Execution Dock

chapter Six
Monk could put it off no longer. He was at Rathbone's office 'when the clerk opened the door before nine in the morning.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk," he said with some surprise and a certain degree of discomfort. No doubt he knew more about many things than he ever disclosed, even to Rathbone himself. "I am afraid Sir Oliver is not in yet."

"I'll wait," Monk replied. "It is of some importance."

"Yes, sir. May I get you a cup of tea?"

Monk accepted and thanked him for his thought. As soon as he was seated he wondered if the clerk were also concerned that his master, whom he had served for eight years that Monk knew of, was in some kind of moral morass, and his life had taken a darker turn. Or was that whole idea fanciful?

They were all in a morass; Monk too. He could hardly blame Rathbone if pride, a professional arrogance, had made him take a case, even as ugly as Phillips's, to prove that he could win it. He was testing the law to its boundaries, holding it of value above the decency that was the ultimate safeguard of everyone. On the other hand, if Monk had not also been so arrogantly sure of his skill, he could have let Phillips die on the river, and none of the rest of it would have happened.

Rathbone came in half an hour later, dressed immaculately in pale gray and looking as effortlessly elegant as he always did.

"Good morning, Monk." Rathbone made it something of a question. He seemed undecided exactly what manner to assume. "A new case?"

Monk stood up and followed Rathbone into his office. It was tidy and casually elegant, like its inhabitant. There was a cut-glass decanter with an ornate silver stopper on the narrow side table. Two very beautiful paintings of oceangoing ships decorated the one wall on which there were no bookshelves. They were small, and heavily framed. Monk knew at a glance that they were very good indeed. There was at once a simplicity and a power to them that marked them as different from the usual.

Rathbone saw his glance and smiled, but he offered no comment. "What can I do for you, Monk?"

Monk had rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say, and how to begin, but now the words seemed contrived, revealing the vulnerability of his position and his recent total defeat. But he could not stand there saying nothing, and there was no point trying to trick Rathbone, of all people. Candor, at least on the surface, was the only possibility.

"I'm not sure," he replied. "I failed to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Phillips killed Figgis, and the crown didn't charge him with blackmail, pornography, or extortion. Obviously I can't reopen the first, no matter what proof I might find, but the others are still available."

Rathbone smiled bleakly "I hope you are not looking for me to assist you in that."

Monk opened his eyes wide. "Would that be against the law?"

"It would be against the spirit of it," Rathbone replied. "If not illegal, then certainly unethical."

Monk smiled, aware that it was a bleak, even sarcastic expression.

"Towards whom? Jericho Phillips, or the man who paid you to defend him?"

Rathbone paled very slightly. "Phillips is despicable," he said. "And if you can prosecute him successfully then you must do so. It would be a service to society. But my part in the due legal process is to prosecute or defend, as I am employed to do, but never to judge- Jericho Phillips or anyone else. We are equal before the law, Monk; that is the essence of any kind of justice."

He stood near the mantel shelf, leaning his weight rather more on one foot than the other. "If we are not, then justice is destroyed. If we charge a man, usually we are right, but not always. The defense is there to safeguard us all against those times when we are wrong. Sometimes mistakes have been made, lies told where we do not expect them, evidence tampered with or misused. Personal hatred or prejudice can be exercised, fears, favors, or self-interest can govern the testimony. Every case must be tested; if it breaks under the pressure, then it is unsafe to convict, and unforgivable to punish."

Monk did not interrupt him.

"You loathe Phillips," Rathbone continued, a little more at ease now. "So do I. I imagine every decent man and woman in the courtroom did. Then there is all the more necessity that we must be fair. If we, of all people, allow our revulsion to control our dealing with justice, what hope is there for anyone else?"

"An excellent speech." Monk applauded. "And absolutely true in every regard. But incomplete. The trial is over. I have already conceded that we were slipshod. We were so certain Phillips was guilty that we left loopholes for you to use, which you did. We can now never try him again for Fig's murder. Any new case would be separate. Are you warning me that you would defend him again, either by choice, or from some kind of necessity, because you owe him, or someone else who has his interests at heart?" Monk changed his position deliberately.

"Or possibly you, or your principal," he continued, "are bribed, coerced, or threatened by Phillips, and feel you have no choice but to defend him in any issue whatever?" It was a bold, even brutal question, and the moment he had said it, he doubted himself.

Rathbone was now very pale. There was no trace of friendship in his eyes. "Did you say 'bribed'?" he asked.

