said courteously.

"It is extremely urgent," Monk replied. "Unless his client is coming up for trial tomorrow, it cannot wait. Jericho Phillips has kidnapped another child. Please interrupt Sir Oliver and tell him so. Tell him it is Scuff."

"Oh, dear," Dobie said with extreme distaste. "Did you say Scuff, sir?"

"Yes."

"Very well, sir. Would you please wait here?" He did not bother to ask Monk to be seated. He could see very well that he was too distressed to sit down.

Monk paced back and forth. The seconds seemed drawn out, even the minutest sound ringing in his ears.

Finally Dobie returned, solemn-faced. "Sir Oliver will see you immediately," he said. "I shall ask all other clients to wait, until you inform me otherwise."

"Thank you." Monk strode past him and opened Rathbone's office door.

Rathbone turned, face pale, eyes wide. "Are you sure?" He did not elaborate; there was no need.

"Yes," Monk replied, closing the door behind him. "He sent a message to say that if I didn't stop pursuing him, and blacken Durban 's name in public, he'd use Scuff in his trade, and then kill him." It was difficult to even say the words, as if they gave it a more intense reality. "I'm going to get him back, and I need your help."

Rathbone started to say that it was not a legal matter, then realized that of course Monk knew that. He had not yet come to the worst.

Monk told him quickly, sparing nothing. "Claudine Burroughs dressed as a match woman and went to try to find where they were selling Phillips's photographs. She succeeded in finding at least one shop. The photographs were appalling, but what matters is that she recognized one of the purchasers, because she knew him socially. She is afraid that he also recognized her, and that is why Phillips has attacked."

Rathbone frowned. "I don't follow your logic. Why would Phillips do that? He won't care about individual customers, even if Mrs. Burroughs was right."

Monk hesitated for the first time. He loathed doing this. "It was Arthur Ballinger," he said quietly. "I think he warned Phillips that we are closing in on him, and this is Phillips's retaliation. I'm sorry."

Rathbone stared at him, the blood draining from his face. He looked as if he had been struck such a blow as to rob him momentarily of thought, or the power to respond.

Monk wanted to apologize again, but he knew it was futile.

"It is the only thing that has changed," he said aloud. "Before that, Phillips was winning, and he knew it. He had no need to do anything but wait us out. Now we have seen Ballinger, and that must matter to him."

Rathbone moved to the chair and sat down slowly. "I'll do what I can." His voice was hoarse.

"I'll do what I can to help you rescue Scuff," he said, his voice strained. He stood up and swayed very slightly. "Sullivan is the weak link. He will know where Phillips's boat is, and I can force him to take us. He'll know the times and places because he goes there. I don't think we have time to waste." He moved to the door.

Monk followed him. He wanted to ask about Ballinger's involvement, but the wound was too raw, and too deep to probe yet. He could barely imagine how it must hurt Rathbone, not for Ballinger, but for Margaret. He thought of Hester, whose father had taken his own life after a financial scandal that had ruined him. He had believed it to be the only decent way out, and he had had no fault but faith in a man who was beneath honor of any kind.

They took a cab and rode in silence to Sullivan's chambers. The hot air was sharp with the smells of horse dung, the leather inside the cab, and stale sweat.

Monk's imagination was crowded with fear for Scuff. How had he managed to get caught? How terrified he must have been when he recognized Phillips, knowing what lay ahead of him. Was he already burned, bleeding? Where would Phillips begin, slowly, delicately, or straight into the maximum pain? The sweat broke out and ran cold on his own skin as he tried to force the images out of his mind.

They reached Sullivan's chambers still without speaking again. It was understood that Rathbone would address the subject for both of them.

As expected, they were told to wait, and possibly Lord Justice Sullivan would see them. Rathbone replied that it was a police emergency, concerning a matter of the utmost personal importance to Sullivan, and that the man would rue the day he did so if he attempted to block their way.

Within half an hour they stood in Sullivan's rooms, facing a man who was both angry and frightened. His big body was clenched and shivering, sweat shining on his skin in the heat as the sun shone in through the long windows.

"What is it you want?" He ignored Monk and looked only at Rathbone, as if expecting the details from him.

He was not disappointed. Rathbone came immediately to the point.

