Execution Dock

chapter Eight
Rathbone sat at his own dinner table and felt curiously with-/out appetite. The room was beautiful, greatly improved from its original, rather sparse elegance, since Margaret's advent into the house. He was not quite sure what it was specifically that was changed, but it was somehow warmer than it had been before. The table had the same clean lines of Adam mahogany, the ceiling still had the heavy plaster borders of acanthus leaves. The blue-and-white curtains were different, far less heavy than before. There were touches of gold here and there, and a bowl of pink roses on the table. They gave both warmth and a sense of ease to the room, as if it were lived in.

He drew in his breath to thank Margaret, because of course it was she who had caused the changes, then he let the moment slip, and ate some more fish instead. It would sound artificial, as if he were searching for something polite to say. They should be talking about real things, not trivia like the curtains and flowers.

She was concentrating on her food, looking down at her plate. Should he compliment her on it? It was she who had engaged the cook. What was she thinking about, with that slight frown between her brows? Had she any idea what was turning over and over in his mind? She had been proud of him for winning the Phillips case. He could remember the brightness in her face, the way she had walked, head high, back even a little straighter than usual. Because it was clever? Did skill matter so much, ahead of wisdom? Was it because she was on the winning side, and Hester had lost?

Or had she not been proud at all, but concealed it very well with that small show of defiance? And loyalty? Was that towards him, or her father? Did she even know that it was her father who had represented Phillips, indirectly? Had she any idea what Phillips was really like? Rathbone was only just beginning to appreciate that himself How could she know more? And if she could be loyal, could he not at least do as much?

He finished the fish. "I don't know exactly what the changes to this room are," he said aloud, "but it is much pleasanter to eat in. I like it."

She looked up quickly, her eyes questioning. "Do you? I'm glad. It wasn't anything very big."

"Sometimes it is small things that make the difference between beauty and ordinariness," he answered.

"Or good and evil?" she asked. "Small to begin with."

This was becoming a conversation he did not wish to enter.

"That is too philosophical." He looked down at his plate. "A little heavy for the fish course." He smiled very slightly.

"Would you prefer it with the meat?" she asked, her voice perfectly steady. The thought flickered into his mind that Hester would have told him not to be pompous, and charged ahead with the conversation anyway. That was one of the reasons he had hesitated to ask her to marry him, and been so much more comfortable with Margaret.

"I am not sure that I know enough about the origins of good or evil to discuss them at all," he said frankly. "But if you wish to, I suppose I could try." It was meant to dissuade her. She would defer to him; he had been married long enough to know that of her. It was how her mother had taught her to keep her husband's regard.

Hester would have given him an answer that would have scorched his emotions and left him stinging... and fiercely alive. Perhaps he would not always have trusted her to be the lady that was Mrs. Ballinger's ideal. But... he left the thought there. It must not be pursued, not now. Not ever.

He forced himself to look at Margaret. She had her head bent, but she caught his movement and looked up at him.

"I have compared good and evil enough today, my dear," he said quietly. "I can see too much of both sides, and the cost of each. I should very much prefer to be able to speak with you of something pleasanter, or at least less full of pitfalls and failures, and mistakes that we see too late to help."

Her face filled with concern. "I'm sorry. I should prefer something more agreeable as well. I have spent the day trying to raise money for the clinic, mostly from people who have far more than they need, and are still desperate for something further. So many women of high fashion dress not to please the man they love, but to spite the women they fear."

He had not intended to, but he found himself smiling. Some of the knots inside him eased. They were moving onto surer ground. "I wonder if they have any idea that you have observed them so accurately," he remarked.

She looked alarmed, although not entirely without a flash of humor.

"My goodness, I hope not! They avoid me rapidly enough as it is, because they know I shall ask them for money, if I can manage it-at times and in places where it will be hard for them to refuse."

His eyes widened. "I hadn't realized you were so ruthless."

"You weren't meant to," she retorted.

A flicker of genuine admiration touched him bringing with it a pleasure he clung to. "I shall immediately forget," he promised. "Let us speak of other things. I am sure there must be some current event that is worthy of debate."

The following day was Saturday; no courts were in session. Normally Rathbone would have spent at least the morning looking through documents for the following week. Finally he made up his mind to face the issue that had been troubling him for several days. He was at last honest enough to admit that ignoring it was an evasion. There would be no right time, no appropriate words.

