Execution Dock

chapter Two
On an evening nearly two weeks after the capture of Jericho Phillips, Sir Oliver Rathbone, arguably the best attorney in London, returned a little early from his offices at the Inns of Court to his elegant and extremely comfortable home. It was the middle of August, and the air was hot and still. It was much pleasanter in his own sitting room, with the French windows open onto the lawn and the perfume of the second flush of roses rather than the odor of the streets, the sweat and dung of horses, the dust and the noise.

Like Monk, Rathbone was in his late forties, but very different in appearance. He was slender, fair-haired, with the air of confidence of one who has long proved his worth. Margaret greeted him with the same pleasure she always had since their marriage not so long ago. She came down the stairs with a swirl of pale green and white muslin, looking impossibly cool in the heat. She kissed him gently, smiling perhaps still a trifle self-consciously. He found a pleasure in it that he thought might be tactless to show.

They talked of many things over dinner: a new art exhibition that was proving more controversial than expected; the queen's absence from the London Season due to the recent death of Prince Albert, and quite how much difference that was going to make in the future; and of course the wretchedly miserable matter of the civil war in America.

The conversation was sufficiently interesting to occupy his mind, and yet also supremely comfortable. He could not remember ever having been happier, and when he retired to read a few necessary papers in his study he found himself smiling for no other reason than his inner peace.

Dusk was already gathering, and the air was mercifully cooler when the butler knocked on the door and told him that his father-in-law had called and wished to see him. Naturally Rathbone accepted immediately, although somewhat surprised that Arthur Ballinger would specifically ask to see him, rather than including his daughter as well.

When Ballinger came in, hard on the servant's heels, Rathbone saw at once that the matter was professional rather than personal. Ballinger was an attorney of high standing and very considerable repute. From time to time they had had dealings, but so far no clients in common, Rathbone's practice being almost entirely in major cases of criminal law.

Ballinger closed the study door behind him to ensure their privacy, then walked over to the chair opposite Rathbone. Barely acknowledging the greeting, he sat down. He was a large, rather heavy man with thick, brown hair that had only touches of gray. His features were powerful. Margaret had gained all the delicacy of her face and bearing from her mother.

"I am in a difficult position, Oliver," he began without preamble. "A long-standing client has asked a favor of me that I am loath to grant, and yet I feel I cannot refuse him. It is a business that frankly I would prefer to have nothing to do with, but I can see no honorable way of escape." He gave a slight shrug, with one shoulder only. "And I suppose, to be honest, no legal way either. One cannot pick and choose in which matters you will act for people, and in which you will not. That would make a mockery of the entire concept of justice, which must be for all, or it is for no one."

Rathbone was startled by such a speech; it suggested a lack of confidence quite uncharacteristic of Ballinger. Something had clearly disturbed him. "Can I be of help, without breaking your client's privilege of discretion?" he asked hopefully. It would please him to assist Margaret's father in a matter that was important to him. It would make Margaret herself happy, and it would draw him closer into the family, which was not a situation he found naturally easy. He had a deep instinct for privacy. Apart from an intense friendship with his own father, he had found few ties in his adult years. In some ways William Monk, of all people, was the truest friend he had. That excluded Hester, of course, but his feeling for her had been different: stronger, more intimate, and in ways more painful, he was not ready to examine it any more closely.

Ballinger relaxed a fraction more, at least outwardly, although he still concealed his hands in his lap, as if they might have given him away.

"It would break no confidences at all," he said quickly. "I am seeking your professional skills to represent a case I fear you will find repellent, and have very little chance of winning. However you will, of course, be properly paid for your time and your skill, which I regard as unique." He was wise enough not to overpraise.

Rathbone was confused. His profession was to represent clients in court; very occasionally he prosecuted for the crown, but not as a habit. Why was Ballinger nervous about this, as undoubtedly he was? Why come to Rathbone at home, and not in his office, as would be far more usual? What was so different about this case? He had defended people accused of murder, arson, blackmail, theft, almost every crime one could think of, even rape.

"What is your client accused of?" he asked. Could it be something as contentious as treason? Against whom? The queen?

Ballinger gave a slight shrug. "Murder. But he is an unpopular man, unsympathetic to a jury. He will not appear well," he hastened to explain. He must have seen the doubt in Rathbone's face. He leaned forward a little. "But that is not the problem, Oliver. I know you have represented all manner of people, on charges that have had no public sympathy at all. Although I deplore everything about this particular case, it is the issue of justice that is paramount in my client's mind."

Rathbone found a wry irony in the remark. Few accused men phrased their attempts to be defended successfully in such general and rather pompous terms.

Ballinger's eyes flickered and something altered in the set of his features.

"I have not explained myself fully," he went on. "My client wishes to pay your fees to defend another person entirely He has no relationship to the man accused, and no personal stake in the outcome, only the matter of justice, impartial, clear of all gain or loss to himself He fears that this man will appear so vile to average jurors that without the best defense in the country, he will be found guilty and hanged on emotion, not on the facts."

"Very altruistic," Rathbone remarked, although there was a sudden lift of excitement inside him, as if he had glimpsed something beautiful, a battle with all the passion and commitment he could give it. But it was only a glimpse, a flash of light gone before he was sure he had seen it at all. "Who is he?" he asked.

Ballinger smiled, a small bleak movement of the mouth. "That I cannot disclose. He wishes to remain anonymous. He has not told me his reasons, but I have to respect his wish." From his expression and the peculiar, hunched angle of his shoulders, it was clear that this was the moment of decision, the trial in which he was afraid he might fail.

Rathbone was taken aback. Why would a man in so noble an endeavor wish to remain anonymous even from his attorney? From the public was easy enough to understand. They might well assume that he had some sympathy for the accused, and it would be only too clear to see why he would avoid that. "If I am bound to secrecy, I shall observe it," Rathbone said gently. "Surely you told him that?"

"Of course I did," Ballinger said quickly "However, he is adamant. I cannot move him on the subject. As far as you are concerned, I shall represent the accused man to you, and act on his behalf. All you need to know is that you will be paid in full, by a man of the utmost honor and probity, and that the money is earned by his own skills, which are in every way above suspicion. I will swear to that." He sat motionless, staring earnestly at Rathbone. In a man of less composure it might even have been thought imploringly.

Rathbone felt uncomfortable that his own father-in-law should have to plead for the professional assistance he had always been willing to give, even to strangers and men he profoundly disliked, because it was his calling. He was an advocate; his job was to speak on behalf of those who were not equipped to speak for themselves, and who would suffer injustice if there were no one to take their part. The system of the law was adversarial. The sides must be equal in skill and in dedication; otherwise the whole issue was a farce.

"Of course I will act for your client," he said earnestly. "Give me the necessary papers and a retaining fee, and then all we say will be privileged."

