Execution Dock

chapter Three
Rathbone's cross-examination of Hester began as soon as 'court resumed the next morning. She took her place again in the witness stand. She was wearing a plain, blue-gray dress, not unlike the sort of uniform a nurse would wear, but more flatteringly cut, and she knew it made the most of her fair coloring and steady wide gray eyes. She wanted to appear both competent and feminine, and of course respectable. Tremayne had mentioned this to her, quite unnecessarily. She understood what a jury wanted and what kind of person they would believe. During Monks many cases there had been times when she had testified, or seen others do so, and watched the faces of the jurors.

"May I add my admiration to that of the court, Mrs. Monk," Rathbone began. "It is a brave and charitable work that you do."

"Thank you." She did not trust him, even though she knew he did admire her, intensely, even with a degree of envy for her passion. Too often thought had robbed him of action. She simply cared enough to take the risk anyway. Now he stood elegantly in the middle of the floor, and complimented her.

"How much of your time do you put to your work in Portpool Lane, Mrs. Monk?" he went on.

Tremayne moved in his seat uneasily. Hester knew it was because he was waiting for Rathbone to attack, and he did not know from which direction it would come.

"It varies," Hester replied, meeting Rathbone's eyes. "At times of crisis we work all the time, taking turns to sleep. At other times when there is relatively little to do, I may not go in every day, perhaps only two or three times a week."

"A crisis?" Rathbone turned the word over as if tasting it. "What would constitute a crisis, Mrs. Monk?"

The question sounded innocent, and yet Hester sensed a trap in it, if not now, then later, after he had led her carefully with other questions. The ease with which he asked it was like a warning. Why was he defending Jericho Phillips? What had happened to him while she had not been paying attention?

He was waiting for her answer. It felt as if everyone in the court was looking at her, waiting with him.

"Several people seriously injured at once, perhaps in a fight," she answered levelly "Or worse than that, in the winter, seven or eight people with pneumonia, or bronchitis, or perhaps consumption. And then a bad wound, or gangrene on top of it."

He looked impressed. "And how do you cope with all of that?"

Tremayne stared forward, as if he would object, but no one was listening or watching him.

"We don't always succeed," Hester replied. "But we help. Most of the time it isn't nearly as bad as that."

"Don't you get the same people in again and again?" Rathbone asked.

"Yes, of course. Any doctor does." She smiled very slightly. "What has that to do with it? You try to help whom you can, one person, one day at a time."

"Or day, and night, and day," he amended.

"If necessary." She was anxious now as well. He was making a heroine out of her, as if he had temporarily forgotten that she was there to give the evidence that would damn Jericho Phillips.

"You have a marvelous dedication to the poor and the wretched, Mrs. Monk." Rathbone said it with respect, even admiration, but she was waiting for the question beyond, the one that hid an attack.

"Thank you. I don't think of it that way, but simply as an attempt to do what you can," she answered.

"You say that quite casually, Mrs. Monk." Rathbone moved back and then turned and walked the other way. The gesture had a grace that drew the eyes. He looked up at her again. "But surely you are speaking of a passion, a self-sacrifice that is far beyond that which most people experience?"

"I don't see it as such," she answered, not merely in modesty, but because it was true. She loved her work. She would be hypocritical were she to allow it to be painted as a nobility, at cost to herself.

Rathbone smiled. "I expected that you would say that, Mrs. Monk. There are some women, like your mentor, Miss Nightingale, whose life is to give their time and emotion to bettering the lot of others."

There was a murmur of approval around the room.

Tremayne rose to his feet, his expression confused and unhappy. Something was happening that he did not understand, but he knew it was dangerous. "My lord, I am aware that Sir Oliver is long and well acquainted with Mrs. Monk, and that Lady Rathbone also gives her time freely to the Portpool Lane Clinic. Admirable as this is, there is no question in Sir Oliver's observations, and they seem irrelevant to the case against Jericho Phillips."

Sullivan raised his eyebrows. "Sir Oliver, in the unlikelihood that Mrs. Monk is unaware of your regard for her, would it not be better to make such remarks privately?"

Rathbone colored, perhaps at the implication, but he was not disconcerted with his tactic. "The relevance will become clear, my lord," he replied, with an edge to his voice. "If you will permit me?" But without waiting he turned again to Hester.

Reluctantly Tremayne resumed his seat.

"Were you acquainted with the late Commander Durban, Mrs. Monk?" Rathbone asked mildly.

He knew the circumstances of the Louvain case; he had played a major part in it. Of course he already knew that she did not know Durban, except through Monk.

"No," she answered, uncertain why he had asked. He was not challenging her evidence, which was what she had expected, and prepared for. "Only by repute."

"From whom?" he asked.

"To begin with, my husband. Later I also heard Mr. Orme speak very highly of him."

"What opinion did you form of his character?"

She could not understand why he asked. Her answer was bound to be against every point he must establish to raise any doubt as to Phillips's guilt. Surely it was inconceivable that he would deliberately sabotage his own case? It was contrary to everything she had ever known of him that he would take a case, any case whatever, in order to deliberately lose it!

"Mrs. Monk?" he prompted.

"That he was a man of passion, humor, and great integrity," she answered. "He was a good policeman, and an exceptional leader of men. He was honorable and brave, and in the end he gave his life to save others."

Rathbone smiled very slightly, as if that were the answer he had not only foreseen, but also wanted.

"I will not ask you the circumstances. I know what they are; I also was there at the time, and it was exactly as you say. But it was a matter that, for the public good, must be kept discreet." He moved a step or two, as if to mark the change of subject. "There is no purpose in my asking if you are devoted to your husband; how else would you answer but in the affirmative? But I will ask you to describe your circumstances at the time Mr. Monk first met Mr. Durban. For example, were you well off? How was your husband employed? Had he good opportunities for advancement?"

Lord Justice Sullivan moved uncomfortably on his high seat and looked at Rathbone with a flicker of anxiety, then away from him and beyond to somewhere in the body of the court, as if to gauge how the public mood interpreted this extraordinary direction of events.

Tremayne half rose to his feet, then sank back again. By not allowing Hester to answer, he would be implying that she or Monk had something to hide or to be ashamed of. The jury might imagine all kinds of things, all of them discreditable.