"We wish you to take us to Jericho Phillips's boat tonight, secretly. If you do not, innocent people will die, so there is no bargain to be made, no equivocation or denial possible."

"I have no idea where his boat is!" Sullivan protested, even before Rathbone had finished speaking. "If the police wish to board it, that is up to them. I am sure they have informants whom they can ask."

"There are all sorts of people we could speak to," Rathbone replied icily. "With all sorts of information to give or to trade. I am sure you already understand that, in all its shades of meaning. We must do it tonight, and without Phillips receiving any warning so he could move the child he has kidnapped."

"I can't!" Sullivan protested, his hands white-knuckled, the sweat running down his face.

"For a man who thrives on the thrill of danger, you seem to singularly lack courage," Rathbone said with disgust. "You told me you loved the danger of risking being caught. Well, you are about to have the greatest excitement of your life."

Monk stepped forward, not out of pity for Sullivan-who appeared to be about to choke-but because he was afraid they would lose his usefulness if he had a stroke. "You can leave once we are there," he said raspingly "If we find the boy alive. If not, believe me, I will expose you to the whole of London -more important, to the judiciary who presently admire you so much. You may well have friends there, but they will not be able to help you, and unless they are suicidal, they will not try to. Ballinger will not get Sir Oliver to help you, and I will not make the mistakes I made with Phillips."

"Monk!" Rathbone said urgently, his voice sharp, like a lash.

Monk swung around and stared at him, ready to accuse him of cowardice, or even complicity.

"He is no use to us a gibbering wreck," Rathbone said gently. "Don't frighten him witless." He looked at Sullivan. "Nevertheless, what Monk says is true. Are you with us? You wanted danger-this should be full of it. Weigh the risks. Phillips might get you, and he might not. We certainly will, no shadow of a doubt. I personally will ruin you, I swear it."

Sullivan was almost beyond speech. He nodded and mumbled something, but the words were unintelligible.

Monk wondered if the excitement for which he had risked so much had only ever been an idea to him, and being caught, exposed, and torn apart never a reality. There must be a streak of sadism in him as well. There had never been chance, or excitement, or a hope of escape for the boys. Disgust welling up inside him, cold and sour, he turned away. "Rathbone will tell you what to do," he said. "Perhaps he'd better bring you."

"Of course I'll bring him," Rathbone retorted with a sting in his voice. "Do you think I'm not coming?"

Monk was startled. He swung back, eyes wide, warmth inside him again.

Rathbone saw it. He smiled very slightly, but his eyes were bright and clear. "You'll need all the help you can get," he pointed out. "And possibly a witness whose word may stand up in court." His mouth twisted with irony. "I hope. Apart from that, do you think I could miss it?"

"Good," Monk responded. "Then we will meet at the Wapping Stairs at dusk. Hester will join us."

Rathbone was stunned for a moment, then denial swept in. "You can't possibly let her come!" he protested. "Apart from the danger, it'll be something no woman should see! Haven't you listened to your own evidence, man? We're not going to find just poverty, or even fear or pain. It'll be..." he stumbled to a halt.

"I gave her my word," Monk told him. "It's Scuff." He found it hard to say. "And apart from that, she is the only one with any real medical ability, if someone is hurt."

"But it will be men at their most..." Rathbone started again.

"Raw?" Monk suggested. "Naked?"

"No woman should..." Rathbone tried again.

"Do you think you'll manage?" Monk said with an edge of pain in his voice that surprised him.

Rathbone's eyes widened.

"Have you ever seen a battlefield?" Monk asked him. "I have, once. I've never known such horror in my life, but Hester knew what to do. Forget your preconceptions, Rathbone; this will be reality."

Rathbone closed his eyes and nodded, speechless.

Monk waited on the dockside just beyond Wapping Stairs at dusk, Hester beside him. She was dressed in trousers that Orme had borrowed from the locker of a young River policeman. It would be dangerously impractical for her to go on an expedition like this either hampered by a skirt or recognizably vulnerable as a woman.

Darkness was shrouding the water, and the farther side was visible only by the lights along the bank. Warehouses and cranes stood up hard and black against the southern sky and after the warmth of the day, a few threads of mist dragged faint veils across the water, catching the last of the light.