Ballinger relaxed fully at last. "Your word is good enough, Oliver. I shall have all that you need sent to your office in the morning. I am extremely grateful. I wish I could tell Margaret what an excellent man you are, but no doubt she is already perfectly aware. I am delighted now that she had enough sense not to allow her mother earlier to push her into a marriage of convenience, although I admit I was exasperated at the time." He smiled ruefully. "If you are going to have a strong-minded woman in the house, it is better to have two, preferably of opposing views. Then you can back one or the other, and achieve the goal you wish." He sighed, and there was a momentary sadness in his face, in spite of the relief. "I cannot say how much I appreciate you, Oliver."

Rathbone did not know how to answer; he was even a trifle embarrassed by Ballinger's regard. He directed the conversation towards the practical. "Who am I to defend? You said the charge was murder?"

"Yes. Yes, regrettably so."

"Who is he, and who was the victim?" He knew better than to warn Ballinger not to tell him of any confession, which would jeopardize his standing as an officer of the court.

"Jericho Phillips," Ballinger replied, almost casually.

Rathbone suddenly became aware that Ballinger was watching him intently, but beneath his lashes, as if he could conceal the fact. "The man charged with killing the boy found down the river at Greenwich?" he asked. He had read a little about it, and already he was unaccountably chilled.

"That's right," Ballinger replied. "He denies it. Says the boy ran away, and he has no idea who killed him."

"Then why is he charged? They must have some evidence. River Police, isn't it? Monk is not a fool."

"Of course not," Ballinger said smoothly. "I know he is a friend of yours, or at least he has been in the past. But even good men can make mistakes, especially when they are new to a job, and a little too eager to succeed."

Rathbone felt more stung on Monk's behalf than he would have expected to. "I haven't seen him lately. I have been busy and I imagine so has he, but I still regard him as a friend."

Regret and contrition filled Ballinger's face. "I apologize. I did not mean to imply otherwise. I hope I have not placed you in a position where you will have to question the judgment of a man you like and respect."

"Liking Monk has nothing to do with defending someone he has arrested!" Rathbone said hotly, realizing exactly how much it could, if he allowed it to. "Do you imagine that my acquaintance with the police, the prosecution, or the judge, for that matter, will have any effect on my conduct of a case? Any case?"

"No, my dear chap, of course I don't," Ballinger said with profound feeling. "That is exactly why my client chose you, and why I fully concurred with his judgment. Jericho Phillips will receive the fairest trial possible if you speak for him, and even if he is found guilty and hanged, we will all be easy at heart that justice has been done. We will never need to waken in the night with doubt or guilt that perhaps we hanged him because his style of life, his occupation, or his personal repulsiveness moved us more than honest judgment. If we are fair to the likes of him, then we are fair to all." He rose to his feet and offered his hand. "Thank you, Oliver. Margaret is justly proud of you. I see her happiness in her face, and know that it will always be so."

Rathbone had no choice but to take Ballinger's hand and clasp it, still with a faint trace of self-consciousness because he was not accustomed to such frankness in matters of emotion.

But after Ballinger had gone, he was also pleased. This would be a supreme challenge, and he would not like losing, but it was an honorable thing Ballinger had asked him to do-obliquely, dangerously honorable. And it would be intensely precious to have Margaret truly proud of him.

***

It was several more days before Rathbone actually went to Newgate Prison to meet with Jericho Phillips. By this time he had a much greater knowledge of both the specific crime he was charged with and-far more worrying to him-Phillips's general pattern of life.

Even so, he was still unprepared for the acute distaste he felt when they met. It was in a small, stone room with no furniture other than a table and two chairs. The single window was high in the wall and let in daylight, but there was nothing to see beyond it but the sky. The motionless air inside smelled stale, as if it held a century's sweat of fear that all the carbolic in the world could not wash away.

Phillips himself was little above average height, but the leanness of his body and the angular way he stood made him look taller. He possessed no grace at all, and yet there was a suggestion of power in him in even the simple act of rising to his feet as Rathbone came in and the guard closed the door behind him.

"Mornin', Sir Oliver," Phillips said civilly. His voice was rasping, as if his throat were sore. He made no move to offer his hand, for which Rathbone was grateful.

"Good morning, Mr. Phillips," he replied. "Please sit down. Our time is limited, so let us use it to the full." He was slightly uncomfortable already. He felt an unease almost like a brush of physical fear. And yet Phillips was no threat to him at all. As far as he knew, to Phillips he was the one man on his side.

Phillips obeyed, moving stiffly. It was the only thing that betrayed his fear. His hands were perfectly still, and he did not stammer or shake.

"Yes, sir," he said obediently.

Rathbone looked at him. Phillips had sharp features and the pallid skin of one who lives largely away from the sunlight, but there was nothing soft in him, from his spiky hair to his glittering eyes, his strong hands, and his narrow, bony shoulders. He had the physical build of poverty-thin chest, slightly crooked legs-and yet he had learned not to show the usual limp of deformity.

"Your attorney informs me that you wish to plead 'not guilty,' "Rathbone began. "The evidence against you is good, but not conclusive. Our greatest difficulty will be your reputation. Jurors will weigh the facts, but they will also be moved by emotion, whether they are aware of it or not." He watched Phillips's face to judge whether he understood. He saw the instant flash of intelligence, and something that could almost have been mistaken for humor, were the situation not so desperate.

"'Course they will," Phillips agreed with the faintest smile. "Feeling's where we get 'em, 'cause yer see Mr. Durban weren't anything like the good man they think 'e were. 'E 'ated me for a long time, an' 'e made it 'is life's work ter see me 'ang, whether I done anything for it or not. An' Mr. Monk took over from 'im just like 'e stepped into a dead man's shoes, an' 'is coat and trousers as well. Careless, they were, both of 'em. An' from wot Mr. Ballinger says, yer clever enough an' straight enough ter show it, if it's true, whether they were yer friends or not."

Rathbone became uncomfortably aware that just as he was studying Phillips, so Phillips in turn was studying him equally as closely, and probably with just as acute a judgment. He did everything he could to keep all expression from his face.

"I see. I shall look at the evidence in that light, not only for its validity, but as to how it was obtained. If there were errors it may work to our advantage."

Phillips shivered involuntarily, struggled to conceal it, and failed.

The room was chilly because the damp never seemed to entirely leave it, in spite of the August heat outside.

"Are you cold, Mr. Phillips?" Rathbone forced himself to remember that this man was his client, and innocent of the crime he was charged with until such time as he was proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

Something flared in Phillips's eyes: memory, fear. "No," he lied. Then he changed his mind. "It's just this room." His voice changed and became hoarser. "It's wet. In my cell I can hear... dripping." His body went rigid. "I hate dripping."