"My husband was a private agent of inquiry," Hester replied. "Our circumstances were uncertain from week to week. Occasionally clients did not pay, and some cases were incapable of solution."

"That cannot have been easy for you," Rathbone sympathized. "And obviously no advancement was possible. As the court is aware, Mr. Monk succeeded Mr. Durban as commander of the Wapping Station of the River Police, which is a fine job, with good remuneration, high status, and opportunity for advancement to even higher rank eventually. Even Commissioner of Police would not be impossible for an able and ambitious man. How did it come about that Mr. Monk took this position, and not one of the men already employed there? Mr. Orme, for example."

"Mr. Durban recommended him," Hester replied, now with some idea where Rathbone might be leading. But even if she were correct, and saw every step ahead before she reached it, she could see no way of escape. Her hands felt clammy on the railing, and yet she was cold inside. The air was stale in the crowded room.

"You must be very grateful for such a remarkable and unforeseen improvement in your circumstances," Rathbone went on. "Your husband is now a commander in the River Police, and you have financial security and social respect. And apart from yourself, you must be very pleased for your husband also. Is he happy in the River Police?"

She could not possibly say other than that he was, even if in fact he hated it. Fortunately she did not have to lie, as Rathbone knew.

"Yes, he is. They are a fine body of men with a high reputation for both skill and honor, and he is proud to be among them."

"Let us not be overmodest, Mrs. Monk; to lead them!" Rathbone corrected her. "Are you not proud of him also? It is a great achievement."

"Yes, of course I am proud of him." Again, she could give no other answer.

He did not belabor the point. He had made it sufficiently for the jury. Both she and Monk owed Durban a great deal, personally and professionally. Rathbone had placed her in a position where she had to say so, or appear utterly graceless. Now anything in which she supported Durban would appear as gratitude, and be suspected as founded in emotion rather than fact. How well he knew her. He had forgotten nothing of her from the days when they had been much closer, when he had been in love with her, not with Margaret.

She felt very alone in the stand with everyone in the court staring at her, and with Rathbone's knowledge of her so delicate and intimate. She was horribly vulnerable.

"Mrs. Monk," Rathbone resumed. "You played a large part in helping identify this tragic boy, through your knowledge of the abuse of women and children in the trade of sexual relations." He said it with distaste, reflecting what all the people in the gallery-and more particularly in the jury box-must feel. "It was you who learned that he was once a mudlark." He turned slightly in a peculiarly graceful gesture. "In case there is anyone in the jury who does not understand the term, would you be good enough to explain it to us?"

She had no choice but to do as he asked. He was guiding her as a skilled rider does a horse, and she felt equally controlled. To rebel in the public gaze of the court would make her appear ridiculous. How well he knew her!

"A mudlark is a person who spends their time on the banks of the river, between low and high tide lines," she said obediently. "They salvage anything that may be of value, and then sell it. Most of them are children, but not all. The things they find are largely brass screws and fittings, pieces of china, lumps of coal, that sort of thing."

He looked interested, as if he were not already familiar with every detail of the facts.

"How do you come to know this? It does not seem to lie within the area of your usual assistance. Who did you ask for the information that led to your discovering that the boy, Fig, had once been a mudlark?"

"In a case a short while ago a young mudlark was injured. I looked after him for a couple of weeks." She wondered why he was asking about Scuff. Did he mean to challenge the identification of the body?

"Really? How old was he? What was his name?" he inquired.

Why was he asking? He knew Scuff. He had been in the sewers with them, as desperate to ensure Scuffs safety as any of them.

"He is known as Scuff, and he thinks he is about eleven," she replied, her voice catching with emotion in spite of her efforts to remain detached.

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. "He thinks?"

"Yes. He doesn't know."

"Did he identify Fig?"

So it was the identification! "No. He introduced me to older boys, and vouched for me, so they would tell me the truth."

"This boy Scuff trusts you?"

"I hope so."

"You took him into your home when he was injured, and cared for him, nursed him back to health?"

"Yes."

"And an affection grew between you?"

"Yes."

"Do you have children of your own, Mrs. Monk?"

She felt as if he had slapped her without warning. It was not that she had desperately wanted children; she was happy with Monk and her work. It was the implication that somehow she was lacking, which hurt, that she had taken Scuff in not because she liked him, but to fill an emptiness in herself. By a sort of oblique reference backward, it made it seem as if all she had done in the clinic, and even in the Crimea, had been to compensate for her own lack of family, of purpose, in the more usual sense.

It was not true. She had a husband she loved far more than most women did theirs; she was married of choice, not convenience or ambition or need. She had work to do that stretched her intellect, and used her imagination and courage. Most women got up in the morning to the same endless domestic round, filling their days with words rather than actions, or accomplishing small tasks that had to be begun again in exactly the same fashion the next day, and the day after. Hester had only once in her life been bored, and that was for the brief time spent in the social round before going to the Crimea.

But if she said any of that, she would sound as if she were defensive. He had attacked her so delicately, so obliquely, that people would think she was protesting too much. She would immediately make him seem right.

They were all waiting now for her to reply. She could see the beginning of pity in their faces. Even Tremayne looked uncomfortable.

"No, I don't have children," she answered the question. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that neither did he, but that would be unbecoming; again, an attack in order to defend, before there was justification for it.

"May I say that it is a very noble thing you are doing, giving of your time and means to fight for those children of others who suffer from the abuse and neglect of the very people who should be caring for them." He spoke sincerely, and yet after what he had said before, it still managed to sound like pity. He moved his hand in the air as if to dismiss the subject. "So you sought the help of other mudlarks to identify the body of this poor boy who was found near Horseferry Stairs. And because of your rescue of Scuff, they were willing to help you, in a manner that they would not help the police. Is that accurate?"

"They helped," she replied. "I did not attribute motive to them." It sounded sharp, as if she were defending herself. It took all the self-control she could muster to keep her voice from shaking and her expression mild. "But if I had, I would think it to protect themselves, and perhaps act in some fairness to the boy who had been one of them."

Rathbone smiled. "You think well of them, Mrs. Monk. Your trust and affection do you credit. I am sure every woman in this court would like to think she might do the same."

In one sentence he had turned it into an issue of being feminine, something charitable but unrealistic. How clever of him, and how very unfair. He knew she was the least sentimental of people. She must attack him back, or be mowed under.