There was a bump of wood against stone as Orme drew up with one of the police boats. The second boat loomed out of the shadows with Sutton already in it, Snoot crouched beside him on the rear seat.

Footsteps sounded along the quay. Rathbone crossed the shaft of light from the police station lamp, Sullivan reluctantly behind him, his shoulders high and tight, his eyes sunken like holes in his skull.

No one spoke more than a word, a gesture of recognition. Sutton nodded at Rathbone, possibly remembering many of their narrow escapes.

Rathbone nodded back, a bleak smile brief in his face before turning to the business of climbing down the wet, slimy steps into the two boats. They had four River Police to row, and, as soon as they were seated, they slid out into the still water, which was slack at the turn of the tide. They moved out noiselessly except for the bump of metal against wood as the oars rattled in their locks.

No one spoke. Everything had already been said, all the plans argued over and decided. Sullivan knew the price of refusal, and worse, of betrayal. Even so, Hester sat beside Monk in the stern of the second boat and watched the judge with coldness creeping up inside her, cramping her stomach and tightening her chest until she found it hard to breathe. There was a desperation in him that she could smell in the air, sharp and sour, above the detritus drifting on the oily water. He was cornered, and she was waiting for him to attack. Something, long ago, had separated him from the compassion he should have had, and left him erratic and ultimately unreachable.

At another time she could have pitied him as a man incomplete. Now all she could think of was Scuff alone and terrified, intelligent enough to know exactly what Phillips would do to him. He would know that Monk would try everything he knew or could invent to rescue him; he also knew that they had all failed before. Phillips had beaten them, and mocked them, and escaped to continue unhampered. He had won every time. All the love in the world did not blind Scuff to the reality that they could fail again. He was a child with hope, optimism, and a lifetime's knowledge of failure behind him. The difference between surviving and not was wafer-thin.

She did not even think what Scuffs death would do to Monk. She could feel his weight beside her. He was too muffled by his clothes to warm her, but the feeling was there in her memory and imagination. The darkness inside was colder and denser than anything on the water around her. They could not afford mistakes of judgment, hesitation, even mercy.

They made good speed in the strange stillness of the turn of the tide. In only a few minutes the tide would begin to run again, gathering speed upriver, rising, slapping against the steps, lifting the ships at anchor, pulling everything upstream, carrying in the hungry sea, bringing back the rubbish and the flotsam of life, and death, and trade.

They were almost at Sufferance Wharf on the south bank. The low line of a moored boat was just discernible, perhaps twenty yards from the stone embankment. It was riding at anchor, only its lanterns visible at bow and stern. All was silent except for a footfall now and then on the deck. A faint scuffle as someone briefly opened a hatch and the inside light and noise escaped: voices, a stifled laugh, and then gone again. It was in one of those movements that Hester saw the motionless figures of watchmen on deck, prepared to repel boarders. They might have guns, but it was far more likely to be knives, or sharpened grappling hooks. A quick stab, a lunge, and there would be another corpse carried up with the returning tide.

She knew Monk and Orme were armed. She could not imagine that Rathbone was, since he usually forswore using weapons; but then she had discovered that she did not know him nearly as well as she had supposed.

They were almost to the boat. Monk stood up and hailed them. She saw with slight surprise how easily he balanced now, in spite of the slight rocking as he moved his weight. He had learned quickly.

The watchman answered. He demanded to know who Monk was, but his voice was quiet, controlled. He was only twenty feet away.

"Got a gentleman to see you," Monk said. "Gave him a lift."

The boat rocked a little. The seconds ticked by.

Hester's breath choked in her throat. What could they do if Sullivan's courage failed him and he would not board? What if his terror of Jericho Phillips was greater than his terror of Monk, or even of Society's ruin of him?

"Get up!" Rathbone whispered to him harshly. "Or I will let Monk give you to the brothel owners you've put away in the past. That death will be very slow, and very intimate, I promise you."

Hester gasped. She saw Monk stiffen.

Sullivan staggered to his feet and swayed as his clumsiness rocked the boat and nearly plunged him over the side. Monk caught hold of him just in time.

Sullivan spoke his name, and repeated the password that identified him.

The watchman relaxed. He turned and spoke to his companion, who had come to reinforce him, just in case Monk should try to board as well. He offered his hand to Sullivan. The boat pulled close enough for Sullivan to scramble up and heave himself on to the deck just as Hester saw the shadow move behind him. A moment later first one watchman fell, and then the other. Orme, Sutton, and more River Police crowded over the deck.