And yet the man chose to live on the river. He must never be away from the slap of the waves and the shifting of the tide. It was only in here, where the walls sweated and dripped, that he could not control his hatred of it. Rathbone found himself looking at Phillips with a new interest, something almost like respect. Was it possible that he deliberately forced himself to face his phobia, live with it, test himself against it every day? That would be a strength few men possessed, and a discipline most would very definitely avoid. Perhaps he had assumed a great deal about Jericho Phillips that he should not have.

"I will look into your accommodation closely," he promised. "Now let us put our attention to what we have so far."

Two weeks later, when the morning of the trial came, Rathbone was as ready as it was possible to be. The excitement of the eve of battle fluttered inside him, tightening his muscles, making his stomach knot, burning within him like a fire. He was afraid of failure, full of doubts as to whether the wild plan he had in mind could work-and even in darker moments, whether it ought to. And yet the hunger to try was compulsive, consuming. It would be a landmark in history if he succeeded in gaining an acquittal for a man like Phillips, because the procedure was flawed, well-motivated but essentially dishonest, drawn by emotion, not fact. That path, no matter how understandable in the individual instance, would in the end only lead to injustice, and therefore sooner or later to the hanging of an innocent man, which was the ultimate failure of the law.

He looked at himself in the mirror and saw his reflection with its long nose, sensitive mouth, and, as always, humor in the dark eyes. He stepped back and adjusted his wig and gown until they were perfect. There were approximately fifteen minutes to go.

He still wished that he knew who was paying his very considerable fee, but Ballinger had steadily refused to tell him. It was quite true that Rathbone did not need to know. Ballinger's assurance that the man was reputable, and that the money was obtained honestly, was sufficient to put all suspicion to rest. It was curiosity that drove Rathbone, and possibly a desire to know if there were facts to do with someone else's guilt that were being held from him. It was that second possibility that above all compelled him to give Phillips the finest defense he could.

There was a discreet knock on the door. It was the usher to tell him that it was time.

The trial began with all the ceremony the Old Bailey commanded. Lord Justice Sullivan was presiding, a man in his late fifties with a handsome nose and very slightly receding chin. His shock of dark hair was hidden beneath his heavy, full-bottomed wig, but his bristling brows accentuated the somewhat tense expression of his face. He conducted the opening procedures with dispatch. A jury was sworn, the charges were read, and Richard Tremayne, Q.C., began the case for Her Majesty against Jericho Phillips.

Tremayne was a little older than Rathbone, a man with a curious face, full of humor and imagination. He would have appeared much more at home in a poet's loose-sleeved shirt and extravagant cravat. Rathbone in fact had seen him wear exactly that, one evening at a party in his large house whose lawn backed on to the Thames. They had been playing croquet, and losing an inordinate number of balls. The late sun was setting, falling in reds and peaches on the water, bees were buzzing lazily in the lilies, and nobody knew or cared who won.

And yet despite this lack of competition, Rathbone knew that Tremayne both loved and understood the law. Rathbone was not sure at all whether he was a fortunate choice, or an unfortunate one as his opponent.

The first witness he called was Walters of the Thames River Police, a solid man with a mild manner and buttons that had such a high polish they shone in the light. He climbed the steep, curving steps to the witness box and was sworn in.

In the dock, higher up opposite the judge's bench, and sideways to the jury, Jericho Phillips sat between two blank-faced guards. He looked very sober, almost as if he might be frightened. Was that to impress the jury, or did he really believe Rathbone would fail? Rathbone hoped it was the latter, because then Phillips would maintain his appearance without the chance of it slipping and betraying him.

Rathbone listened to see what the river policeman would say. It would be foolish for him to question any of the facts; that was not the tactic he proposed to use. Now all he needed to do was take note.

Tremayne was intelligent, charming, born to privilege, and perhaps a little lazy. He was due for an unpleasant surprise.

"The message came to us at the Wapping Station," Walters was saying. "Lightermen'd found a body, an' they reckoned as we should go and look at it."

"Is that usual, Mr. Walters?" Tremayne asked. "I presume there are tragically many bodies found in the river."

"Yes, sir, there are. But this one weren't an accident. Poor beggar'd 'ad 'is throat cut from ear to ear," Walters replied grimly. He did not look up at Phillips, but it was obvious from the rigidity of his shoulders and the way he stared fixedly at Tremayne that he had been told not to.

Tremayne was very careful. "Could that have happened accidentally?" he asked.

Walters's impatience sounded in his voice. "'Ardly, sir. Apart from 'is throat cut, an' 'e were only a boy, there were burn marks on 'is arms, like from cigars. They called us because they thought 'e'd been murdered."

"How do you know that, Mr. Walters?"

Rathbone smiled to himself. Tremayne was nervous, even though he believed his case to be unassailable, or he would not be so pedantic. He was expecting Rathbone to attack at every opportunity. It would be pointless to object to this as hearsay. It would make Rathbone look desperate, because the answer was obvious.

Lord Justice Sullivan's lips curved in a very slight smile also. It seemed he read both of them and understood. For the first time since they began, there was a flash of interest in his eyes. He sensed a duel of equals, not the execution he had expected.

"I know it 'cause they said so when they asked us to come," Walters replied stolidly.

"Thank you. Who is the 'us' you refer to? I mean, who from the River Police did go?"

"Mr. Durban an' me, sir."

"Mr. Durban being your commanding officer, the head of the River Police at Wapping?"

"Yes, sir."

Rathbone considered asking why Durban was not testifying, although of course he knew, but most of the jury would not.

Lord Justice Sullivan beat him to it. He leaned forward, his expression mild and curious. "Mr. Tremayne, are we to hear from this Commander Durban?"

"No, my lord," Tremayne said grimly. "I regret to say that Mr. Durban died at the very end of last year, giving his life to save others. That is the reason we have called Mr. Walters."

"I see. Please proceed," Sullivan directed.

"Thank you, my lord. Mr. Walters, will you please tell the court where you went in answer to the summons, and what you found there?"

"Yes, sir." Walters squared his shoulders. "We went down the Limehouse Reach, about level with Cuckold's Point, an' there was a lighterman, a ferryman, and a couple o' barges all anchored an' waiting. One o' the barges'd caught up the body of a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. The lighterman'd seen it and raised the cry. O' course you can't stop a barge, still less a string of 'em, all of a sudden, like. So they'd gone a good 'undred yards or so before they threw out an anchor an' got to look at what they 'ad." His voice sank even lower, and he was unable to keep the emotion out of it. "Poor kid was in an 'ell of a mess. Throat cut right across, from one ear to the other, an' been dragged an' bashed around so it were a wonder 'is 'ead 'adn't come off altogether. 'E were caught in some ropes, otherwise, of course, he'd 'ave gone out with the tide, an' we'd never 'ave found him before the sea an' the fish 'ad 'im down to bone."