He excused himself to Margaret without explanation. This was not out of the ordinary; he had deliberately developed the habit of not telling her, often because it was confidential. He said simply that he would return before lunch.

It was a short cab ride to Arthur Ballinger's house. He would have preferred to have this conversation in offices, where there was no possibility of domestic interruption, and no need whatever for Margaret's mother to know that he had called. But he felt he could no longer put it off, or risk professional obligations delaying it yet further.

The maid welcomed him, and he hoped for one breathless moment that he might escape without having to explain himself to his mother-in-law. But she must have heard the door because she came down the stairs with a broad smile, greeting him warmly.

"How delightful to see you, Oliver. You look very well. I hope you are?" She meant "very formal," because he was in his business clothes. He wished Arthur Ballinger would appreciate the gravity of what he was going to ask. Neither friendship nor ties of marriage altered the moral issues involved.

"In excellent health, thank you, Mama-in-law," he replied. "And so is Margaret. I am sure she would have sent you her best wishes had she known I was coming; however, the matter is confidential. It is Mr. Ballinger I need to see. I believe he can advise me in a matter of some importance. Is he at home?" He knew it was Ballinger's habit, as it was his own, to prepare for the following week on a Saturday morning. For one thing, it enabled him to avoid the various domestic or social requirements his wife might ask of him.

"Why, yes, certainly he is at home," she answered, a little crestfallen. She had been hoping it was a personal visit, to lighten the tedium of the morning. "Does he expect you?"

"No. I am afraid I have only just resolved to consult him. I apologize for the inconvenience."

"It is no inconvenience at all." She brushed it aside. "You are always welcome." And with a swish of her abundant skirt she led him across the hall to the study door, where she knocked. At the sound of Ballinger's voice, she opened it and announced Rathbone's presence.

Ballinger had no possible choice but to invite Rathbone in, as if he were delighted to see him. However, as soon as the door was closed, the tension was palpable in the air, in spite of the pretense. They both remained standing.

Ballinger hesitated for a moment, obviously debating how frank to be, and decided on the least possible frankness. "I can't imagine what you could wish my advice for, but of course if I can help then I shall be happy to. Please make yourself comfortable." He waved to the other large armchair opposite his own. "Would you care for tea? Or perhaps something cold?"

Rathbone could afford no time for niceties, and he knew acceptance would mean at least two interruptions, one to request the tea and a second to accept it. "No, thank you," he declined. "I don't wish to disturb you longer than necessary." He sat down, mostly to establish his intention to remain until the business was concluded.

Ballinger sat also, so as not to give the impression that he was urging Rathbone to leave.

Rathbone plunged in. It was not going to get easier with delay. "The Phillips case still troubles me," he admitted. He saw Ballinger's face tighten, so slightly that it could have been a trick of the light, except that he had not moved. "The questioning of police motives was fair, in principle. In fact, it is a tactic one has to consider in any case."

"You conducted the case brilliantly," Ballinger said. "And there is nothing even remotely questionable about it. I don't understand what it is that could disturb you now." The moment he spoke, he realized his mistake. It allowed Rathbone the opening he would otherwise have had to create.

Rathbone smiled very slightly. "I was naturally very careful not to ask Phillips directly if he was guilty. I behaved as if he were not, as I was obliged to, but I find myself more and more convinced that in fact he did murder that child..." He saw Ballinger wince, and ignored it. "And probably others as well. I know that the River Police are still investigating him, in the hope of building a different case, and I have no doubt at all that they will be a great deal more careful the second time."

Ballinger shifted very slightly in his chair.

"If they do bring another case," Rathbone continued, "is your client going to wish you to deal with it again? Or, if I may put it more plainly, is this debt of honor now satisfied, or does it stretch to defending Jericho Phillips indefinitely, whatever the charge?"

Ballinger flushed a painful color, and Rathbone felt guilty for having placed him in such a situation. It was going to make friendship between them impossible. He had already crossed a boundary that could not be forgotten. This man was his wife's father; the price was high.