"I am an army nurse, Sir Oliver, as you mentioned earlier." Her voice shook in spite of all her efforts, and the tone was sharper than she meant it to be. "Wounds are real; they do not stop bleeding because of well-meaning idealism or kind judgments of affection. Gangrene, typhoid, and starvation do not respond to woolly-minded good wishes. I have quite often failed, especially in reforms I would like to have brought in, but because I spoke too bluntly, not because I was sentimental. I thought you knew that of me. But perhaps it was you who were too kind in your judgments, and saw what you wished to see, what you thought womanly and becoming, and easy to deal with."

A flare of surprise lit in his eyes, and of admiration. This time it was honest, not assumed for the jury

"I stand corrected, Mrs. Monk," he apologized. "Of course you are right. You never lacked courage, only tact. You saw what needed to be done, but did not have the knowledge of human nature to persuade people to do it. You did not foresee the arrogance, the shortsightedness, or the selfishness of those with interests vested in things remaining as they are. You are idealistic; you see what could be and strive to bring it about. You fight with passion, courage, and honor for the oppressed, the sick, the forgotten of the world. You are disobedient to the law when it is unjust, and loyal at any cost to what is right. Is that a fairer assessment of your character?"

It was fair, even generous. It was also damning of her as an impartial witness. The court might both like and admire her, but it would always judge whatever she said against the force of her beliefs, and emotion would win. She had turned Rathbone's argument around, but he had still beaten her.

He went on to take apart all the evidence she had gathered through the witnesses learned of in her dealings with Portpool Lane. For every one of them he could show that they had benefited from her care. He worded it so it seemed that their indebtedness would cause them to say whatever she wished them to, not in deliberate deceit but in the desire to please a woman whose help they depended upon. In spite of the praise he had given her, she still appeared worthy but driven more by feelings than by reason, passionately tireless for justice towards those she saw as needy, and furious for vengeance against those who preyed upon them. She was feminine; he had harped on about her womanliness. She was vulnerable; he had subtly reminded them that she was childless. And she had poor judgment; he gave no example of that, but by then he was believed without it.

She stood helpless on the stand, surrounded by strangers who saw her through Rathbone's words, and she wondered if he actually saw her that way. Was this his true opinion, and all the past courtesy was only good manners towards a woman with whom he had once been in love, but had now grown beyond? His arrogance infuriated her.

Then she was touched by the first cold splash of fear that he could be right. Perhaps she was led by emotion rather than a fair and equal rationality. Perhaps Monk was led by his sense of debt to Durban, as Rathbone implied, and she simply went along with it in blind loyalty.

Rathbone sat down, knowing he had succeeded superbly. She looked at his face and had no idea what he felt, or if he felt anything at all. Perhaps his intellect would always dominate his heart. That was why she had not accepted his offer of marriage, turning it aside gently, as if it had not really been made, in order not to hurt him.

Poor Margaret.

Tremayne stood up and attempted to redress the balance, but it was impossible, and he realized it quickly enough to do little damage before he sat down again.

Hester remained in the courtroom afterwards as Rathbone called other witnesses who cast doubt on Durban 's honesty. It was done so subtly that at first she did not realize the impact of it. A revenue man testified as to Durban 's zeal in pursuing Phillips.

"Oh, yes, sir," he said, nodding his head vigorously. "'E was very keen. Like a terrier with a rat 'e were. Wouldn't let go fer love ner money."

"Wouldn't let go," Rathbone repeated. "For the sake of the jury Mr. Simmons, would you describe exactly the kind of thing you are referring to? The gentlemen may have had little to do with police procedure and be unfamiliar with what is usual, and what is not. I assume you are speaking of behavior that was out of the ordinary?"

Simmons nodded again. "Yes, sir. I see what yer mean. Folks might think as all policemen are like that, an' they in't. 'E were very different, Mr. Durban were. 'E'd ask one question, and if yer didn't give 'im the answer 'e wanted, 'e'd go round it a different way, an' then another again. I've seen some o' them bull terriers what didn't 'ave a grip like 'e 'ad. If I'd been less than 'onest, I'd 'ave told 'im what 'e wanted, just to get 'im off me back."

"Indeed. Did he tell you why he was so determined to find out who killed the boy Fig, Mr. Simmons?" Rathbone was very careful not to lead the witness, not to ask him for assumptions or evidence that was hearsay. Tremayne was unhappy with it, but there were no grounds for him to object. Hester could see it as clearly as watching a game of chess. Every move was plain, obvious the moment after it had been made, and yet impossible to forestall.

"No, sir, 'e din't," Simmons answered. "Couldn't say whether 'e 'ated Phillips 'cause 'e killed the boy, or cared about the boy 'cause it was Phillips 'oo killed 'im."

Rathbone responded quickly before Tremayne could object, or Sullivan sustain him.

"You mean his behavior gave you reason to think there was a personal dislike, above the matter of the crime? What behavior was that, Mr. Simmons?"

Tremayne half rose, then changed his mind and sank back again.

Sullivan looked at him inquiringly, a sharp interest in his face, as if he were watching a personal battle beneath the professional one, and it interested him intensely, almost excited him. Was this why he loved the law, for the combat?

Simmons was struggling with his answer, his face furrowed. "It were personal," he said at length. "I can't really say 'ow I know. Look on 'is face, way 'e spoke about 'im, language 'e used. 'E'd sometimes let go of other things, but never Phillips. 'E were real torn up with the way the boy 'ad been used, but 'e were still glad to 'ave a reason ter go after Phillips."

There was an almost indiscernible ripple of appreciation around the room.

Lord Justice Sullivan leaned sideways a little to face the witness, his face earnest, one hand clenched on the beautiful polished surface in front of him.

"Mr. Simmons, you may not state that the accused is guilty of having murdered the boy, unless you know of your own observation that he did so. Is that the case? Did you see him kill Walter Figgis?"

Simmons looked startled. He blinked, then he went white as the full import of what he had been asked dawned on him. "No, me lud, I didn't see it. I weren't there. If I 'ad been, I'd've said so at the time, an' Mr. Durban wouldn't've needed to ride me like 'e did. I don't know for meself 'oo killed the poor little devil, nor any o' them other kids up and down the river what go missing and get beaten, or whatever else 'appens to 'em."