On his high seat Sullivan winced and closed his eyes. Rathbone wondered if any of the jurors had seen that small gesture of revulsion or noticed that Sullivan was more than usually pale.

"Yes, I see." Tremayne gave the tragedy of it full importance by waiting to make sure the court had time to dwell on it also. "What did you do as a result of this discovery?"

"We asked 'em to tell us exactly what 'appened, where they were when they reckoned the barge'd run onto the body, 'ow far they'd dragged it without realizing..."

Sullivan frowned, looking sharply at Tremayne.

Tremayne saw it. "Mr. Walters, if they did not know the body was there, how could they have estimated how far they had dragged it?"

Rathbone hid a smile not because he was unamused by the irony of the arguments, and Tremayne's exactness, but because if he were seen to display any lack of horror or pity now it would work against him later.

"Because o' the last time someone would 'ave 'ad to 'ave seen it if it were there, sir," Walters said grimly "If someone passed astern o' you, they'd 'ave seen."

Tremayne nodded. "Precisely so. And how far had that been?"

"Around Horseferry Stairs. Passed a ferry going in, pretty close. Must 'ave run afoul o' the poor little begger some time after that."

"Did you know who he was, this dead child?"

Walters winced, his face suddenly transformed by anger and pity. "No, sir, not then. There's thousands o' children on the river, one way or the other."

"Did you work on the case after that, Mr. Walters?"

"No, sir. It was mostly Mr. Durban hisself, and Mr. Orme."

"Thank you. Please remain there, in case my learned friend, Sir Oliver, wishes to ask you anything." Tremayne walked back across the open space of the floor and gestured an invitation to Rathbone.

Rathbone rose to his feet, thanked him, and walked calmly into the center of the court. Then he looked up at the witness stand to where Walters was waiting, his face heavy and apprehensive.

"Good morning, Mr. Walters," he began. "I shall not detain you long. May I compliment you on the marvelous work the River Police do for us. I believe that in the nearly three quarters of a century that you have existed you have reduced crime on the river by a staggering amount. In fact, you solve more than ninety percent of the crimes you address, do you not?"

Walters straightened himself. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"You are rightly proud. It is a great service to Her Majesty, and to the people of London. Am I correct in thinking that the murder of this boy stirred a deep anger in you?"

"Yes, sir, you are. 'E'd not only been murdered. From the burns on 'is arms and body, 'e'd been tortured as well." Walters's face was ashen, his voice hoarse as though his throat were dry.

"It is very terrible," Rathbone agreed. This was proceeding exactly as he had intended. Walters was a deeply sympathetic witness. "Was Mr. Durban similarly affected?" he went on. "Or perhaps I should more correctly ask you, what was Mr. Durban's manner, his reaction, when he saw the boy's corpse with his throat slashed open so his head hung half off, and the marks of deliberate torture on his flesh?"

Walters winced at the brutal words. He closed his eyes as if taking himself back to that fearful scene. "'E wept, sir," he said quietly. "'E swore that 'e'd find 'oo done it, an' see 'im 'ang till 'is own 'ead were near off 'is body too. 'E'd never, ever do that to another child."

"I imagine we can all understand how he felt." Rathbone spoke quietly, yet his voice had a timbre that carried to every seat in the silent court. He knew Lord Justice Sullivan was staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. He was probably wondering whether to remind Rathbone which side he was on. "And Commander Durban pursued it himself," he continued. "With the assistance of Mr. Orme, you said? Mr. Orme, I believe, was his immediate right-hand man."

"Yes, sir. He's still second in command, sir," Walters agreed.

"Just so. These events you describe happened some year and a half ago. And we are only just come to trial. Did Mr. Durban abandon the case?"

Walters's face flushed with indignation. "No, sir! Mr. Durban worked on it day and night, until 'e 'ad to give over to other things, an' then 'e followed it on 'is own time. 'E never, ever gave up on it."

Rathbone lowered his voice, while making sure that every word still carried to the jury and to the benches where the public sat awed and silent.

"Are you saying that he felt so passionately that he devoted his off-duty time to it, until the tragedy of his own early death cut short his dedication, to finding the person who had tortured and then killed this boy?"

"Yes, sir, I am. An' then when 'e found the notes Mr. Durban left, Mr. Monk took up after 'im," Walters said defiantly.

"Thank you." Rathbone held up his hand to stop any more revelations. "We will get to Mr. Monk in due time. He can testify himself, should that prove necessary. You have made it all very clear, Mr. Walters. That is all I have to ask you."

Tremayne shook his head, his face a little tight, concealing a certain unease.

The judge thanked Walters and excused him.

Tremayne called his next witness: the police surgeon who had examined the body of the boy. He was a thin, tired man with receding sandy hair and a surprisingly good voice, in spite of having to stop and sneeze, then blow his nose from time to time. He was obviously practiced at such court appearances. He had every answer on the tip of his tongue, and told them of the state of the boy's body briefly and precisely. Tremayne did not need to prompt him in anything. He used no scientific language to describe the wasted flesh, which was underdeveloped, barely beginning to show signs of puberty. He spoke simply of the flesh scarring that could have been made only by something like the lit end of a cigar. Finally he told them that the throat was cut so violently that the wound reached to the spine, so the whole head was only just attached. In such unaffected words the description seemed immeasurably more appalling. There was no passion or disgust in his language; it was all in his eyes, and in the rigid angles of his body as he gripped the rail of the witness stand.

Rathbone found it hard to speak to him. Legal tactics melted away. He was face-to-face with the reality of the crime, as if the surgeon had brought the smell of the mortuary with him, the blood and carbolic and running water, but nothing washed away the memory.

Rathbone stood in the middle of the floor with every eye in the room on him, and wondered suddenly if he really knew what he was doing. There was nothing this man could add that would help him. Yet to fail to ask him at least one question would make that obvious. He must never let Tremayne see any weakness. Tremayne might look like a dandy, a poet and dreamer caught by chance in the wrong place, but it was an illusion. His mind was keen as a razor, and he would scent weakness as a shark scents blood in the water.

"You were obviously very moved by this particular case, sir," Rathbone said with great gravity. "Perhaps it was one of the most distressing you had seen?"

"It was," the surgeon agreed.

"Did Mr. Durban seem to you similarly distressed by it?"

"Yes, sir. Any civilized man would be." The surgeon looked at him with distaste, as if Rathbone himself were devoid of decency. "Mr. Monk after him was equally upset, if you were going to ask," he added.

"It had occurred to me," Rathbone acknowledged. "As you've implied, it is an appalling piece of savagery, and against a child who had obviously suffered already. Thank you." He turned away.