Sullivan stood frozen.

Monk, Rathbone, and Sutton clambered over the gunwale. Hester picked Snoot up and passed him into Sutton's hands, then gripped Monk's outstretched arm. The next moment she was on the deck herself, leaving only one man to keep the boat.

Silently they moved over to the hatch. She saw the faint gleam of light on the barrel of a gun in Orme's hand, and realized from the way Monk held his right arm that he had one also. This could end in blood and death.

Orme bent and opened the hatch. Light flooded up, and the noise of jerky, nervous laughter with a slight edge of hysteria sharp and veering out of control, prickly with excitement. There was an odor of whisky, cigar smoke, and sweat. Hester gulped. Fear shot through her, like pain, not for herself but for Monk as he went inside and down.

He was followed immediately by Orme, then Sullivan, Rathbone, and two of the police. Two more remained on deck to impersonate the unconscious men who were now bound and gagged. Hester followed through the hatch and into a surprisingly clean and comfortable cabin. It was small, only a couple of yards across, clearly an anteroom to the main saloon, and whatever rooms were beyond that for more private entertainment. She was familiar with the geographic layout of brothels, although few were as extensive as the property at Portpool Lane.

The salon was filled with half a dozen guests, well-dressed men of varying ages. At a glance they had little in common but a fever in the eyes and a sheen of sweat on the skin. Jericho Phillips stood at the far end, next to a small rise in the floor, like a stage, on which were two boys, both naked, One was about six or seven years old, bending over on his hands and knees like an animal; the other was older, just entering puberty. The act they were performing was obvious, as was the coercion of a lit cigar smoldering in Phillips's hand, and unhealed burn marks on the older boy's back and thighs.

"Come ter join us at last, 'ave yer, Mr. Monk?" Phillips asked with a curl of his lip that showed his teeth. "Knew yer would, one day. Must say though, I thought it'd take yer longer." His eyes flickered to Sullivan, and then to Rathbone, and he wet his lips with his tongue. His voice was brittle and half an octave too high.

Fear was acrid in the air, like stale sweat. Some men shifted from one foot to the other, tense, on the edge of some kind of violence. They were robbed of the release for which they had come, uncertain what was happening, or who the enemy was, like animals on the edge of a stampede.

Hester was rigid, heart pounding. Did Monk know how close they were to mindless violence? This was nothing like the army in the moments before battle: tight with discipline, ready to charge into what could be death, or worse-hideous mutilation. This was guilty and tainted men afraid of exposure and its shame. This was animals unexpectedly and at the last moment robbed of their prey, the feeding of their primal hungers.

She glanced at the other police, at Phillips's guards in the room, then caught Rathbone's eye. She saw the desperate revulsion in him and something more: a deep and tearing pain. Beside him Sullivan was shaking, his eyes darting one way, then the other. His hands clenched, then unclenched as if his fingers sought something to grip.

It was Sutton who sensed the danger. "Get on with it!" he hissed at Monk.

"I don't want to join you exactly," Monk answered Phillips. "I'd like some of your guests to join us, just to clear the way a bit."

Phillips shook his head slowly, the smile still fixed on his lips, his eyes dead as stone. "I don't think any of 'em would care to go with yer. An' as yer can see, they're gentlemen as yer can't push around like they was nob'dy." He was motionless, not moving his hands, or his gaze from Monk's face, but several of the men seemed to be waiting for some signal from him. Did his men have knives? Easier to use in this enclosed space, less likely to injure your own.

"Yer already made a fool o' yerself once," Phillips continued. "Yer can't do that again an' 'ope ter keep yer job, Mr. Monk. Not as I minds if yer don't! Ye're too stupid ter be a real bother ter me, but I wouldn't care if yer went. 'Oo'ever comes after yer won't be no better neither, just like Durban wasn't." His voice was softer, and still he did not move his hands. "The river'll go on, an' men wi' 'ungers they can't feed wi'out me, or someone like me. We're like the tide, Mr. Monk; only a fool stands in our way. Get yerself drownded." He relished the word on his tongue. The tension was slipping out of him now. The years of self-discipline were winning. He was in control again; the moment of fear had passed.