"If you cannot answer for him, which would be perfectly understandable, perhaps proper," he continued, "then may I speak to him myself?" It was what he had wanted from the outset. The anonymity of the man who would pay to defend Phillips had always troubled him. Now, with so much darker a picture emerging of Phillips's trade, it disturbed him even more. "Who is he?"

"I am afraid I cannot tell you," Ballinger replied. There was no wavering in him, not an instant of uncertainty. "The matter is one of complete confidentiality, and, to be professional, I cannot tell you. Certainly I shall convey to him your concern. However, I think it may be premature. The River Police have not arrested Phillips or laid any new charge. Naturally they are distressed at the failure of their case, and at the ensuing suggestion that the late Commander Durban was of questionable competence, even of conduct not always becoming to his office." He moved his hands in a slight gesture of regret. "It is most unfortunate for their reputation that their new man, Monk, seems to be cut from the same cloth. But we cannot alter the law to suit the weaknesses of those who administer it. I am sure you would be among the first to agree."

He smiled very slightly; the warmth was on his lips but not in his eyes. "Your own words in defense of the law still ring in my mind. It must be for all, or it is eventually for no one. If we build either reward or punishment on our own likes, loyalties, or even sense of outrage, then justice is immediately eroded." He shook his head, his gaze direct, candid. "The time will come when we ourselves are disliked or misunderstood, or strangers, different from our judges in race or class or creed, and if their sense of justice depends upon their passion rather than their morality, who is to speak for us then, or defend our right to the truth?" He leaned forward. "That is more or less what you said to me, Oliver, here in this room, when we spoke of this very subject earlier. I have never admired any man's honor more than I did yours, and still do."

Rathbone had no answer. His emotions were intensely troubled, and his mind was utterly wrong-footed, off balance as a runner who is tripped, and suddenly finds his own speed his enemy. It flashed into his mind to wonder if the person who had paid to have Phillips defended not only wanted it, but far more than that, needed it. Was he one of Phillips's clients, who could not afford to have him found guilty? Who, exactly, did Phillips cater to? Considering Rathbone's fee for his services, a man of very considerable means indeed. He felt a sharp stab of guilt for that. It was a sizable amount of money, and now it felt dirty in his hands. He could buy nothing with it that would bring him pleasure.

Ballinger was waiting, watching and judging his reactions.

Rathbone was angry, first with Ballinger for knowing so well how to use him, then with himself for being used. Then another thought occurred to him, which was painful, halting his emotions with an icy hand. Was the man a friend of Ballinger's? A man he had possibly known in his youth, before this desperate twist of hunger had imprisoned him in loneliness, shame, deceit, and then terror? Does one ever quite forget the innocence one has known in the past, the times of greater hope, unforced kindness, among boys before they became men? Or the debts incurred then?

Perhaps it was even worse than that? It would be a double pressure, a debt compounded, if it were his other son-in-law, Margaret's sister's husband. It could be. All ages and types of men were subject to hungers that tortured and in the end destroyed both the victim and the oppressor in their grip.

Or was it Mrs. Ballinger's brother, or one of her sisters' husbands? The possibilities were many, all of them harsh and full of entangled obligations and pities, loyalties too complex to untangle, and where words did nothing whatever to ease shame or despair.

Without warning, Rathbone's anger was overtaken by pity. He searched for something to say, and before he found it, there was a tap on the door, but it did not open. It had to be the maid.

Ballinger rose to his feet and went to the door. A low voice spoke with the deferential tones of a servant. Ballinger thanked him and turned back to Rathbone.

"I'm sorry, but I have an unexpected visitor. A client who needs urgent help, and I cannot put him off. Anyway, I think I have explained my position, and there is nothing further I can add. I apologize." He stood as if waiting to usher Rathbone out, and the invitation to leave was implicit.

Rathbone stood up. He had no idea who this new client was, and the fact that Ballinger did not introduce him was not remarkable. Business with one's attorney could be sensitive. In fact, if one called personally on a Saturday morning, then it was at the very least extraordinary and unexpected.

"Thank you for your courtesy in receiving me, without notice," he said with as much grace as he could muster.

"Not at all," Ballinger replied. "Were there not an emergency, it would have been a pleasure to offer you tea, and to speak longer."