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. "Are you saying that Mr. Durban appeared to you to be more interested in this lost child than in any other, Mr. Simmons?"

"Damn right 'e did," Simmons agreed. "Like a dog with a bone, 'e were. Couldn't 'ardly think o' nothing else."

"Surely he was equally concerned with the theft, fraud, smuggling, and other crimes that happen on the water, and dockside?" Rathbone said innocently.

"Not that I saw, no sir," Simmons replied. "Always on about Phillips, and that boy. 'Ated him, he did. Wanted to see 'im 'anged. 'E said so." He glanced up at Sullivan and then away again. "That I 'eard with me own ears."

Rathbone thanked him, and invited Tremayne to take his turn.

Hester could think of a dozen things to ask in rebuttal. She stared at Tremayne as if by force of will she could prompt him into doing so. She watched him rise, a little of his usual grace lost to tension. What had seemed a certainty was slipping out of his hands. He looked pale.

"Mr. Simmons," he began very politely. "You say that Mr. Durban gave you no reason for his eagerness to catch whoever abused, tortured, and then murdered this boy, and as you yourself suggest, perhaps many others like him?"

Simmons shifted his weight uncomfortably. "No, sir, 'e didn't."

"And you found it hard to understand that he should consider the lives of children much more important than the evasion of customs duty on a cask of brandy, for example?"

Simmons started to speak, then changed his mind.

"Do you have children, Mr. Simmons?" Tremayne inquired gently, as one might of a new acquaintance.

Hester held her breath. Did he? Did it matter? What was Tre-mayne going to make of it? At least some of the jurors would have children, if not all of them. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. She found that she was holding her breath.

"No, sir," Simmons answered.

Tremayne smiled very slightly. "Neither does Sir Oliver. Perhaps that might explain a great deal. It is not everyone who has Mrs. Monk's compassion for the injured and the dead who do not belong to their own family, or even their own social class."

There was a distinct rustle in the gallery now. The people on either side of Hester quite blatantly turned to look at her. One even smiled and nodded.

Simmons blushed furiously.

Tremayne wisely hid his victory. He inclined his head towards the judge, as if to thank him, and then returned to his seat.

Rathbone sounded a little less certain as he called his next witness, a dockmaster named Trenton from the Pool of London. He testified to Durban 's friendship over several years with the mudlarks, beggars, and petty thieves who spent most of their lives at the river's edge. This time Rathbone was more careful to allow his witness to express his own opinions. Tremayne had scored an emotional victory, but he was going to find it a great deal more difficult to score another.

"Spent time with them," Trenton said with a slight shrug. He was a small, squarely built man with a heavy nose and mild manner, but under the respect for authority there was considerable strength, and more than fifty years of ever-hardening opinion. "Talked to 'em, gave 'em advice, sometimes even shared 'is food, or gave 'em the odd sixpence or the like."

"Was he looking for information?" Rathbone asked.

"If 'e was, 'e was a fool," Trenton answered. "You get a reputation for being a soft touch like that, an' you'll 'ave a line o' folks from Tower Bridge to the Isle o' Dogs, all ready to tell you anything you want to 'ear, for a penny or two."

"I see. Then what could he have been doing? Do you know?"

Trenton was well prepared. Tremayne leaned forward, ready to object to speculation, but he did not have the opportunity.

"Don't know what 'e was doing," he said, pushing his lower lip out in an expression of puzzlement. "Never seen another River Police, nor land neither, who spent time with beggars and drifters like 'e did, not with boys, like. They don't know much an' won't tell you anything that matters even if they do."

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

"I run a dock, Sir Oliver. I 'ave to know what people are doing on my patch, 'specially if there's a chance it's something as they shouldn't. I kept an eye on 'im, over the years. There aren't that many bent River Police, but it's not impossible. Not that I'm saying 'e was, mind you!" he added hastily. "But I watched. Thought at first 'e might be a kidsman."

"A kidsman?" Rathbone inquired, although of course he knew the word. He asked for the benefit of the jury.

Trenton understood. "A man who gets kids to do 'is stealing for 'im," he replied simply. "Mostly it's silk handkerchiefs, bits o' money, things like that. A good leather purse, maybe. But 'e weren't, of course." He shrugged again. "Just River Police with more interest in kids than anyone else."

"I see. Did he ask you about Jericho Phillips?"

Trenton rolled his eyes. "Over and over, till I was sick of telling 'im that as far as I know 'e's just a petty thief, a chancer. Maybe does a bit of smuggling, although we've never caught 'im at it. Per'aps a bit of informing, but that's all."

"Did Mr. Durban accept that answer?"

Trenton 's face darkened. "No, 'e didn't. Obsession 'e 'ad, and got worse towards the time 'e died. Which was a shame," he added quickly.

"Thank you." Rathbone released him.

Tremayne looked indecisive from the moment he stood up. His face and his voice reflected exactly the fears that were beginning to touch Hester. Could they have been mistaken about Durban? Had he been a man who committed one marvelous act of nobility in an effort to redeem a life otherwise deeply flawed? Had they come in at the end, and thought all the rest was the same, when in fact it was not at all?

Tremayne was floundering, and he was acutely aware of it. It had been a decade since he had last been so subtly set off balance. There was nothing in Trenton 's evidence to contest, nothing he could grasp firmly enough to turn or twist to any other meaning.

Hester wondered if he was beginning to have doubts as well. Did he wonder if Monk had been naive, driven by loyalty to a man he had known only a short time, a matter of weeks, and whose real character he had only guessed at?

For the first time Hester actually entertained the thought, for an instant, that Rathbone could be right. Yes, Phillips was an evil man, one who preyed on the weaknesses and appetites of others, but he might not be guilty of torture or murder as Durban had believed, or as Monk had accepted from him. She pushed the thought away, refusing to entertain it. It was ugly, and it was disloyal.

Rathbone resumed the presentation of the defense. He called a lighterman who had known Durban well and admired him. He asked questions gently, drawing out pieces of information as if he were aware that the process would sooner or later become painful. He was right. At the start it was easy: merely a pattern of dates and questions asked and answered. Durban had asked the lighterman about comings and goings on the water, mostly of Jericho Phillips and his boat, occasionally of other men who patronized whatever its facilities were. They professed that it offered ale and entertainment, a simple matter of an evening on the river with refreshment and a little music, performed to the taste of whatever audience presented itself.