"Is that all you have to ask me?" the surgeon called after him, his voice harder, challenging.

"Yes, thank you," Rathbone replied with a slight smile. "Unless my learned friend has anything further, you are free to leave."

Tremayne next called Orme. He was a solemn figure, not overtly nervous. He held his hands at his sides, not gripping the rail except when he went up the steps. Then he stood square in the box and faced Tremayne with as little expression on his face as he could manage.

Rathbone knew he would be a difficult man to break, and if he did so and the jury saw it, they would not forgive him. He glanced at them now, for the first time. Immediately he wished he had kept his resolve not to. They were mostly middle-aged men, old enough to have sons the victim's age. They sat stiffly in their sober best suits, white-faced and unhappy. Society had entrusted them not only with weighing the facts, but also with seeing the horror and dealing with it on behalf of everyone. If they sensed that they were being manipulated they would not pardon the man who did it.

"Mr. Orme." Tremayne began his questions, which were likely to go on until the adjournment for lunch, and long into the afternoon, perhaps until evening. "You worked with Mr. Durban during the rest of his life, from the time the boy's body was pulled out of the river until Mr. Durban's own death at the end of last year?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"We have already heard that Mr. Durban took a special interest in this case. As far as you know from your own direct observation, will you describe what was done to solve it, either by him, of which you have the evidence, or by yourself?"

"Yes, sir." Orme stood stiffly. "It was plain from the beginning that the boy was murdered, and that he'd been pretty badly used before that," he said distinctly, his voice carrying throughout the room. No one moved or whispered in the jury box or the gallery "We 'ad to find out who he was, and where he came from. There was nothing on the body that'd give 'is name, but the way 'e'd been treated it seemed likely 'e'd fallen into the 'ands of one o' them who sells children for the use of brothels an' pornographers and the like." He said the words with withering disgust.

"You could tell that from a body?" Tremayne said, affecting some surprise.

All this was exactly what Rathbone had expected, and what he would have done had their roles been reversed-draw it all out in the fashion of a story, and with detail the jury would never forget. The poor devils would probably have nightmares for years to come. They would waken in a sweat with the sound of running water in their ears.

"Yes, sir, pretty likely," Orme replied. "Lots of boys, an' girls too, is 'alf starved. You're poor, you've got no choice. But the burns are different."

"Is it not possible that a poor man, violent, perhaps drunken, in his despair might hurt even his own children?" Tremayne pressed.

"Yes, sir," Orme conceded. "'Course it is. But poor men don't 'ave cigars to do it with. It isn't a bad temper that makes you light a cigar, smoke it till it's hot, then hold the end of it against a child's body till it burns through the skin into the flesh, and then makes scabs that bleed."

Several people in the gallery cried out, stifling the sound instantly, and one of the jurors looked as if he might be sick. His face was sweaty, and had a faintly greenish hue. The man next to him grasped his arm to steady him.

Tremayne waited a moment before going on.

Rathbone understood. He would have done the same.

"Did that prompt any particular course of action from you?" Tremayne asked, retaining his composure as if with difficulty.

"Yes, sir," Orme answered. "We visited the places we knew of where people kept boys o' that age to use. We'd looked at them pretty hard, sir. 'E wasn't a chimney sweep's boy, nor a laborer of any kind. Easy enough to see by 'is 'ands. No dirt from chimneys, no calluses from oakum picking or any other sort of thing like that. But if you'll pardon me, sir, in public like, there were other parts of his body that'd been 'ard used." His face was red, his voice cracking with emotion.

"The surgeon didn't testify to that," Tremayne pointed out reluctantly. His body was oddly stiff as he stood, his usual grace lost.

"We didn't ask 'im, sir. It isn't medical, it's common sense," Orme told him.

"I see. Did that cause you to look anywhere in particular?"

"We tried lots o' places up and down the river. It's our job to know where they are."

"And did you find out where he came from?"

"No, sir, not for sure."

"Only 'sure' will do here, Mr. Orme."

"I know that!" Orme's temper was suddenly close to the surface, the emotion too raw to govern. "We know that Jericho Phillips kept a lot o' boys, especially young ones, small as five or six years old. Took them in from wherever 'e found them, and gave them a bed and food. Lot of them lived on a boat, but we'd never find anything there. He had lookouts, and they always knew who we were."

Rathbone considered objecting that Orme was stating an opinion rather than presenting evidence, but it was hardly worth making a fuss over. He decided against it.

"So you never saw anything amiss on his boat?" Tremayne concluded.

"No, sir."

"Then why did you raise his name at all?" Tremayne asked gently, as if he were puzzled. "What was it that drew him to your attention, other than a growing desperation to find at least a name for this dead boy?"

Orme let out his breath in a sigh. "An informant came to us and said that Jericho Phillips was keeping a kind o' cross between a brothel and a peep show on his boat. He 'ad young boys there and forced them to perform certain... acts..." He stopped, obviously embarrassed. His eyes flickered to the public gallery, aware that there must be women there. Then he looked away again, angry with himself for his weakness.

Tremayne did not help him. It was clear from the expression on his face, the slight downturn of his mouth, that he found the subject repellent, and touched on it only because he owed it to the dead, and to the truth.

"Unnatural acts, with children," Orme said miserably. "Boys. 'E used cameras to make pictures, so 'e could sell them to people. Get more money than just from those who watched." His face was hot, the color reaching all the way up to his hair.

Tremayne was exquisitely careful. "That is what this man told you, Mr. Orme?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see." Tremayne shifted his balance a little. "And did you request that he take you so you might ascertain for yourself if this were true? After all, he could have invented the entire story, couldn't he?"

"Yes, sir, 'e could. But 'e refused to take us, or to testify. 'E said he was being blackmailed, because 'e'd looked at the pictures. It was my opinion that 'e'd probably bought some as well. 'E was scared stiff."

This time Rathbone did rise to his feet and object. "The witness may be of that opinion, my lord, but that is not evidence."

Tremayne inclined his head in acknowledgment, smiling a little, then turned again to Orme. "Did he say so, Mr. Orme?"

"No, sir, he wouldn't even give us 'is name."

Tremayne shrugged in a very slight, elegant gesture of confusion. "Was there any purpose in his coming forward at all, if he was prepared to say so little, and not to swear to any of it?"

"No, sir, not really," Orme admitted. "Maybe it just helped us narrow the search, so to speak. Mr. Durban was rather good at drawing. He made a sketch of the dead boy's face, and then a picture of how he might 'ave looked standing up and dressed. We took it around for a couple of weeks or so, to see if anyone could give 'im a name, or say anything about 'im."

"And could they?"