They shook hands, and Rathbone went out into an empty hall. Whoever had called to see Ballinger had been shown into another room, at least until Rathbone had left. It flashed into his mind to wonder, with some discomfort, if it was someone he would have recognized. It was not a pleasant thought.

As he was riding home in a cab, a certain degree of anxiety would not leave his mind. If Phillips had among his clientele men with the money to pay Rathbone's fee, and to call on Ballinger uninvited on a Saturday morning, what else could they do, if pressured with sufficient threat of exposure?

Not that he knew that Ballinger's guest this morning had anything to do with Phillips, but the possibility would not leave his mind. Ballinger had made clear that the client was someone to whom he owed loyalty, whatever the nature of his client's problem.

Rathbone was troubled as he rode through the bustling Saturday streets with their tall, elegant facades, their carriages with matched pairs, the horses' coats gleaming, footmen in perfect livery, fashionable ladies. Who else could Jericho Phillips call upon, if he felt threatened by Monk's continuing investigation? And what power might such men have, and be willing to use, to save their reputations?

And, colder and closer to him than that, whose side would Margaret be on, if any of it came into the open, or at the very least, into family hostility? Her father of a lifetime, or her husband of a year? He did not wish to know the answer to that. Either would be painful, and he hoped profoundly that she would never be put to that test. And yet if she were not, wouldn't he still wonder?

Monk took a brief respite over the weekend. He and Hester walked in the park, climbing the slow rise and standing close to each other on the top in the sun. They stared down at the brilliant light on the river below them, watching the boats ply up and down, like long-legged flies, oars dipping and rising. Monk knew exactly the sound the water would make off the blades, if he were close enough to hear it. From this distance, the music drifted in snatches and the breeze was cool, rustling the leaves, mellowing the sharp smell of the tide with the sweetness of grass.

But Monday was different. He was met by Orme on Princes Stairs, on his own side of the river, even before he got on the ferry to take him over to the Wapping Police Station. His uniform was immaculate, but his face was weary, as if even at seven in the morning he had already worked long and exhaustingly.

"Morning, sir," he said, standing to attention. "I've a ferry here for you, if you like?"

Monk met his eyes and felt a tightening in his stomach, a slow clench into a knot. "Thank you," he acknowledged. "Have you learned something since I was in?" He followed Orme to the edge of the dock-side and down the steps to where the ferry was rocking gently in the wash of a passing lighter. They stepped in, and the ferryman set out for the farther bank.

"Yes, sir," Orme said quietly, dropping his voice so they would not be overheard above the creak of the oars and the hiss of the water. "I'm afraid charges've been laid against Mr. Durban, though he's dead an' not here to face them or tell them the truth. And if you ask me, that's a coward's way of getting at a man you didn't 'ave the courage to face in life." His voice shook with indignation, and far more powerful than that, a deep, unconcealable pain.

"Then we'll have to answer for him," Monk responded instantly, and realized as the words were on his lips just how rash they were. But he was prepared to follow through. The cowardice of it was despicable. "What are they charging? And for that matter, who is saying it?"

Orme's face was stiff. He was a quiet man, gentle, but perhaps lacking in breadth of thought. Once or twice he had hinted at a religious upbringing. Certainly he could be suspicious of laughter, except of the most good-natured sort. He was offended to have to say the words that Monk had asked of him.

They were pulling out into the mainstream of the river now, bucking a little against the strength of the tide. The slap of the water was louder, and Orme had to raise his voice against it. "Government officer, sir, a couple of magistrates. They're saying that he got hold o' boys for Phillips in his trade. They're using the same evidence we found as to how Mr. Durban helped some o' the mudlarks and pickpockets and lookouts and sweeps' boys turn to honest work. They're saying that he sent them Phillips's way, into use for prostitution, an' playacting, and photographs." He swallowed with difficulty.

Monk could see he was having trouble even framing the thoughts that followed. "Yes?" he prompted, finding his own throat tight.

"An' that Mr. Durban fell foul o' Phillips an' wanted to put him away so's he could take the business an' run it for himself," Orme finished wretchedly. He looked at Monk, his eyes imploring a denial, and the will and strength to fight.