Lord Justice Sullivan leaned forward, listening intently, his face grave.

Did the lighterman, Hurst, know for certain what that entertainment was? Rathbone continued. No, he had no personal knowledge at all. Durban had asked him that, many times. The answer was always the same. He did not know, or wish to. As far as he was aware, the boys could have been there to serve ale, wait on tables, clear up, anything at all.

It seemed very routine, even tedious, until Hester saw something alter in Rathbone's stance, and a new, suppressed energy enter him. Was Durban 's interest in Phillips consistent from the time it began?

Hurst looked puzzled, as if he remembered something odd. No, it wasn't. For several months Durban had shown no interest at all, as if he had forgotten about him. Then equally without explanation, his interest had resumed again, even more fiercely than before. His pursuit had become almost savage, exceeding his duty. He had been seen on the river in all weather, even in the small hours of the night when all sane men were in their beds.

Could Hurst explain any of this? In fact, had Durban offered any reason for his extraordinary obsession and the erratic manner of his occupation with it?

No. Hurst was disillusioned. He had no idea.

Tremayne must have known that in questioning him further he would gain nothing, and might even lose. He declined.

To end the day Rathbone added another member of the River Police who had been serving at the Wapping Station during Durban 's latter years. The man made it quite apparent that he was there against his will. His loyalty was to the police in general, and to his immediate colleagues in particular. He was openly hostile to Rathbone, and to anyone else who questioned Durban 's integrity, and by implication, that of all the police.

However, he was obliged to admit that he knew beyond any doubt at all that towards the end of his life Durban had spent the little spare time he had, and much of his own money, in his endless, fruitless pursuit of Jericho Phillips. In spite of his careful wording, or perhaps because of it, it made Durban sound obsessed to the point of madness. Suddenly Phillips, as unpleasant as he was, appeared to be the victim.

Hester saw several confused faces in the gallery around her, even glances towards the figure of Phillips as he was escorted from the dock back down to the cells for the night. Now they were curious, and not as certain of his guilt as they had been even a few hours ago.

She left the courtroom feeling betrayed. She moved through the open doors into the hallway beyond, not literally buffeted by the crowd, but it seemed as if they pressed in on her from all sides. They were puffed up with their own convictions, there to see and hear, unaffected by what anyone believed.

She cared passionately. She cared whether Durban was the hero Monk believed him to be, both because he was one of the few men Monk admired, and also because Monk himself had founded his career in the Thames Police on finishing his predecessor's last case. It was his gift of gratitude to a man he could thank in no other way.

She could see now that they had both allowed it to become too important. All the rage they felt towards everyone who had beaten, neglected, or abused a child had centered on Phillips. Perhaps that was unfair, and it was that thought reflected in other people's eyes that humiliated and confused her now.

She came face-to-face with Margaret Rathbone on the steps as she was leaving. She had turned for an instant, uncertainly, and Margaret was only a couple of paces behind her.

Margaret stopped, but she did not lower her eyes. There was an embarrassed silence. Hester had always been the leader. She was the one with the medical experience, the knowledge. She had been to the Crimea; Margaret had never been out of England, except for family holidays to France, carefully chaperoned. Hester had watched Margaret fall in love with Rathbone, and try so hard to win him. They had said little; neither was someone who discussed their deepest fears or dreams, but there had been a wealth of silent understanding between them.

They had nursed the sick and dying together, and faced the truth of violence and crime. Now for the first time they were on different sides, and there was nothing to say that would not make it worse. Rathbone had attacked Hester on the stand personally, and stripped the covering decencies from her beliefs by revealing those she had trusted. Above all, he had exposed Monk to disillusion, and to the appearance of having let down his colleagues who had followed him into the battle.

Margaret's loyalty was committed to Rathbone. She had no room to ask anything or to yield in her position. The lines were set.

Margaret hesitated, as if she would smile, say something, offer commiseration. Then she knew that everything could be misunderstood, and she changed her mind.

Hester made it easier for her by turning away again, and continuing down the steps.

Margaret would catch a cab. Hester took the public bus to the ferry across the river, then walked up to Paradise Place and let herself in through the front door. The house was warm in the summer sun, and quiet. They were close to Southwark Park, and the distant sound of laughter carried through the trees.

She spent a wretched evening alone. There had been a bad incident on the river, on Limehouse Reach, and by the time Monk came home he was too tired to talk about anything. She did not have the opportunity to discuss the day's events with him.

Rathbone also had an acutely uncomfortable evening, in spite of Margaret's unconditional praise of his skill, and surprisingly, of his morality.

"Of course it disturbs you," she said to him gently after dinner. They were sitting opposite each other with the French windows open again onto the quiet garden with its birdsong and the slight rustling of leaves in the late sunset wind. "No one likes to show up the weakness of their friends, especially in public," she continued. "But it was not your choice that they go after Jericho Phillips. It would be totally wrong for you to refuse to defend him, or anyone else, on the grounds that you have friends in the prosecution. If it were right, then anyone could refuse to defend any case they might lose, or that might challenge their opinions, or even their social standing. No man of honor does only what is comfortable to him." Her eyes were bright, and there was warm color in her skin.

It gave Rathbone pleasure that she admired him so genuinely, but it was the guilty pleasure of stolen fruit, or at least of that obtained dishonestly. He struggled for words to explain it to her, but it was too complicated to frame, and he knew from her smile that she was not really listening. He ended up saying nothing, and was ashamed of himself.

Rathbone began the next day's proceedings with what he intended to be his coup de grace. He had no choice now but to go ahead with it. It was inconceivable that he would do less than his best, because even in the defense of a man like Jericho Phillips, that would be to betray every principle that he believed in. Above the political battles, the good or bad governments, the judiciary at its most brilliant, corrupt, or incompetent, the impartiality of the law-and its power to deal with all people without fear or favor-was the bedrock upon which every civilized nation depended.

When lawyers made judgments the jury of the common man was betrayed, and in the end would become extinct. The law itself would pass from the people to the few who held power. There would no longer be a check on their prejudices, or in time, on their ability to remain above the tides of corruption, bribery, the threat of loss, or the hope of gain.