"I included it as a possibility," Monk replied, keeping his eyes and his voice steady. "I don't know the man, or woman, who paid you to defend Phillips. You do. Are you certain you know why?"

Something in Rathbone's stance changed. It was so slight Monk could not identify it, but he knew that a new idea had suddenly occurred to Rathbone, and it was one that troubled him, possibly only very little, but he was uncomfortable nevertheless.

"You may speculate as you please," Rathbone answered him, his voice almost as level as before, almost as assured. "But you must be aware that I cannot comment. My advice to other people is as confidential as is my advice to you."

"Of course," Monk said drily. "And what is your advice to me? I am commander of the River Police at Wapping. I need to prevent the crimes of violence, abuse, and extortion, of pornography and child murder that happen on my beat. I made a mess of Phillips murdering Figgis. How do I prevent the next one, and the one after?"

Rathbone did not answer, but he made no attempt to hide the fact that he gave the matter consideration.

He walked over to his desk.

"Our loyalties are different, Monk," he said at last. "Mine is to the law, and therefore is larger than yours. And I do not mean by that that it is better, simply that the law moves slowly, and its changes can stand for generations. Your loyalty is to your job, to the people on the river today, to their immediate danger or suffering. The simple answer is that I cannot advise you."

"Your loyalty is not larger," Monk replied. "You care for the interests of one man. I care for everyone in that community. Are you certain you want to tie your name and your commitment to that man, and therefore to whomever he in turn is bound, for whatever reason? We all have fears, debts, hostages to fortune. Do you know his well enough to pay the price?" He bit his lip. "Or are they really your own?"

"Ask me that again, Monk, and I shall take offense. I dance to nobody else's tune except the law's." Rathbone's eyes were steady, his face utterly without humor or gentleness. He drew in his breath. "And I might equally ask you if you are as certain of Durban 's loyalties as you would like to be. You have tied your reputation and your honor to his. Is that wise? Perhaps if I had any advice to give you, it would be to think far harder before you continue to pursue that. He may have had flaws of which you are unaware."

The blow cut deep, but Monk tried not to show it. He knew he must leave before the interview became a battle in which too much was said for either of them to retreat afterwards. It was on the brink of that point now.

"I didn't expect you to tell me his name, or what you know of him," he said aloud. "I came to advise you that in looking more closely into Phillips's business, I am also learning more of everyone he associated with, what he owed them and what they owed him. I cannot prosecute him for murdering Figgis, but I may be able to for pornography and extortion. That will obviously lead me much closer to those who patronize his business. There is much to suggest that they come from all walks of life."

"Even police," Rathbone said tartly.

"Of course," Monk agreed. "No one is excluded. Even women can have much to lose, or to fear, in those they love." And he turned and walked out the door, wondering if he had said far more than he wanted to.

Rathbone looked at the closed door with far greater disquiet than he had allowed Monk to see. Monk's questions had struck a nerve, and far from fading away, the unease they had caused was increasing. Arthur Ballinger was Margaret's father, a highly respected attorney with whom it was natural-indeed expected-that he would do business. Those facts had dulled his natural edge of inquiry as to why Ballinger had handled the subject of Phillips's defense for whoever it was who was financing it. Was it possibly even Phillips himself? Ballinger had said that it was not, but as Monk had pointed out, did Ballinger really know?

Rathbone admitted to himself that some of the evidence had shaken him more than he had expected. He could no longer dismiss it from his mind or pretend that it was an issue that could be forgotten.

He knew at least the first step he would take, and once that was made, he was able to address the rest of the day's business.

Seven o'clock in the evening found him in a cab on the way up Primrose Hill on the outskirts of London. The evening was bright and warm, and the sun was still high enough that there was no gold in the air yet, no lengthening haze to the light. There was a faint wind in the trees so that the shadows flickered. A man was walking his dog, and the animal raced around, busy with scents and movements, in a whole exciting world of its own.

The cab stopped; Rathbone alighted, paid the driver, and walked up the path to his father's door. He always came here when he had issues that troubled him and he needed to explain them, clarify the questions so that the answers emerged unclouded. He realized now, standing on the step, aware of the heavy perfume of honeysuckle, that since his marriage he had been here a lot less often than before. Was that because Henry Rathbone had been so fond of Hester, and Oliver had not wanted him to make the comparison with Margaret? The fact that he had raised the question was at least in part an answer.