Monk felt sick. The evidence he had uncovered about Durban could very easily be used to support such allegations. It was all capable of being interpreted against him as well as for him. Why had he pursued Phillips so erratically, harrying him one month, and then ignoring him the next? Was it to protect Reilly, or another boy like him? Or was it to further his own interests in the business, or worse, to elicit money from Phillips? Was it a personal war? Yes, of course it was! Everything pointed to that, and Orme knew it even better than he did, even if he did not know why. Durban had loathed Phillips with a driving passion. At times it had consumed him. His temper had exploded. He had gone far beyond the limits of the law. But he had also used his power of office to coerce people into what he wanted them to do. Some would say he had abused it.

And who was Mary Webber? No one seemed to know. No one else had connected her name to the case anywhere.

Why had Durban lied about his own origins? Was it the ordinary human weakness that tempts everyone to make themselves more important than they are, more interesting, more talented, more successful? What was his past really that he denied its entirety?

Orme was still watching him, waiting for a word of encouragement. He must feel dreadfully alone, abandoned to a fight for which he had been given no weapons.

"We have to learn the truth," Monk said firmly. "Nothing else is going to help us in this. And we need to be careful whom we trust. There seems to be someone working against us."

"More than one," Orme said unhappily, but his eyes were steady. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's something else. There's talk of the Metropolitan Police taking us over completely, so we don't even have our own commander anymore, just come under the nearest local station. We wouldn't have the river anymore, just our bit at the bank. The news papers are saying we're corrupt, an' we need sorting out, most of us got rid of. They even said something in the House of Commons! As if we hadn't looked after them near a hundred years! No loyalty. One bad patch, an' they're on us like wolves."

Doubt lurched up inside Monk, like nausea. They were almost at the far bank by the Wapping Stairs. They would reach it and have to go ashore in minutes, then there would be no more time to speak without the risk of being overheard. It would take only minutes to cross the open dockside and reach the station.

Orme was waiting for him to make the decision whether to go forward, fight all the way, or retreat now before even more was exposed, and perhaps all reputation was lost.

They were at the steps. The ferry bumped at the landing, wood against stone. There was no more time. Monk paid the ferryman and climbed out a step behind Orme.

He could not ask anyone else to make the decision. He was the leader; he must lead. Durban would have; that was one thing of which he was certain. And evasion, willing blindness, was no way out. Whatever was discovered, at least it was a way to move forward. Discretion was sometimes an answer, cowardice never. Which was this?

He followed Orme across the quayside to the station, then inside, still without answering.

They had to spend the rest of the morning dealing with the usual River Police business of thefts, smuggling, and the occasional violence. By the middle of the day Monk was back near Wapping again, knowing that with luck he would have most of the afternoon to think about Durban.

Since the charge was that Durban had procured boys, first for Phillips, then later with the intention of using them in the same trade himself, he knew he should go back and retrace every connection Durban had had with boys, seek the proof his enemies would use, pursue it as ruthlessly as they would, and then hopefully not find it. For that he would need Scuffs help.

"South bank, please," he said to the ferryman. "Rotherhithe."

"Thought you said Wapping!" the man responded tartly.

"I did. I've changed my mind. Princes Stairs, and wait for me. I'm going up to Paradise Place, and I'll be back."

The man nodded agreement.

Monk settled back in the stern as they swung around and headed across the river. He knew from the man's manner that word had already spread that the River Police were in trouble. Even in these few hours their influence was beginning to erode.

Monk had a sudden moment of helplessness, a sickening doubt that he would never stop the destruction. How could he find the skill to prevent the rising confidence of the thieves and chancers up and down the river, the thousands of men who were kept reasonably honest only by the certainty of the River Police's authority, the knowledge that crime was punished immediately and effectively? To some extent it was a matter of bravado, of who kept their nerve the longest. Since the days of Harriott and Colquhoun, the River Police had had the upper hand. But now the greedy on the river were gathering, strengthening, circling to attack.

When they reached the far side he went immediately to Paradise Place. He opened the door and shouted for Scuff as loudly as he could. He tried to think of a suitable punishment if the boy had gone, and knew there was none. He had no right to give commands, except those pertaining to conduct in the house. And yet Scuff was roughly eleven, a child in years if not in experience. He might have strong and subtle knowledge of the street, but his emotions were still appallingly easy to hurt, as vulnerable as any other child's.