"Yes, sir. They said 'e used to be a mudlark. A young lad came and told us they picked coal up off the tideline o' the river when they were six or seven years old. He just knew him as Fig, but he was certain it was 'im, because of the funny way his hair grew at the front. Never knew his 'ole name, or where he come from. Maybe he was a foundling, and nobody knew much more. He disappeared a few years ago, but this mudlark wouldn't say exactly where or when. Couldn't remember, and it wasn't any use pushing 'im. We went and found a few more lads, and they confirmed what 'e said. They all knew 'im as 'Fig.'"

Tremayne turned towards Rathbone, but there was no point contesting the identification. Whether it was the same boy or not was immaterial to the charge. He was somebody's child.

Tremayne led Orme in some detail through the process of the various other people who had confirmed that they knew the boy. One had added that his whole name was Walter Figgis. Others, through a laborious process that Rathbone allowed Tremayne to abbreviate, confirmed that there were boats on the river that gave shelter to children. On some of them the boys were appallingly misused. But of course there was no proof. Tremayne, wisely, barely touched on that. The generality was enough to shake the jury, and the audience in court, to a revulsion so deep that many of them were physically trembling. Some looked nauseated to the point that Rathbone was afraid they might not be able to control themselves.

Rathbone himself was aware of a depth of distress he had seldom felt before, only perhaps in cases of the most depraved rape and torture. He looked up at Phillips and saw nothing in him at all resembling human pity or shame. A wave of fury almost drowned him. The sweat broke out on his body, and the wig on his head was like a helmet. The black silk gown suffocated him as he held his arms to his sides. He was imprisoned in it.

Then he was afraid. Was Phillips beyond human emotions, unreachable? And Rathbone had promised to use all his skills to set him free again to go back to the river. He had no escape from doing it; it was his covenantal duty, which he had already accepted, and he had given his word, not only to the court, but also to Arthur Ballinger, and thus obliquely to Margaret. To refuse now would suggest to the jury that he knew something that condemned the accused beyond doubt. He was trapped by the law that he wanted above all to serve.

He had the ugly sense that Phillips knew that just as well as he did himself. Indeed, that was why he showed no fear.

They adjourned for lunch before Tremayne was finished. Orme was one of his major witnesses, and he intended to gain every word of damnation from him that he could.

They resumed after the shortest adjournment possible, and began the afternoon with Tremayne asking Orme about Durban 's death.

"Mr. Durban died last December. Is that correct, Mr. Orme?" Tremayne asked, his manner suitably grave.

"Yes, sir."

"And Mr. Monk succeeded him as commander of the River Police at the main station, which is in Wapping?"

"Yes, sir."

Lord Justice Sullivan was beginning to look a trifle impatient. His frown deepened. "Is there some point to this, Mr. Tremayne? The succession of events seem to be plain enough. Mr. Durban did all he could to solve the case for the police, and did not succeed, so he continued on his own time. Unfortunately, he died, and Mr. Monk took over his position, and presumably his papers, including notes on unsolved cases. Is there more to it than that?"

Tremayne was slightly taken aback. "No, my lord. I believe there is nothing to contest."

"Then I daresay the jury will follow it simply enough. Proceed." There was an edge to Sullivan's voice, and his hands on the great bench in front of him were clenched. He was not enjoying this case. Perhaps to him it was simply a tragedy of the darkest and most squalid sort. Certainly there were no fine points of law, and none of the intellectual rigor Rathbone knew he liked. He wondered quickly whether Tre mayne knew him socially. They lived not far from each other, to the south of the river. Were they friends, enemies, or possibly not even acquaintances? Rathbone knew Tremayne and liked him. Sullivan he had never met outside the courtroom.

Tremayne turned back to Orme in the witness box. "Mr. Orme, was the case officially reopened? New evidence, perhaps?"

"No, sir. Mr. Monk was just looking through the papers to see if there was anything..."

Rathbone rose to his feet.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Sullivan said quickly "Mr. Orme, please restrict yourself to what you know, what you saw, and what you did."

Orme flushed. "Yes, my lord." He looked at Tremayne with reproach. "Mr. Monk told me 'e'd found papers about a case we'd never closed, and 'e showed me Mr. Durban's notes on the Figgis case. He said it would be a good thing if we could close it now. I agreed with him. It always bothered me that we 'adn't finished it."

"Will you please tell the court what you yourself did then? Since you worked on it with Mr. Durban, presumably Mr. Monk was keen to avail himself of your knowledge?"

"Yes, sir, very keen."

Tremayne then took Orme through the trail of evidence. He asked about the lightermen, bargees, lumpers, stevedores, ferrymen, chandlers, landlords, pawnbrokers, tobacconists, and quayside news vendors he and Monk had spoken to in the endless pursuit of the connection between the boy, Fig, and the boat in which Jericho Phillips plied his trade. They were always looking for someone who could and would swear to the use of Phillips's boat, and the fact that Fig was there against his will. It was all circumstantial, little threads, second-and thirdhand links.

Rathbone looked at the jury and saw the confusion in their faces, and eventually the boredom. They could not follow it. The disgust was there, the anger and the helplessness, but the certainty of legal proof still eluded them. They were lost in complexity, and because they were still sickeningly aware of the crime, they were frustrated and becoming angry. The day closed with a feeling of hatred in the room, and the police crowded closely around Phillips as he was taken down the stairs to the prison below the court. The mood was ugly with the weight of old, unresolved pain.

Rathbone began cross-examining Orme the next morning. He knew exactly what he needed to draw from him, but he was also aware that he must be extremely careful not to antagonize the jury, whose sympathies were entirely with the victim, and with the police who had tried so very hard to bring him some kind of justice. He stood in the middle of the courtroom floor in the open space between the gallery and the witness stand, deliberately at ease, as if he were a trifle in awe of the occasion, identifying with Orme, not with the machinery of the law.

"I imagine you deal with many harrowing tragedies, Mr. Orme," he said quietly. He wanted to force the jury to strain to hear him, to make their attention total. The emotion must be grave, subdued, even private with each man, as though he were alone with the horror and the burden of it. Then they would understand Durban, and why Monk, in his turn, had taken the same path. He had not expected to dislike doing this so much. Facing the real man was very different from the intellectual theories of justice, no matter how passionately felt. But there was no way to turn back now without betrayal. When he had to question Hester it would be worse.

"Yes, sir," Orme agreed.

Rathbone nodded.

"But it has not blunted your sensibilities, or made you any less dedicated to finding justice for the victims of unspeakable torture and death."

"No, sir." Orme's face was pale, his hands hidden by his sides, but his shoulders were high and tight.

"Did Mr. Durban feel as deeply?"