He now found himself in a position in which he must call William Monk to the stand, and force him to testify against the man to whom he owed the best opportunity of his life.

They faced each other in a silent court. This might well prove to be the last day of a trial that had begun as a mere formality but was now a very real battle in which it was even possible that Jericho Phillips's fight for his life could end in victory. People in the gallery were straining to look at him. He had assumed a sudden public stature that was both frightening and fascinating.

Monk had already been identified. Both the jury and the spectators had heard of him from earlier witnesses. Now they stared in sharp interest as the questions began.

"I did not call you earlier, Commander Monk," Rathbone began, "because you are familiar with only part of this case, and Mr. Orme was involved from the beginning, when Mr. Durban was first called to the discovery of the boy's body." He walked elegantly across the open space, as if he were very much at ease. Only someone who knew him as well as Monk did would see that his shoulders were stiff, and he did not carry his hands quite naturally. "However," he continued, turning to face the witness stand, "certain facts have come to our attention that suggest unusual elements with which you could help us." He waited, for dramatic effect, not because there was any question in his words.

Tremayne shifted in his seat as though he could not find a comfortable position.

"This case had been dropped, Mr. Monk." Rathbone's voice was suddenly challenging. "Why did you choose to reopen it?"

Monk had expected exactly this question. "Because I came across a record of it in Mr. Durban's papers, and the fact that it was still unsolved bothered me," he replied.

Rathbone's eyebrows rose. "Indeed? Then I assume you pursued all of Mr. Durban's other unsolved cases with equal zeal?"

"I would like to solve them all," Monk replied. "There were not many: a few minor thefts, one to do with the smuggling of half a dozen kegs of brandy; the fencing of stolen china and ornaments; a couple of incidents of public drunkenness that ended in fights; a few broken windows. The murder of children comes before all those." He too paused for effect, and smiled very slightly. "I'll attend to the rest, if I have time."

Rathbone's face changed slightly, acknowledging that he had an adversary not to be trifled with. "Of course that takes priority," he agreed, changing his angle of attack with barely a trace of awkwardness. "It seems from what we have heard that it comes before a great many things in your estimation. You appear to have read Mr. Durban's notes with great attention. Why is that?"

Monk had not foreseen the question phrased quite that way. "I have held Mr. Durban's position since shortly after his death. I thought I had a great deal to learn from his experience, and what he had written about."

"How modest of you," Rathbone observed. "So you admired Mr. Durban a great deal?"

There was only one possible answer. "I did."

"Why?" Rathbone asked innocently.

Monk had opened the way to such a question; now he had to answer it. He had no time to concoct a reply that was careful or measured to safeguard the case. "Because he held command without abuse of his authority," he said. "His men both liked and respected him. For the short time that I knew him, before he gave his life in the call of duty, I found him to have humor, kindness, and integrity." He nearly said something about hating injustice, and stopped himself just in time.

"A fine eulogy for a man who is not here to speak for himself," Rathbone said. "He certainly has a loyal friend in you, Mr. Monk."

"You say that as if loyalty to a friend were an offense," Monk retaliated, just a shade too quickly, betraying his anger.

Rathbone stopped, turned slowly towards Monk up in the witness stand, and smiled. "It is, Mr. Monk, when it places itself before loyalty to truth, and to the law. It is an understandable quality, perhaps even likable-except of course, to the man who is accused of a hideous crime so that one friend may pay a debt to another."

There was a rustle of sharpened interest around the room. One or two of the jurors looked anxious. Lord Justice Sullivan's face was carefully expressionless.

Tremayne rose to his feet, but with anger rather than confidence.

"Profound as Sir Oliver's philosophy may be, my lord, it does not appear to contain a question."

"You are quite correct," Sullivan agreed, but with reluctance. "Such observations more properly belong in your club, Sir Oliver. You called Mr. Monk to the stand; therefore, I assume you have something to ask him. Please proceed with it."

"My lord," Rathbone said, masking only the slightest irritation. He looked back up at Monk. "What was your own occupation when you first met Mr. Durban?"

"I was a private agent of inquiry," Monk answered. He could guess where Rathbone was leading, but he could not avoid going with him.

"Did that fit you for taking over Mr. Durban's position as Commander of the River Police at Wapping?"

"I don't think so. But I had been in the Metropolitan Police before that." Surely Rathbone was not going to bring up his loss of memory? He was seized with a sudden cold uncertainty that he might.

But that was not where Rathbone struck.

"Why did you leave the Metropolitan Police?" he asked.

Sullivan was impassive, but as if he were containing his emotion with difficulty. His color was high, his fist tightly closed on the bench.

"Sir Oliver, are you questioning Mr. Monk's professional ability, his reputation, or his honesty?" he asked.

"None of those, my lord." Irritation marked Rathbone's face now. His hands were closed tight and hard. "I believe Mr. Durban had leadership skills that Mr. Monk intensely admired, because he had failed to exhibit them himself in the past. Mr. Durban, in choosing him as his successor, gave him the opportunity to try a second time, which is a chance few men receive. Mr. Durban also expressed a confidence in him that he did not have in himself. I will show that Mr. Monk's sense of debt to Durban drove him to exceed his authority, and his usual judgment, in pursuit of Jericho Phillips, and that he did so to pay what he perceived as a debt. He also desired profoundly to earn the respect of his men by vindicating Durban 's original pursuit of the murderer."

Tremayne shot to his feet, his face filled with consternation, forgetting even to address the judge.

"That is a very large and rather rash assumption, Sir Oliver."

Rathbone turned to Sullivan with an air of innocence.

"My client is accused of a very terrible crime, my lord. If he is found guilty he will be hanged. No lengths within the law are too great to make certain that justice is done, and that we do not also allow our emotions, our pity or our revulsion, to dictate our thoughts and overwhelm our reason. We too wish to see someone pay, but it must be the right someone."

"Of course it must," Sullivan said forcefully. "Proceed, Sir Oliver, but get to the point."

Rathbone bowed very slightly. "Thank you, my lord. Mr. Monk, did you follow Durban 's notes to retrace his original detection, or did you accept his observations and deductions as sufficient?"

"I followed them again and questioned the same people again, as far as I could," Monk answered with a tone suggesting that the answer was obvious.