Scuff appeared at the top of the stairs, his hair damp and a clean shirt on, which was a little too large for his narrow shoulders, and hanging over the top of his trousers.

"Ah!" Monk said with relief. "I need your help. Are you busy?"

"No!" Scuff said eagerly, starting down. Then he remembered his dignity and slowed. "Not very. What're we gonna do?"

Monk had already decided to tell him the truth. "People are saying some very ugly things about Mr. Durban. In fact, they are actually going to charge that he was guilty of getting boys for Phillips to use on his boat, knowing what it was for."

"That's stupid!" Scuff said disgustedly. "'E'd 'a never done that! Anyway, 'e's dead." Then instantly he was sorry, but now it was too late to take it back. "I din't mean ter say that," he apologized, looking ruefully at Monk to see how hurt he was. "But wot fer? They can't do nothin' to 'im now, even if it was true."

"It's a cowardly thing to blame a dead man who can't answer you back," Monk said with as much composure as he could. He did not want Scuff to think he had been clumsy. "And it's a good way to get out of it yourself. It turns us away from what we should really be looking at, but all the same, I'm going to find out."

Scuff looked doubtful. "It won't 'ang Phillips."

Monk had a sudden flash of understanding. Scuff was afraid it might be true, and he was imagining how Monk would be disillusioned by it.

"Not directly," Monk agreed casually, keeping the emotion out of his voice with difficulty. "But just at the moment I'm even more concerned with saving Mr. Durban's good name..." He stopped, catching the anxiety in Scuffs eyes. "Because he was commander of the River Police, and now people are beginning to say we're all rotten, and they're taking liberties," he explained. "I have to put a stop to that."

Scuff drew in a deep breath, understanding flooding his face, and then anger. "Yer gotter, Mr. Monk," he agreed seriously. "Let 'em get at it once, an' yer'll 'ave twice the trouble gettin' 'em back ter straight."

"Well, come on then!" Monk turned and went back to the front door. He heard Scuffs feet clattering down the stairs and running after him to the step. The door slammed, and then Scuff was beside him.

Monk smiled.

They worked for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, tracking down the name and fate of every boy, and what he said of Durban. The next day they started far earlier. By midafternoon, Scuff had been off by himself for several hours, and was late returning to the place they had agreed to meet. Monk was pacing from crate to embankment edge and back again, wishing he had not allowed the boy to go off alone. When Scuff finally showed up, his face was dirty, his shirt torn, and he looked apprehensive.

Monk was too pleased to see him to care about the torn new shirt. Scuff was also unconcerned, and that worried him far more. Scuff was very aware that the clothes were a present, and he was half afraid he would have to give them back one day. If they were torn or stained he could be in a lot of trouble. Worse than that, Hester might think he was not grateful.

Now he stood uncertainly, as if to deliver bad news.

"What did you find out?" Monk asked him. No doubt Scuff was tired and hungry, but relief would have to wait.

Scuff hesitated. He looked as if he had already been considering for some time how to tell Monk whatever it was. He drew in his breath, and then let it out again.

"What did you find out?" Monk repeated, his voice sharper than he meant it to be.

Scuff sniffed. "Mr. Durban. Sometimes 'e caught boys thievin'- just little stuff, 'andkerchiefs, sixpence, or a bob 'ere an' there-an' 'e'd let ' em off. Give 'em a clip round the ear, but also mebbe a cup o' tea an' a sandwich, or even a piece o' cake. Other cops'd 'ave 'ad 'em, locked ' em up. Some folks thought 'e were good for that, others said 'e were doin' it for 'is own reasons. Some of 'em boys weren't around anymore after that." He frowned, searching Monk's face to watch how he took the news.

"I see," Monk said levelly. "How old were these boys, and how often did that happen? Were they talking about once or twice, or lots of times?"

Scuff chewed his lip. "Lots o' times. An' one fat ol' scuffle-'unter told me some o' their crimes was worse than light fingers. 'E said one boy Mr. Durban caught weren't five or six at all, 'e were more like ten, an' 'e were a right thief, 'alfway ter bein' a fine wirer. That's someone as can pick a lady's pocket an' she'll never even feel it."

"I know what a fine wirer is. Why did Durban not arrest him, if he stole valuable property? Was there some doubt about it?"