"Yes, sir. This case was... was one of the worst. If you'd seen that boy's body, sir, wasted and burned like it was, then 'is throat cut near through, and dumped in the river as if he were an animal, you'd have felt the same."

"I imagine I would," Rathbone said quietly, his head bent a trifle as if he were in the presence of the dead now.

Lord Justice Sullivan leaned forward, his face pinched, his mouth drawn tight. "Is there some purpose to this, Sir Oliver? I trust it has not slipped your mind which party you represent in this case?" There was a note of warning in his voice, and his eyes were suddenly flat and hard.

"No, my lord," Rathbone said respectfully. "I wish to find the truth. It is far too grave and too terrible a matter to settle for anything less, in the interests of humanity."

Sullivan grunted, and for a moment Rathbone was afraid he had taken his play too far. He glanced sideways at the jury and knew he was right. Relief washed over him with physical warmth. Then he remembered Phillips shivering in Newgate and his horror of dripping water, and his satisfaction vanished. He turned again to Orme. "You and Mr. Durban worked all your duty hours, and many beyond?"

"Yes, sir." Orme knew not to answer more than he was asked.

"Was this same passionate dedication also true of Mr. Monk?" He had to ask; it was the plan.

"Yes, sir." There was no hesitation in Orme; if anything, he was more positive.

"I see. It is not surprising, and much to be respected."

Tremayne was fidgeting in his seat, growing restive at what seemed to be a purposeless reaffirmation of what he himself had just established. He suspected Rathbone of something, but he could not deduce what, and it troubled him.

The jury was merely puzzled.

Rathbone knew he must make his point now. One by one he touched on the evidence that first Durban and then Monk had pursued, asking Orme for the facts that specifically connected the abuse of the boys to Phillips's boat. Never once did he suggest that it had not happened, only that the horror of the facts had obscured the lack of defining links to Phillips.

The boat existed. Boys from the age of five or six up to about thirteen unquestionably lived on it. There were floating brothels for the use of men with any kind of taste in sexual pleasures, either to participate, or merely to watch. There were pornographic photographs for sale in the dark alleys and byways of the river. What unquestionable proof had Durban, Monk, or Orme himself found that the boys so abused were the ones to whom Phillips gave a home?

There was none. The horror of the cruelty, the greed, and the obscenity of it, had moved all three men so deeply that they had been too desperate to stop it and punish the perpetrators of it than to make certain of their facts. It was only too easy to understand. Any decent man might fall into the same error. But surely any decent man would also be appalled at the idea of convicting the wrong person of such a heinous crime, deserving of the gallows?

The court adjourned for lunch with quite suddenly a complete and awful confusion, a knowledge that all the certainties had been swept away. Only the horror remained, and a sense of helplessness.

Rathbone had accomplished exactly what he had intended. It was brilliant. Even the subtle and clever Tremayne had not seen the trap before he was in it. He had left pale-faced, angry with himself.

Hester was waiting to testify to her part in the investigation when Tremayne came to her during the lunch adjournment. She was sitting in one of the public houses that provided food, but she was too tense to do more than take an occasional bite of her sandwich, and then found it difficult to swallow.

He sat down opposite her, his face grim, his manner apologetic. He too declined to eat more than a sandwich and drink a glass of white wine.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Monk," he said immediately once they were alone. He spoke quickly, so as not to be overheard by others passing close to them. "It has not gone as well as I had hoped, in fact, rather as I had taken for granted. It is proving harder to make the connections between Phillips and the victims of his depravity than I had expected."

He must have seen the surprise on her face. "Sir Oliver is one of the most brilliant attorneys in England, far too clever to attack us openly," he said. "I knew there was something wrong when he played up the horror of the crime. It should have warned me of what he was doing."

She felt a chill of dismay. "What is he doing?"

Tremayne blushed, and the last shred of irony vanished from his face, replaced by gentleness. "Did you not know he was defending this case, Mrs. Monk?"

"No." Then instantly she saw the understanding in his face and wished she had not admitted it. He must have known or have sensed something of her friendship with Rathbone, and had seen her sense of betrayal.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly "How clumsy of me. He is suggesting that the police were moved as much by pity and outrage as by logic. They proved the crime was committed, but forgot the finer elements of connecting it unarguably with Jericho Phillips."

He took a sip of his wine, his eyes not leaving hers. "He has made it obvious that so far we have provided no motive for him to have tortured and murdered one of his own boys-assuming we can ever prove Figgis was one of his. And he is quite right that we have not so far done that beyond a reasonable doubt."

"Who could doubt it?" she said hotly. "It all fits together and makes the most excellent sense. In fact, it is the only answer that makes sense at all."

"On balance of probability it does," he agreed. He leaned across the table a little. "The law requires that it be beyond all reasonable doubt, if we are to hang a man for it. You know that, Mrs. Monk. You are not a novice at the law."

Now she was shivering, in spite of the heat inside the stuffy room with its gleaming tankards on the bar, its sawdust floor muffling footsteps, and the smells of ale, food, and too many people crushed together.

"You don't mean he's going to get away with it?" she asked huskily. It was a possibility she had not even considered. Phillips was guilty. He was brutal, sadistic, and profoundly corrupt. He had abused numberless children, and murdered at least one. He had nearly murdered a lighterman, simply to divert the river police so he could escape. Monk and Orme had seen him do it.

"No, of course not," Tremayne assured her. "But I will have to describe some very violent and offensive scenes, and ask you to relive on the witness stand things that I am sure you would rather forget. I apologize for it, because I had hoped to spare you."

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Tremayne," she said sharply. "I don't care in the slightest what you question me about, or whom! If it is unpleasant, or discomfiting, what on earth does that matter? We are talking about the misery and death of children. What kind of person is concerned about such trivialities as comfort at such a cost?"

"Some people will allow others to pay almost anything, in order to avoid embarrassment to themselves, Mrs. Monk," he replied.

She did not consider that worthy of an answer.

She took the stand, climbing up the steep, curving steps carefully so as not to trip over her skirt. She faced the court, seeing Tremayne below her in the open space reserved for the lawyers. Lord Justice Sullivan sat in his high, magnificently carved seat to the right. The twelve somber jurymen were opposite in their double row under the windows. The public gallery was behind the lawyers' tables.

She was not afraid to look ahead to where Jericho Phillips sat in the dock, above the whole proceedings. His face was jagged: the high-boned nose, sharp cheekbones, crooked eyebrows, and hair that even water would not make lie straight. She recognized no emotion whatever in his face. Perhaps it was in locked hands or a shivering body behind the high ledge, out of sight.

She did not look to where Rathbone sat quietly, waiting his turn, nor did she try to see if Margaret was in the public gallery behind him. Just at the moment she did not wish to know.