The door opened and the manservant welcomed him in, his face expressionless except for the civility a good butler should always show. If anything were needed to confirm that he had been here too seldom lately, that was it.

In the sitting room French doors were open on to a lawn sloping down towards an orchard in full leaf, the blossom long finished. Henry Rathbone himself was walking up the grass towards the house. He was a tall, lean man, very slightly stooped. He had a mild, pointy face and blue eyes that combined both a burning intelligence and a kind of innocence, as if he would never really understand the pettier, grubbier things of life.

"Oliver!" he said with evident pleasure, increasing his pace. "How very nice to see you! What interesting problem brings you here?"

Oliver felt a sharp jolt of guilt. It was not always comfortable to be known so very well. He drew breath to deny that it was a problem that brought him, and then realized just in time how foolish that would be.

Henry smiled and came in through the doors. "Have you had supper?"

"No, not yet."

"Good. Then let us dine together. Toast, Brussels sprouts, pate, and I have a rather good Medoc. Then apple pie and clotted cream," Henry suggested. "And perhaps a spot of decent cheese, if you feel like it?"

"It sounds perfect." Oliver felt some of the tension slip away. This was probably the best companionship he had ever known: gentle, without manipulation, and also totally honest. There were no lies, either intellectual or emotional. Over the meal he would be able to explain, primarily to himself, the exact nature of his unease.

Henry spoke with his manservant, then he and Oliver walked the length of the garden to the orchard at the end, and watched the light deepen in color as the sky began to burn and fade in the west. The perfume of the honeysuckle became stronger. There was no sound but the humming of insects and in the distance a child calling out to a dog.

They ate in the sitting room with the food on a small table between them, the French doors still open to the evening air.

"So what is it that disturbs you-the case?" Henry prompted, reaching for a second slice of crisp, brown toast.

Oliver had avoided mentioning it. In fact, he could even have let it slide altogether and simply absorbed the peace of the evening. But that was cowardly, and a solution that would evaporate in a few hours. Eventually he would have to go home again, and, in the morning, back to the law.

It was difficult to explain, and as always, it must be done as if it were all merely hypothetical. As he tried to frame it in his mind, he became aware that much of the pain he felt was due to the fact that Monk and Hester were involved, and it was their opinion of him, their friendship and the damage to it, that hurt.

"It concerns a case," he began. "An attorney, to whom I owe certain duties and obligations, told me that a client of his wished to pay for the defense of a man accused of a particularly appalling crime. He said that he feared that the nature of the offense, and the man's occupation and reputed character, might make it impossible for him to receive a fair trial. He would need the best possible representation if justice were to be served. He asked me, as a favor to him, to defend this man."

Henry looked at him steadily. Oliver found the innocence of his gaze unnerving, but he was too experienced an interrogator himself to be maneuvered into speaking before he was ready to.

Henry smiled. "If you would prefer not to discuss it, please don't feel pressured to do so."

Oliver started to protest, then changed his mind. He had been wrong-footed so easily, and it was because he did feel somehow guilty, although he did not know of what.

"I accepted," he said aloud. "Obviously, or I would have no problem."

"Wouldn't you?" Henry asked. "Surely you would then have denied a friend, to whom you owed something. Or at least you felt as if you did. What had this accused man been charged with doing?"

"Killing a child."

"Deliberately?"

"Very. He tortured him first."

"Allegedly?"

"I am almost certain that he did. In my own mind I have no doubt."

"At the time you took the case?" There was no judgment in Henry's voice.

Oliver stopped for a moment, trying to remember how he had felt when Ballinger had first asked him and he had reviewed the facts.

Henry waited in silence.

"My reasoning was sophistry," Oliver admitted unhappily. "I thought he was very probably guilty, but that the law, to be perfect, must convict him only if it was proven. And I sensed an emotional vendetta against him as the driving force behind the case. I took the opposing side in order to give it some... balance."

"And perhaps out of a little hubris, because you have the skill to do it?" Henry asked gently. "And to show off a little, to the man who had asked you? You wished to impress him, or someone else who will come to know of it?"

"You know the case?" Oliver felt foolish, as if he had been playacting and been caught at it half-clothed.

Henry smiled. "Not at all, but I know you. I know your strengths and your weaknesses. If you did not feel guilty about it you would not be troubled. I assume you won? You would always try your best; you are incapable of anything else. Losing justly would not disturb you, if the man were guilty. Winning unjustly is another matter."