Monk had to balance Phillips's likely impulses either to panic and bolt for freedom, or to marshal his returning confidence and attack the police. Neither would help find Scuff. The one advantage he had was that Phillips did not want violence either; it would be bad for business. His clients wanted imaginary danger, not the reality. They sought sexual release, bloodshed, but not their own.

He made his decision. "Jericho Phillips, I am arresting you for the murder of the boy known as Scuff." He held the gun so that it was clearly visible now, pointed at Phillips's chest. "And Mr. Orme is going to arrest Sir John Wilberforce there." He named the only other guest whose face he recognized.

Wilberforce burst into protest, his cheeks scarlet, streaming with sweat. Orme, his back to the bulkhead, raised his gun. The light gleamed on the barrel, and Wilberforce abruptly fell silent.

It was Phillips who spoke, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Makin' a fool o' yerself again, Mr. Monk. I dunno where your boy is, an' I dint kill no one. We been through all o' that, as 'is Lordship Sullivan'll 'ere tell yer, an' Sir Oliver an' all. Yer jus' don't learn, do yer!" He turned to Wilberforce, the sneer broadening on his face, his contempt naked. "No need to get inter a sweat, sir. 'E can't do nothin' to yer. Think o' 'oo you are, an' 'oo 'e is, an' get an 'old o' yerself. Yer got all the cards, if yer play 'em right."

There was a snigger of laughter from one of the other men. They began to relax. They were the hunters again, no longer the victims.

Orme had taken off his jacket and given it to the older boy to cover his nakedness and his humiliation. Sutton did the same for the younger one.

The movement caught Hester's eye and suddenly she realized that they were all frozen here, arguing, and any torture could be happening to Scuff. There was no purpose in pleading with Phillips to tell them where he was. She slipped between two of the customers and touched Orme. "We have to look for Scuff," she whispered. "There may be other guards, so keep your gun ready."

"Right, ma'am." He yielded immediately. He nodded to Sutton, who was almost beside him, Snoot now on the floor at his heels. The three of them inched towards the doorway as the quarrel between Monk and Phillips grew uglier. Monk's men were posturing themselves to take over with violence, moving to get the physical advantage, disarm those most likely to have weapons, or to be able to seize one of the children to use as a hostage. Wilberforce was drawn in. Sullivan swayed from one side to the other, his face dark, congested with a desperate hatred like a trapped creature between its tormentors.

Monk would strike soon, and then the fighting would be swift and hard.

Hester was afraid for him, and for Rathbone as well. She had seen a horror in his eyes far beyond the cruelty or coarseness of the scene. He was struggling with some decision of his own that she did not yet recognize. She imagined that it could be a kind of guilt. Now at last he was seeing the reality of what he had defended, not the theory, the high words of the law. Perhaps some time she would even apologize to him for the harsher things she had said. This was not his world; he might really not have understood.

Now all that mattered was to find Scuff. She dared not let her mind even touch on the chance that he was not here, but held captive locked in some room on shore, or even dead already. That would be almost like being dead herself.

She followed Sutton through the doorway and found herself instantly in a passage so narrow the slightest loss of balance bumped her shoulders into the wooden walls. Sutton had already turned left towards the bow of the boat. Snoot was almost under his feet, but as always not making the slightest sound except for the faint scrape of his claws on the damp wood of the floor. The smell of bilges and the mustiness of wet rot were stronger as they went forward. Sutton turned abruptly left again and scrambled down a steep flight of steps. He reached for the dog, but Snoot slithered down, fell the last short way, and was on his feet again in an instant.

Here the ceiling was low, and Hester had to bend to avoid cracking her skull on the crossbeams. Sutton half-crouched as well. The smell was stronger here, and the dog's hackles were raised, his small body shivering and bristling in awareness of something deeply wrong.

Hester could feel her breath tight in her chest and the sweat running down her back inside her clothes.

There was a row of doors.

Sutton tried the first one. It was locked. He lifted his leg and kicked it hard with the flat of his foot. It cracked but did not give. Snoot was growling high and softly in the back of his throat. His sensitive nose picked up the odor of fear.