"But in each case you already knew what evidence you were looking for," Rathbone pointed out. "For example, Mr. Durban began with an unidentified corpse and had to do whatever he could to learn who the boy was. You began knowing that Mr. Durban believed it to be Walter Figgis. You had only to prove that he was right. Those are not the same courses of action at all."

Several jurors fidgeted unhappily. They could see the plain difference.

"Are you sure you were not merely confirming what you already wished to believe?" Rathbone hammered the point home.

"Yes, I am sure," Monk said decisively.

Rathbone smiled, his head high, the light gleaming on his fair hair.

"How do you identify the body of a boy who has been in the water for some days, Mr. Monk?" he challenged. "Surely it is... severely changed? The flesh..." He did not continue.

The mood of the court altered. The reality of death had entered again, and the battle of words seemed faintly irrelevant.

"Of course it is changed," Monk said softly. "What had once been a bruised, burned, and underfed boy, but very much alive, had become so much cold meat, like something the butcher discarded. But that is what we had to work with. It still mattered that we learn who he was." He leaned forward a little over the railings of the stand. "He still had hair, and height, shape of face, possibly some clothes left, and quite a bit of skin, enough to guess his coloring, and of course his teeth. People's teeth are different."

There were gasps of breath drawn in sharply. More than one woman stifled a sob.

Monk did not hesitate to be graphic. "In this case, Durban had written down that the boy had the marks of burns old and new on the inside of his arms and thighs." The full obscenity of it should be known. "No one burns themselves in those places by accident."

Rathbone's face was pale, his body awkward where he stood. "That is vile, Mr. Monk," he said softly. "But it is not proof of identity."

"It is a beginning," Monk contradicted him. "An undernourished child who has been tortured, and has begun to change from a boy into a man, and no one has complained of his disappearance? That narrows down the places to look very much indeed, thank God. Durban made several drawings of what the boy probably looked like. He was good at it. He showed them up and down the riverbank, particularly to people who might have seen a beggar, a petty thief, or a mudlark."

"He assumed he was one of such a group?"

"I don't know, but it was the obvious place to begin, and as it turned out, the right place."

"Ah, yes," Rathbone nodded. "Somebody recognized one of these drawings that Durban did from what was left of the boy. You mentioned hair, skin coloring to some extent, shape of skull, and so on. Correct me if I am mistaken, Mr. Monk, but could not such bare characteristics produce at least a thousand different sets of features?"

Monk kept his temper, knowing that Rathbone was trying to bait him. "Of course. But desperate as the state of many children is, there are not a thousand boys of that age missing at one time along the bank of the river, and unreported."

"So you fitted this tragic corpse to the face of one boy that a mudlark said was missing, and you identified the body as that of Walter Figgis?" Rathbone's eyes were wide, a very slight smile on his lips.

Monk swallowed his sarcasm. He knew he was playing to an audience who was watching the shadows on his face, hearing the slightest inflection of his voice. "No, Sir Oliver, Commander Durban thought it very likely that the corpse was that of Figgis. When we found obscene photographs of Figgis, taken when he was alive, they were identified by those who knew him, and Commander Durban then matched them to the corpse. He had unusual ears, and one of them had not been destroyed by the water, and the creatures in it who feed on the dead."

Rathbone was forced to accept it.

Tremayne smiled, his body relaxing a little in relief.

Sullivan sat forward a little at his high bench, turning first to Rathbone, then to Tremayne, then back again.

Rathbone moved on. "Did you see these-obscene-photo graphs?"

"Yes. They were in Durban 's papers." Monk could not prevent the violence of his disgust from showing. He tried to; he knew he should keep control. This was evidence. Only facts should matter, but still his body was shaking, and he felt sweat break out on his skin. "The faces were perfectly clear, even three of the burns. We found two of them on the same places."

"And the third?" Rathbone asked very gently.

"That part of him had been eaten away." Monk's voice trembled, thick with the horror and misery of Durban 's words on the page in jagged writing, creating a picture of disintegration and loss.

"The vision of tragedy, of bestiality, that you call up, is almost beyond bearing," Rathbone acknowledged. "I do not wonder that you find it hard to speak of, or that Mr. Durban put in endless hours of his own time, and indeed also his own money, to bring to justice whoever did this. Would it be true to say that you felt just as deeply as he did?" He shrugged very slightly. "Or perhaps you did not?"

There was only one answer possible. Rathbone had chosen his words with an artist's precision. Every eye in the court was on Monk.

"Of course I felt as deeply," he said.

"Commander Durban had given his life to save others," Rathbone went on with some reverence. "And he had recommended you to take over his position. That is perhaps the highest mark of trust one man can offer another. Would it be true to say that you owe him a debt of both honor and gratitude?"

Again, there was only one possible reply.

"Yes, I do."

There was a sigh and a rustle of agreement around the room.

"And you will do everything you can to honor it, and bring pride to the men of the River Police who are now in your command, and earn their loyalty, as Durban did?" Rathbone asked, although it was barely a question. The answer spoke for itself.

"Of course."

"Especially completing this task of Durban 's, in the way he would have wished. Perhaps you would even give him the credit for its solution?"

"Yes," Monk said without hesitation.

Rathbone was satisfied. He thanked Monk and returned to his seat with a gesture of invitation to Tremayne.

Tremayne hesitated, only too clearly seeking any way to regain the balance. Then he declined. Perhaps he thought that anything Monk might add would only raise the emotion still higher, which would make it even worse. Monk was excused.

In the early afternoon Tremayne gave the prosecution's summary. His movements were graceful, his voice smooth and confident, but Monk knew it was a superb piece of acting. The man should have been on the stage. He even had the striking looks for it. But he was laboring against the tide, and he had to know it.

He mentioned Durban 's original deductions only in passing, concentrating on Monk's taking up of the trail again. He avoided the horror of it whenever he could, telling instead the detail of Monk's piecing together the proof of Fig's identity, and the links that connected him to Jericho Phillips and the trade in exploitation and pornography. He could not mention the photographs because they had not been produced, only referred to by Monk. As evidence they did not exist, as Rathbone would have instantly pointed out.

He also spoke of Hester's part in connecting Phillips to the trade that satisfies the sexual appetites of those with money to pay for whatever they wanted, using the poor, willing or unwilling, who had no other way to survive. When he finally sat down, the jury was wrung with emotions of anger and pity, and would clearly have been willing themselves to tie a noose around Phillips's neck.