"It wasn't unjust," Oliver said immediately, and just as immediately knew that he had spoken too quickly "It was not by dishonest means," he corrected. "The prosecution was sloppy, too governed by emotion to make certain of all its facts."

"Which weakness you knew, and used," Henry extrapolated. "Why does that trouble you?"

Oliver looked down at the long-familiar carpet, its reds and blues like stained-glass windows in the last of the sunlight slanting low in through the open doors. The evening scent of the honeysuckle was now stronger than the wine.

Again Henry waited.

The silence grew deeper. Homing birds fluttered up across the darkening color of the sky.

"I knew some of the chief witnesses well enough to use my understanding of them to their disadvantage," Oliver admitted at last.

"And lost their friendship?" Henry asked very gently. "Did they not understand the necessity that you defend the man to the best of your ability? You are his advocate, not his judge."

Oliver looked up, surprised. The question cut closer to the truth than he wished, because now he must answer honestly, or deliberately choose to lie. Lying to his father had never been an option. It would unalterably destroy the foundation of his own identity, his belief in the goodness of what mattered. "Yes, they both understood that. What they didn't and still don't understand is why I chose to take that case when I didn't have to, knowing that the man now cannot be tried again, although he will certainly go back to the river, and continue with his filthy trade. If I am honest, I know he will almost certainly kill again. I could have left his defense to someone else who would not have had the privileged knowledge I had, and would have given him a defense adequate before the law, and gained a verdict of guilty, which I believe would have been the right one. I think that is what an equal contest would have produced."

Henry smiled. "You credit the man's escape to your superior ability?"

"Superior knowledge of the emotional involvement of the chief witnesses for the prosecution," Oliver corrected him.

"Are they not, by definition, always involved?"

Oliver hesitated.

"Police?" Henry asked. "Monk?"

"And Hester," Oliver said quietly, staring down at the carpet. "They cared about the boy's murder too much to be thorough. It was Durban 's one unfinished case, before he died. Too many debts of love and honor involved." He looked up and met his father's eyes.

"And you used them," Henry concluded.

"Yes."

"And your own debt of honor that caused you to take the case? Does Monk know of that? I imagine he will find out. Perhaps you had better find out first yourself? Have you perhaps caused Monk to pay your debt to someone?"

"No. No, I paid more than I owed, because I wanted to be comfortable," Oliver said with sudden lacerating honesty. "It was to Margaret's father, because I wanted to please her."

"At Hester's expense?"

Oliver knew why his father had asked that, and exactly why the hurt was there in his voice. Henry had always liked Hester better. He tried to hide it. He was fond of Margaret, and would have been kind to any woman Oliver had married. But Margaret could never make him laugh as Hester had, nor would he feel comfortable enough with her to argue for fun, or tell long, rambling tales of gentle adventure and dry humor. Margaret had dignity and grace, morality and honor, but she had not Hester's intelligence, nor her passion. Was she less, or more vulnerable?

Henry was watching his son closely. He saw the change in his eyes. "Hester will survive anything you can do to her, Oliver," he said. "That is not to say that she may not be hurt."

Oliver remembered Hester's face as she had stood in the witness box, the pain and surprise on it. She had not expected him to do such a thing, either to her or to Monk.

"Guilt?" Henry asked him. "Or fear that you have forfeited her good opinion of you?"

That was the crux of it. He was startled at how sharply it cut. He had frayed a tie that had been part of his happiness for a long time. He was not sure if it would eventually break altogether.

"She asked me if I knew where the money to pay me had come from," he said aloud. "And how it had been earned."

"Do you?"

"I know who paid it to me, of course, but I don't know who his client is, or why he should wish the accused man to be defended. And since I don't know who Ballinger's client is, naturally I don't know where the money came from." He looked at the floor. "I suppose I'm afraid it could be the accused man's own money, and I certainly know how that was made, by extortion and pornography."

"I see," Henry said quietly. "What is the decision you have to make?"

Oliver looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

Henry repeated the question.

Oliver thought for several moments. "Actually, I'm not sure. Perhaps there is no decision, except how I am going to come to terms with myself. I defended the man, and I took the money for it. I can't give it back. I could donate it to some charitable cause, but that doesn't undo anything. And if I am remotely honest, it wouldn't salve my conscience either. It smacks of hypocrisy." He smiled very slightly, a small, self-mocking gesture. "Perhaps I simply wanted to confess. I wanted to not feel alone in my sense of having done something vaguely questionable, something I think I may well be increasingly unhappy about."