Sutton kicked again, and this time it gave way. It crashed open to reveal a small room, little more than a cupboard, in which cowered three small boys dressed in rags, their eyes wide with terror. They were comparatively clean, but the arms and legs poking out of their clothes were thin and as pale as splintered matchwood.

Hester almost choked with hope, and then despair.

"We'll come back for you," Sutton told them.

Hester was not sure whether that was a promise or a threat to them. Perhaps their choice lay between Phillips and starvation. But she must find Scuff; everything else would have to wait.

Sutton forced open another door to a room with more boys. He found a third, and then a fourth that was right at the very stern, empty. Scuff was nowhere.

Hester could feel her throat tighten and the tears sting her eyes. She was furious with herself. There was no time for this. He had to be somewhere. She must think! What would Phillips do? He was clever and cunning, and he knew Monk, as it was his business to know his enemies. He found, stole, or created the right weapon against each of them.

Snoot was quivering. He darted forward and started to run round in tight little circles, nose to the floor.

"C'mon, boy," Sutton said gently. "Don't matter about rats now. Leave 'em alone."

Snoot ignored him, scratching at the floor near the joints in the boards.

"Don't matter about rats," Sutton repeated, his voice tight with grief.

Snoot started to dig, scraping his claws along the joints.

"Snoot!" Sutton reached for the dog's collar.

There was a faint scratching sound beneath.

Snoot barked.

Sutton grasped his collar but the dog was excited, and he squirmed out of Sutton's grasp, yelping.

Sutton bent forward and Hester was right behind him. Looking more closely at the floor, she saw that the lines of the boards were not quite even.

"It's a trapdoor!" she said, hardly daring to believe it.

"To the bilges. Mind your hands, there'll be rats. Always is," Sutton warned her, his voice breaking with tension. He reached for the knife at his belt, flicked open the blade, and used it as a handle to ease the trap open and pull it up.

Below them Scuffs ashen face looked up, eyes wide with terror, skin bruised and smeared with blood and filth.

Hester forgot all the decorum she had promised herself and reached down to pull him up and hold him so tightly in her arms she might easily have hurt him. She pressed her face into his neck, ignoring the stench of rot on his skin and hair and clothes, thinking only that she had him at last, and he was alive.

He clung to her, shuddering uncontrollably, sobs racking his thin chest.

It was Sutton's voice that brought her back to the present, and the danger she had momentarily forgotten.

"There's rats down 'ere all right," he said quietly. "It's straight to the bilges, an' there's been another boy down 'ere, poor little thing, but there in't much left of 'im now, just bones an' a bit o' flesh. Don't look, Miss 'Ester. Take the boy out of 'ere. Enough to drive 'im out of 'is 'ead, stuffed in 'ere with rats and the 'alf-rotted corpse of another child. I'll tell you this, if Mr. Monk don't get that son of the devil 'anged this time, I'll do it with me own 'ands..." His voice trailed off, suffocated by emotion.

Reluctantly Hester let go of Scuff, but he couldn't let go of her. He whispered softly, just a little cry, and fastened on to her more tightly. She would have had to break his fingers to loosen his hold. She staggered to the door, arms around him, keeping her head low beneath the boarded ceiling, and met Orme at the top of the steps, his face shining with relief.

"I'll tell Mr. Monk," he said simply, swiveling to go back up again. "I'll... I'll tell 'im." He stood still for a moment, as if imprinting the scene on his eyes, then grinning even more widely he swung around and made his way rapidly back to the main saloon.

Hester lost count of how long she sat on the floor cradling Scuff in her arms before Monk came down, just to look at the boy for himself. The other boys explained that the corpse below the trapdoor was that of Reilly, the other missing boy who had tried to rebel. He had been almost old enough to sell to one of the ships leaving London, but he had tried to rescue some of the younger boys and had been locked in the bilges for his rebellion, as an example. He could be identified by the small charm around what was left of his neck.

"We can hang Phillips for that," Rathbone said hoarsely, his eyes dark with horror and that terrible grief she had seen in him before.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Really sure, Oliver? Please don't promise something you only believe. I don't want comforting. I need the truth."

"It's the truth," he replied.

At last she let go of Scuff and reached out to touch Rathbone's arm, very gently. Even though her hand was cold and filthy, warmth shot between them like the force of life, and passion, and gentleness.

"Then what is the truth?" she asked.