Tremayne began. His voice sounded confident, but she had come to know him well enough over the last few weeks to notice the slightly awkward way he stood and that his hands were restless. He was not as sure of himself as he had been before the trial began.

"Mrs. Monk, is it correct that you have created and now run a clinic situated in the Portpool Lane, for the treatment, at no charge, of street women who are ill or injured, and unable to obtain help any other way?"

"Yes it is."

"Are you financially rewarded for this?"

"No." The answer sounded very bare. She wanted to add something, but could not find the words. She was saved from the attempt by Rathbone rising to his feet.

"If it may please the court, my lord, the defense will stipulate to the fact that Mrs. Monk was an outstanding nurse under Miss Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War, and that on her return to this country she worked in hospitals, courageously and tirelessly, endeavoring to bring about some very necessary reforms."

There was a murmur of admiration from the gallery.

"She then turned her attention to the plight of street women," Rathbone continued. "Reduced to prostitution by abandonment, or whatever other crime. She created, at her own expense, a clinic where they could come for treatment of injury or disease. It is now a recognized establishment drawing voluntary help from Society in general. Indeed, my own wife gives much of her time in its cause, both to raise charitable contributions, and to work there at cooking, cleaning, and tending the sick. I can think of no finer work a woman may perform."

Several of the jurors gasped and their faces brightened into uncertain smiles. Even Sullivan was moved to an expression of admiration. Only Tremayne looked nervous.

"Do you have anything to add, Mr. Tremayne?" Sullivan asked.

Tremayne was off balance. "No, my lord, thank you." A little more tight-lipped, he looked up at Hester and resumed his questioning. "In the nature of this work, Mrs. Monk, have you had occasion to learn a great deal more than most of us could know about the business of those who sell their bodies for the sexual indulgence of others?"

"Yes, one cannot help learning."

"I imagine so. In order to avail himself of such knowledge, did Mr. Monk ask for your assistance in discovering more about how Walter Figgis might have lived, been abused, and then killed?"

"Yes. It was far easier for me to gain the trust of those who deal in such things. I knew people who could help me, and take me to speak to others who might never speak to the police."

"Precisely. Would you please tell the court, step by step, what you found out with reference to Walter Figgis?" Tremayne directed. "I regret the necessity of such distasteful material, but I require you to be specific. Otherwise the jury cannot decide fairly what is true, and what we have suggested but failed to prove. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course I do."

Then gently and very clearly he led her through all the long questioning, collecting, deducing, then more questioning, until they had gathered the evidence creating a portion of Fig's life, his disappearance from the riverbank to Phillips's floating brothel, his years there, and finally his death. Every piece of information was gained from someone she could name, although she chose to give only the nicknames by which they were known on the street, and Rathbone did not object.

"If Fig was working as the evidence says," Tremayne continued, "why on earth would Phillips, or any other brothel keeper, wish to harm his property at all, let alone murder it? What use is Fig to him dead?"

Hester knew her face showed her revulsion, but she could not control it. "Men whose taste is in children have no interest in the same person once they begin to show the signs of coming manhood. It has nothing to do with any kind of affection. They are used to relieve a need, as a public lavatory is used."

There was a ripple of disgust around the room, as if someone had opened a door into a cesspit and the smell had drifted in.

Tremayne's own wry, sensitive face reflected it most of all. "Are you suggesting that such men murder all children as they begin to show signs of growing up?" he asked.

"No," she replied as steadily as she could. Reliving her fury and pity in careful words was making her feel a little queasy. It seemed offensively clinical, although the faces of the jury reflected it as anything but. She drew in her breath. "No, I have been informed that usually they are sold to any merchant captain willing to buy them, and they serve as cabin boys, or whatever is needed." She permitted her expression to convey the darker meaning of the phrase. "They leave port on the next ship out, and are maybe years gone. In fact, they may never come back."

"I see." Tremayne looked pale himself. Perhaps he had sons. "Then why would this not happen to Fig?"

"It might have been intended to," she answered, for the first time moving her glance from Tremayne and looking at Rathbone. She saw misery and revulsion in his face, and wondered what could possibly have happened that had compelled him to defend Jericho Phillips. Surely he could not ever have done it willingly? He was a civilized man, offended by vulgarity, an honorable man. She had once thought him too fastidious in his passions for him to love her with the totality that she needed.

"Mrs. Monk?" Tremayne prompted her.

"He might have rebelled," she completed her thought. "If he caused trouble he would be less easy to sell. He might have been a leader of the younger boys, and been murdered as an example of discipline. No quicker way to suppress a rebellion in the ranks than to execute the leader." She sounded cynical, even to her own ears. Did the crowd, the jury, Rathbone himself, realize that she spoke so to hide a pain of understanding that was unbearable?

Was Rathbone being pressured by someone into doing this? Was it possible that he had not realized how repulsive the reality was? Did he even think how the money was earned that he took in payment? If he had, how could he accept it?

"Thank you, Mrs. Monk," Tremayne said softly, his face bleak and lips tight as if the grief of it were clenched inside him. "You have shown us a very terrible picture, but one that is tragically believable. May I commend you for your courage and pity in the work you do."

There was a murmur of approval. Two of the jurors nodded and one blew his nose fiercely.

"The court is obliged to you, madam," Lord Justice Sullivan said quietly. His face was a mask of disgust, and there was high color in his cheeks, as if the blood burned beneath his skin. "You are excused for today. No doubt tomorrow Sir Oliver Rathbone will wish to question you." He glanced at Rathbone.

"May it please the court, my lord," Rathbone affirmed.

The court was duly adjourned and Hester climbed down from the witness stand, grasping the railing. She felt drained, even a little dizzy. One of the ushers offered her his arm, but she declined it, thanking him.

She was in the hall outside the courtroom when she saw Rathbone coming towards her. She had deliberately chosen that way of leaving in hope of meeting him. She wished to ask him, face-to-face, what had made him take such a case. If he were in some kind of trouble, why had he not asked Monk for help? It could hardly be financial. Destitution could hardly be worse than descending to this.

She moved to the center of the hall so he could not avoid encountering her.

He saw her and faltered in his step, but he did not stop. She did, waiting for him to reach her, his eyes on hers.

He moved steadily forward. He was only a few yards from her, and she was about to speak when another man, older, came out of one of the side rooms. His face was familiar, but she could not immediately place him.

"Oliver!" he called.

Rathbone turned, his relief at escape momentarily undisguised. "Arthur! Good to see you. How are you?"

Of course: Arthur Ballinger, Margaret's father. There was nothing Hester could do now. The conversation she wished for could only be held in absolute private, even from Margaret. In fact, perhaps most of all from Margaret. She did not wish her to ever know how close Hester and Rathbone had once been. What she might guess was one thing; knowledge was another.

She lifted her chin a little higher, and kept walking.