"I believe so, Henry agreed. To admit that you are unsatisfied is a step forward. It takes far less energy to confess an error than it does to keep trying to hide it. Would you like another glass of Medoc? We might as well finish the bottle. And the pie too, if you care to. I think there is a spot more cream."

Rathbone arrived home quite late and was startled to find Margaret still up. He was even more surprised, unpleasantly so, to realize that he had counted on her being asleep, so that any explanation of his absence could be put off until the following morning. By that time he would be in a hurry to leave for his office, and could avoid the subject again.

She looked tired and anxious, yet she was trying to conceal it. She was worried because she did not know what to say to him.

He knew it, and wanted to touch her, tell her that such worries were superficial and of no lasting importance, but it seemed an unnatural thing to do. He realized with a jarring loneliness that they did not know each other well enough, intimately enough, to overcome such reservations of the mind.

"You must be tired," she said a little stiffly. "Have you had supper?"

"Yes, thank you. I dined with my father." Now he would have to find an explanation as to why he had gone to Primrose Hill without taking her. He could not tell her the truth, and he resented having put himself in the position where he needed to lie. This was undignified and ridiculous.

He was also suddenly and painfully aware that he would have told Hester the truth. They might have quarreled over it, even shouted at each other. In the end they would have gone to bed at opposite ends of the house, desperately miserable. Then at some point he would have gotten up and gone to her and resumed the quarrel, because he could not bear to live with it as it was. Emotion would have overridden sense, and pride. Need of her would have been stronger than the need for dignity, or the fear of making a fool of himself. Her ability to be hurt would have been more important than his own.

Margaret was more self-controlled. She would ache quietly, within, and he would never be certain of it. It would not show on her calmer, prettier, more traditional face. That was what made her safer for him, a far more comfortable and suitable wife than Hester would ever have been. He had never needed to worry that Margaret would say or do anything that would embarrass him.

Now he owed her an explanation, something resembling the truth, and yet not exposing her to the knowledge that her father had put him in the position of defending Phillips as a favor. She did not ever need to know that; in fact, unless Ballinger told her, she must not. It was a professional confidence.

"I needed to discuss a case," he said aloud. "Hypothetically, of course."

"I see," she said coolly. She felt excluded, and the feeling was too raw for her to hide it.

He must say more. "If I had explained it to you, you would have known who it was, which would have broken a confidence," he added. That at least was true. "I could not do that."

She wanted to believe him. Her eyes widened, hope stirring. "Did it help?"

"Perhaps. At least I understand my problem a little more clearly. The process of thought required to explain sometimes clarifies the mind."

She decided to leave it while she had some form of comfort, rather than press for more. "I'm glad. Would you like a cup of tea?" It was a politeness, something to say. She did not want him to accept; he could hear that in her tone.

"No, thank you. It is quite late. I think I shall simply go to bed."

She smiled very slightly. "I too. Good night."

While Monk was busy, with Scuffs help, searching for further evidence of the darker side of Phillips's trade, Hester set out to learn more about Durban's past, including such family as he might have had.

She needed to know because she was afraid of what Monk might find out that would hurt him, and by extension, eventually, the River Police, and that would hurt him even more.

She understood loyalty within a service, and how in dangerous circumstances where men's lives were often in jeopardy, loyalty must be absolute. Commanding officers were seldom afforded the luxury of time in which to ask or answer questions, and they did not explain themselves. They expected obedience. The army could not function without it. An officer who did not inspire loyalty in his men was ultimately a failure, whether or not that loyalty was warranted by either his ability or his character.

She walked down Gray's Inn Road towards High Holborn. It was hot and dusty, and her skirt was already grimed at the hem. She was passed by traffic, its wheels rattling over the cobbles, the sun glinting on polished harnesses and brass. Four huge shire horses passed, slowly pulling a brewers' dray. Cabs clattered by in the opposite direction, their horses' hooves loud, long whips curling in the air above the horses' ears. An open landau offered a glimpse of summer fashion, pale parasols to keep skin fair, the sound of laughter, the bright silk of a puffed sleeve and satin ribbons in the breeze.

Hester thought of blind loyalty in the army, the unquestioning obedience. Perhaps the alternative was chaos, but she had seen the death and it had stunned her, bruised her heart and mind forever.