Rathbone stood up. He looked very somber, as if he too were shaken by what he had heard.

"What happened to this boy is appalling," he began. There was absolute silence in the room, and he had no need to raise his voice. "It should shock all of us, and I believe it has." He stood very still, awed by the horror of it. "The fact that he was a child of poverty and ignorance is completely irrelevant. The fact that he may have made his living at first by begging or stealing, then was very probably forced into acts of the utmost degradation by men in the grip of deviant appetites is also irrelevant. Every human being deserves justice, at the very least. If possible, they deserve mercy and honor as well."

There was a low rumble of assent. The jurors' faces were filled with emotion. They sat huddled forward, bodies tight and uncomfortable.

On the bench Sullivan seemed frozen, his cheeks dark with color.

"What we have heard is sufficient to stir the passions, the rage, the pity of every decent person, man or woman," Rathbone continued. "What would you think of a woman like Hester Monk, who spends her time and her means laboring to help the sick, the destitute, the forgotten, and the outcast of our society, if she had no pity for this misused child? If she does not fight for him, then who will? If she is not moved to fury and to weeping on his behalf, what manner of woman is she? I am bold enough to say that she would not be a woman that I wish to know."

There were strong murmurs of agreement.

Rathbone was speaking to them intimately now. Not a soul moved or made the slightest rustle.

"And Commander Durban, who saw the boy's dead body pulled from where it was tangled in the ropes of the lighter, mangled and unrecognizable, who saw the marks of torture on the dead flesh?" He gestured delicately with his hands. "What sort of a guardian of our law would he be, had he not sworn to spend his professional life seeking the creature who brought this about? In his case, he spent his personal time as well, and his own money, to seek justice, and it seems to me, to put an end to such things happening to other boys as well. Do we want policemen who are not moved by such horror?"

Up in the dock, for the first time, Jericho Phillips stirred anxiously. His eyes flickered with panic, and his body was hunched forward as far as his manacles would allow.

"And Mr. Monk is a worthy successor to Durban," Rathbone continued. "He has the same passion, the same dedication, the driving will that compels him to spend night and day searching for clues, answers, proof, anywhere he can. He will not rest, indeed he cannot rest, until he has captured the man responsible, and taken him to the very foot of the gallows."

Several jurors were nodding now.

Lord Justice Sullivan looked concerned, on the brink of going so far as to interrupt him. Could Rathbone conceivably have forgotten which side he was on?

"Let us consider these excellent people, one by one," Rathbone said reasonably. "And Mr. Orme, as well, of course. We too, I believe, wish that justice may be served, completely and irrevocably." That was almost a question, although he smiled very slightly. "Our position is different from theirs, in that they provide evidence to be considered, while we reach a conclusion that is irrevocable. If we find that Jericho Phillips is guilty, within three weeks he will be hanged, and cannot ever be brought back to this world.

"If, on the other hand, we find that he is not guilty, then he cannot be tried for this crime again. Gentlemen, our decision allows no room for passion, no matter how understandable, how human, how worthy of the noblest pity for the victims of poverty, disease, or inequality. We have not the luxury that others will have after us to alter our mistakes or correct our misjudgments. We have in this room only that final judgment at the bar of God, before whom we will all stand in eternity. We must be right!" He held up his hand in a closed fist, not of any kind of threat, but of an unbreakable grasp.

"We are not partisan." He looked at them one after another, and then quailed a little. "We must not be. To allow emotion of liking or disliking, of horror, or pity or self-indulgence, of fear or favor for anyone"-he sliced the air-"or any other human tenderness to sway our decision is to deny justice. And never believe that the drama here is our purpose-it is not! Our purpose is the measured and equal justice for all people, alive or dead, good or evil, strong or weak..." He hesitated. "Beautiful or hideous. The question is not whether Commander Durban was a good man, even a noble one. It is whether he was right in his collection of and deduction from evidence regarding the murder of Walter Figgis. Did he allow his human passions to direct his course? His dream of justice to hasten his judgments? His revulsion at the crime to make him too quick to grasp at the solution?

"You need to weigh in your minds why it was that he stopped his pursuit of Phillips, and then started it again. His notes do not say. Why do they not? You need to ask that, and not flinch from the answer."

He turned, paced back, and then faced the jury again. "He chose William Monk to succeed him. Why? He is a good detective. No one knows that better than I. But did Durban, who knew him only a few months, choose him because he saw in Monk a man of profound convictions like his own, of pity for the weak, rage against the abusive, and an unstoppable dedication? A man who would seek to close his own unfinished cases, out of honor and to pay a personal debt?"

The jurors' eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Rathbone. He knew it.

"You must judge the power and the compulsion that drove Monk to follow precisely the course that Durban had taken," he told them. "You have listened to Mrs. Monk and must have formed some opinion of her courage and her passion. This is a woman in the same mold as Florence Nightingale, a woman who has walked the fields of battle among the dead and the dying, and has not fainted or wept, or turned away, but has steeled her courage and made her decisions. With knife and needle, bandages and water, she has saved lives. What would she not do to bring to justice the man who abused and murdered children-including a boy so like the very mudlark she has all but adopted as her own?"

He lowered his voice. "Are you prepared to hang Jericho Phillips in the certainty, beyond any reasonable doubt, that those passionate, justifiably enraged people have made no error in their detached and analytical reasoning, and have found the right man, among all the teeming many who make their livings on this busiest river in the world?"

He stood motionless in the center of the floor. "If you are not certain, then for all our sakes, you must find him not guilty. Above all for the sake of the law, which must protect the weakest, the poorest, and the least loved of all of us, as much as it protects the strong, the beautiful, and the good. If you do not, then it becomes no protection at all, simply the instrument of our power and our prejudice. Gentlemen, I leave the judgment to rest not with your pity or your outrage, but with your honor to the sacred principle of justice, by which one day we will all be judged."

He sat down in total silence. Not another person moved even to rustle in their seats.

After a moment, in a hushed voice, Lord Justice Sullivan invited the jury to retire to consider its verdict.

They came back within the hour, looking at no one. They were unhappy, but they were resolute.

Sullivan asked their foreman to speak for them.

"Not guilty," he said in a low, clear voice.