He did not evade her. "You asked me before who it was that paid me to defend Phillips," he replied. "I thought I could not tell you, but now I know it was also he who set Phillips up in business in the beginning, knowing the weakness of men like Sullivan, and feeding it until it became consuming."

She waited, understanding something of his horror, imagining his guilt.

"Yes, I know." His voice was so low she could barely hear it.

Margaret's father! No, she was wrong, she had barely touched the magnitude of the horror he felt. This drowned anything else she had conceived of. It touched the very core of his own life. She struggled for words, but what could she say? She tightened her hand on his and lifted it very slowly to her cheek, then let it go. She rose and carried Scuff past him up into the light of the passage outside the saloon, leaving Rathbone by himself.

The big room was nearly empty. Monk was standing in the center with Orme. The rest of the police were gone, as were the other clients. Monk looked pale and unhappy. There was a bruise already darkening on his cheek.

"What's happened?" Hester demanded, surprised. But there was no fear in her. She had Scuff by the hand; he was standing up now, but pressed hard against her side.

"Most of them are under arrest," he answered.

She felt a chill. "Most?"

"I'm sorry." His voice was tight with pain, and guilt. "In the dark and the fighting, the men we left upstairs got drawn in. Sullivan betrayed us and got Phillips away. I should have watched him and seen it coming. We'll get him back, and when we do no one will help him escape the rope this time."

She nodded, not wanting to blame him, and too near tears to speak. She felt as if some enormous weight had all but crushed her. The injustice of it was monstrous. They had tried so hard. Even as she fought for breath she knew her disappointment was childish. No one had ever promised justice, not quickly, or that she would see it happen. They had Scuff back, alive. He might have nightmares for years, but they would look after him. She was never going to let him be alone or cold or hungry again.

She shook her head, blinking hard. "In time," she said a little stumblingly "We've got Scuff, and you've proved what Phillips is. No one will doubt you, or Durban, or the River Police now."

He tried to smile, then turned away. No one mentioned Sullivan, or what might happen to him, what he might testify to, beyond tonight. What was there that they could prove against him, if he accused them, as Phillips had suggested?

It was well past midnight now, and all Phillips's men were either under arrest or waiting under guard for more boats to come and collect them. There were boys frightened, humiliated, and in need of care. They were all half-starved; many had bruises on their bodies, and some had bleeding and suppurating burns.

The police were busy with the arrests.

Rathbone questioned the boys gently, drawing out detail after hideous detail. He persisted, writing everything down in a little notebook from his pocket.

Meanwhile, Sutton rummaged for all the food he could find. Most of it was delicacies meant for the jaded palates of gentlemen, not the empty stomachs of children, but he made something better of it than Hester could have.

She did the best she could to treat the boys' hurts with cold water, salt, and good shirts and underwear torn up to make bandages. For once it was a disadvantage not to have been wearing petticoats. As soon as there were boats available she would get them to the clinic in Portpool Lane and do all this better. For now just care and gentleness helped, and the knowledge that they were on the brink of freedom. She did not stop to think how much better it would be if she could tell them that Phillips was on his way to prison, and would soon be dead.

Monk climbed the steps on to the deck as the pale, cold fingers of light crept across the water. The high tide was past and beginning to drop again. The outlines of the warehouses and cranes were sharp black against the sky. Even as he watched, the darkness receded and he saw the stakes of Execution Dock tracking the shining surface of the river. It was not until he looked more closely that he realized there were bodies there, just tipping above the tide.

A string of lighters went by, their passage creating a wash, which uncovered Sullivan's dead body. His throat gaped open where he had slashed it himself in a last act of despair. Possibly it was some kind of reparation, because trapped inside the pirate gallows, eyes wide open, mouth in an eternal shriek as the water he dreaded closed over his living face, was what was left of Jericho Phillips.

There were footsteps on the wood behind him and Monk turned to see Hester. "Don't..." he began, but it was too late.

She looked across the retreating wash, her mouth pulled tight, her eyes filled with great pity "I've seen dead men before," she told him, slipping her hand into his. "I would sooner that God had to deal with that one than we did. We'll just try to heal some of the pain."

He put his arms around her and held her, feeling the strength in her, and the gentleness. It was all he needed to face any battle, now or ever.