She had been on the heights of Sebastopol during the Crimean War, and watched the slaughter at the charge of the Light Brigade into the Russian guns. She had tried afterwards to rescue some of the few mangled but still alive. The senselessness of it still overwhelmed her. She was very uncertain that she would give blind loyalty to anyone. She had tasted its cost.

At the bottom of Gray's Inn Road she turned into High Holborn and walked to the left. When there was a lull in the traffic she crossed over, kept walking, and then turned right into Castle Street. She knew exactly where she was going and for whom she was looking.

Still it took her another half hour to find him, but she was delighted when she learned the reason. She was told at his lodgings that he had obtained a job as a clerk at a trading house, a skill he had acquired since losing a leg in the Crimea nine years ago. At that time even writing his name had been a challenge to his literacy.

When she arrived at the trading house she controlled her urgency as well as she could, but the head clerk still looked at her dubiously, chewing his lip as he considered whether he would give permission for one of his employees to stop work and speak with her.

She smiled. "Please?" she said with as much charm as she could muster. "I was the nurse who looked after him when he lost his leg at Sebastopol. I'm trying to find another man, or at least learn where to look, and I think Mr. Fenneman could help me."

"Well... yes, of course," the head clerk said nervously. "I... I suppose a few moments wouldn't hurt. Sebastopol? Really? He never said, you know."

"People don't like talking about it," she explained. "It was pretty dreadful."

"I've heard others talk," he argued.

"So have I," she agreed. "Usually they were not there, they only heard about it from tales. The ones who saw it say nothing. I don't actually like talking about it myself, and I only experienced the aftermath, searching among the dead for those still alive that we might be able to help."

The head clerk shuddered, his face a little paler. "I'll fetch Mr. Fenneman for you."

Fenneman appeared a few moments later. He was thinner than the last time she had seen him, and of course no longer in army uniform. He had a wooden peg fitted to the stump of his lost leg, a little above the knee, and he moved with one crutch, balancing quite efficiently. She still felt a little sick when she remembered the agile young man he had been, and the desperate struggle she had had to save him. It had been she who had actually sawn through the bone in the shattered remnants of his leg, unable even to render him unconscious during the agony of it. But she had stopped the bleeding, and with help, gotten him from the battlefield to the hospital.

Now his face lit with pleasure at seeing her. "Miss Latterly! Fancy finding you here in London! Mr. Potts said as I could help you. I'd be happy to, in any way I can." He stood in front of her, smiling, leaning sideways a little to level his weight on his crutch.

She wondered whether to ask if there was somewhere he could sit, and decided against it. He sat at his work, and it might insult him, obliquely, if she took such notice of his disability as to instantly suggest that he could not stand.

"It's good to see you looking so well," she said instead. "And with a good job."

He blushed, but it was with self-conscious pleasure.

"I'm looking for information about a man who died about the turn of the year," she hurried on, aware that the head clerk would be watching the seconds tick by. "His name was Durban. He was commander of the River Police at Wapping, and I believe you grew up in Shadwell. He never spoke about himself, so I hardly know where to begin to look for his family. Can you suggest anyone who might help me?"

" Durban?" he said thoughtfully. "Can't say I know anything about his family, or where he came from, but I heard he was a good man. But Corporal Miller, d'you remember him? Little man, with red hair, and we called him Dusty, but then we call all Millers 'Dusty.' "He smiled at the recollection. In spite of his lost leg, his memories of the companionship in army life were still good. "I can give you the names of two or three others, if you like?"

"Yes, please," she accepted quickly. "And where I can find them, if you know that."

He swung around on his crutch and moved rapidly back to the bench where he worked. He wrote on a sheet of paper, dipping his quill in the inkwell and concentrating on his penmanship. He returned several moments later and handed her the sheet covered with beautiful script letters. He was watching her, pride in his face, anxious to see if she observed his achievement.

She said the names and addresses, and looked up at him. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I know now if I ever want a job as a clerk not to come here. This standard is something I couldn't achieve. Seeing you has lightened a dark day for me. I'll go and look for these men. Thank you."

He blinked a little, uncertain what to say, and ended by simply smiling back.

It took her the rest of the day and half the next one, but she gained bits and pieces from all the men whose names Fenneman had given her, and gathered a picture of Durban 's own account of his youth. Apparently he had been born in Essex. His father, John Durban, had been headmaster of a boys' school there, and his mother a happy and contented woman about the home and the schoolhouse. It had been a large family: several sisters and at least one brother, who had been a captain in the merchant navy, travelling the South Seas, and the coast of Africa. There was no hint of darkness at all, and Durban 's own official police record was exemplary.

The village of his birth was only a few miles away along the Thames Estuary. It was still barely past noon. She could be there by two o'clock, find the schoolhouse and the parish church, look at the records, and be home before dark. She felt a twinge of guilt at the whisper of caution that drove her to do it. This was Durban 's own account. She would never have doubted him before the trial, and the questions Rathbone had awoken in her.

But the lean, intelligent face of Oliver Rathbone kept coming back into her mind, and the necessity to check, to prove, to be able to answer every question with absolute certainty.

She spent the money and traveled in a crowded carriage out to the stop nearest the village, and then walked the last couple of miles in the wind and sun, the water of the Estuary glinting bright to the south. She went to the schoolhouse, and to the church. There was no record whatsoever of anyone named Durban -no births, no deaths, no marriages. The schoolhouse had every headmaster's name on its board, from 1823 to the present date. There was no Durban.

She felt sick, confused, and very afraid for Monk. As she walked back towards the railway station and the journey home, the road was suddenly hard, her feet hot and sore. The light on the water was no longer beautiful, and she did not notice the sails of the barges coming and going. The ache inside herself for the lies and the disillusion ahead outweighed such peripheral, physical things. And the question beat in her mind, over and over-Why? What did the lies conceal?

In the morning, feet still aching, she was at the clinic on Portpool Lane, intensely relieved that Margaret was not present, who perhaps just now found their meetings as unhappy as Hester did.

She had visited all the patients they currently had, and attended to a little stitching of wounds and the repair of a dislocated shoulder, when Claudine came into the room and closed the door behind her. Her eyes were bright, and she was slightly flushed. She did not wait for Hester to speak.

"I've got a woman in one of the bedrooms," she said urgently. "She came in last night. She has a knife wound and bled rather badly..."

Hester was alarmed. "You didn't tell me! Why didn't you have me see her?" She rose to her feet. "Is she...?"

"She's all right," Claudine said quickly, motioning for Hester to sit down again. "She's not nearly as bad as I let her think she is. I spread the blood on to a lot of clothes so it would look dreadful, and she would be afraid to leave."

"Claudine! What on earth...?" Now Hester was frightened not only for the woman, but for Claudine's sanity.

Claudine interrupted her, her face even more flushed. "I needed to speak to you privately before you go to her. She might be able to tell you something important, if you go about it the right way." She barely paused for breath. "She knows Jericho Phillips-has for a long time, since he was a child. Knew Durban a bit also."

"Really?" Now she had Hester's entire attention. "Where is she?" She had started towards the door by the time Claudine replied, and had her hand on the knob before she turned back to thank her, her own voice now also filled with urgency.

Claudine smiled. It was a start, but she knew it could still prove fruitless. She needed to help.

Hester walked quickly along the corridor, up a flight of stairs, and along another, even narrower hall until she came to the last, quite good-sized room at the end. It was out of the way of the normal traffic within the clinic. Sometimes they used it for people who had infectious illnesses, or for those they feared were terminally ill. It was large enough for a second cot where a nurse could catch short naps, so as not to leave anyone alone in their last hours.

The woman inside was far from dying. Claudine had indeed made it look dramatic. There were still bloodstained clothes and bandages lying in a basin and padding sitting on the small table, needles and silk for stitching wounds, and a carafe of water.

The woman looked frightened, lying in the bed with her head propped on pillows and her injured arm lying swathed in bandages beside her, although she had good color in her cheeks, and none of the hollow-eyed stare of the desperately injured.

"Hello," Hester said softly, closing the door behind her. "My name is Mrs. Monk. I've come to look at your wound, and see what I can do for you. What's your name?"

"Mina," the woman said hoarsely, fear choking her voice.

Hester felt a strong twinge of guilt, but did not allow it to alter her intent. She pulled up the hard-backed chair until she was close enough to the bed to work comfortably, then began as gently as she could to unwind the bandages and examine the wound, without taking off the final gauze, which would certainly start it bleeding again. Claudine had done a very good job of cleaning it and stitching the raw edges together. The jagged knife slash was not as deep or as dangerous as Mina had been allowed to believe.

Hester began to talk casually, as if merely to take Mina's mind from what she was doing. It was a rule of the clinic never to ask patients for details they were unwilling to give, unless it was necessary for the treatment of whatever was wrong with them. Sometimes the conditions of where they lived mattered very much, especially if it was mainly on the streets with no bed, no shelter, no water, and only such food as they could beg. Then they would keep them in until they were considerably better. One or two had even remained here as permanent help, paid with lodging and food. Often the sudden new and respectable occupation was a benefit beyond price.

After the usual account of her circumstances, in answer to a question from Hester, Mina went on to describe certain aspects of her daily life, including some dangerous clients past and present.

"And you really know Jericho Phillips?" Hester said in awe.

"Yeah, I know 'im," Mina replied with a smile. It was oddly attractive, in spite of a chipped front tooth, no doubt also sustained in a fight. "'E weren't that bad, at least for business."

"Your business, or his?" Hester asked with a smile.

"Mine!" Mina said indignantly. "I in't got nothin' ter do wif 'is."

Hester refused to allow her imagination to picture it. She concentrated on examining the wound. Most of the bleeding had stopped; it only seeped through the stitches, but it looked raw and painful. She kept talking, both to probe for information, and to keep Mina's mind off the pain as she cleaned away the dried blood and closed the edges of the flesh a little more, cutting away bloodied gauze. "I suppose you've seen a side of him nobody else has," she remarked.

"Oh, I in't the only one." Mina found that amusing. "I just mebbe know'd 'im longer. But I got more sense'n ter say so. Don't like bein' reminded o' the past, 'e don't. Rotten poor, 'e were. Always cold an 'ungry, an' knocked about summink wicked. 'Is ma were a bad one. Temper like one o' them rats wot comes out o' the sewers sometimes. Fight anyone."

"What about his father?" Hester asked.

Mina laughed. "Came off some ship, an' then got right back on it," she answered drily, keeping her eyes tightly closed in case she accidentally caught sight of the wound. "Lived down by the river, almost in the water, 'e did. Always cold, poor little sod. Now 'e goes barmy if 'e 'ears anythin' drippin'."

"But he lives in a boat!" Hester protested.

"Yeah. Daft, in't it?" Mina agreed. "I knew a feller once 'oo were scared stiff o' rats. Dreamed about 'em, 'e did. Woke up sweatin' like a pig. 'Ear 'im screamin' sometimes. Send yer blood cold, it would. Made 'isself keep a rat in a cage, right there in 'is room. Could 'ear the bleedin' thing scrapin' its silly little feet an' squeakin'." She shivered convulsively without realizing it, moving her arm so that Hester momentarily held the scissors away.

"Do you think that's what Jericho Phillips does, with the water?" she asked curiously. She imagined a man forcing himself to live with his haunting fears until he had inured himself to them and no longer panicked. It was the ultimate control. In some ways that might be the most frightening thing about him.

She started to rebandage the wound as gently as she could, while thinking of the bullied child, afraid of the cold, afraid of dripping water, who had grown into a cruel man steeled against every weakness, above all his own. She was not sure if she could pity him or not.

"Are you frightened of him?" she asked Mina when she was nearly finished.

Mina kept her eyes closed. "Nah! Keep me mouf shut, do wot 'e wants, an' 'e pays good. In't me 'e 'ates."

Hester put a few stitches in to keep the bandage from unraveling. "Who does he hate?" she asked.

" Durban," Mina replied.

"He was only doing his job, like all the River Police," Hester pointed out. "You can open your eyes now. I've finished."

Mina looked at it with admiration. "Yer make shirts an' all?" she asked.

"No. I only stitch skin, and bandages. I'm not very good at anything more than mending."

"Yer talk like yer 'ad servants ter do it for yer," Mina remarked.

"I used to."

"On 'ard times, are yer?" There was sympathy in Mina's voice. "Yer want money fer that?" She indicated her arm. "I in't got none. But I'll pay yer when I 'ave."

"No, I don't want money, thank you. You're welcome to a little help," Hester replied. "Did Phillips hate Durban in particular? I think Durban hunted him pretty hard."

"'Course 'e did," Mina agreed. "'Ated each other, dint they?"

Hester felt the chill back inside her.

"Why?"

"Natural, I s'pose." Mina gave a slight shrug on her uninjured side. "Grew up together, dint they? Durban done good, an' Phillips done bad. Gotter 'ate each other, don't they?"

Hester said nothing. Her mind was whirling, crowded with lies and truths, dishonor and light, fear, and gaping, unanswered questions.

Gently she finished the rebandaging, putting the old gauze and linen aside to be washed.