Scuffs eyes lowered till he was staring at the ground. "'E were a fine-lookin' boy, wi' fair 'air. Some said Mr. Durban 'ad another place fer 'im." He looked up again quickly. "Not that they got any proof, o' course, seein' as it in't true."

"Who said that sort of thing?" Monk asked him.

"I dunno," Scuff said too quickly.

"Yes, you do. You know better than to come with stories out of nowhere. Who said it?"

Scuff hesitated again.

Monk was on the verge of shouting at him, then saw his misery and knew that it was not on his own behalf, but came from a powerful awareness of Monk's own vulnerability. He knew what it was to admire someone, to rely on them as your teacher and friend, and in some ways both your protector and your responsibility. That was how Scuff regarded Monk. Was he imagining that Monk regarded Durban the same way?

"Scuff," he said gently. "Whatever it is, I need to know. We'll find out if it's true or not, but we can't do that if I don't know what it is, and who said it."

Scuff sniffed again, and pulled his face into an expression of reluctant concentration. "Mudlarks I know," he replied. "Taffy-I dunno 'is last name 'cause 'e don't know it neither. Potter, an' Jimmy Mac-summink An' Mucker James. They all said they knew o' Mr. Durban seein' boys steal, sometimes something that'd 'ave fetched 'em two or three years in the Coldbath Fields, an' tellin' ' em off. Mostly little kids."

"Little?" Monk asked, feeling the chill inside him, and his skin hot and then cold.

"Five or six, mebbe." Scuff looked miserable. "Most o' them took 'cause they was 'ungry or scared o' 'oever it were put 'em up to it."

"Are they still around, the little boys?"

"I dunno. I dint find any." Scuff looked defiant. "That don't mean they int there. They could be keepin' out o' the way. They're just the kind Phillips'd take."

"Yes. I know that. Thank you for telling me."

Scuff said nothing.

But that evening, when Hester was in the kitchen, Scuff steeled his courage, stomach knotted, fingers digging into his palms, and went in to see her, hoping intensely that he would find the words before Monk should come, either to speak to Hester himself, or to see what he was doing there.

Hester was bending over the sink, washing the supper dishes. He took a deep, shivering breath and plunged in. "Miss 'Ester. Can I say summink?"

She straightened her back slowly, hands dripping soapy water, but she did not turn to face him. He knew she was listening by the way she stood so still. He liked the smell in this room: warm food and cleanness. There were times when he did not want to ever leave it.

"Yes, of course," she answered. "What is it?"

He pushed his hands into his pockets so that if she turned she would not see his white knuckles. "I did summink today that... that 'urt Mr. Monk, but I dint mean ter."

Now she did look at him. "What did you do?"

There was no help but to tell her the truth. "I asked some boys I knew about Mr. Durban, an' I 'eard some things that was pretty bad." He stopped, afraid to tell her the rest. Would she know anyway? She often seemed to know what he was thinking, even when he did not say it. Sometimes that was very comfortable, and sometimes it wasn't.

"I see. Did you tell him the truth as to what you heard?"

"Yeah." He gulped. She was going to say he shouldn't have. He knew it.

She smiled, but her eyes were dark with worry, he could see that. He knew fear and recognized it with instant familiarity. He felt sick.

"That was the right thing," she told him. She moved her hand to touch him, then changed her mind. He wished she hadn't; it would be nice to be touched. But why should she? He did not really belong here.

"They said Mr. Durban let kids off wot should 'a gone ter prison fer stealin'," he said quickly. "Little kids, like Phillips takes. They said Mr. Durban weren't no better. They're wrong, int they?"

Now she hesitated, then seemed to make her mind up. "I don't know. I hope so. But if they're right, we've got to face that. Mr. Monk will be all right, because we'll be here."

He stared at her, searching her face to know if she meant it, or if she was just being nice to him, thinking he was a child, and could not take anything worse. Gradually he became sure that she did mean it. She did not have children, and she was not treating him like one. He smiled at her.

She smiled back, and, reaching out, touched him quickly and very gently on the cheek. He felt the warmth of it run right through him. He turned away and went back upstairs, before Monk could catch him and somehow take the moment away. It was private, just between him and Hester.

He reached the top of the stairs and touched his cheek experimentally, to see if it was still warm.

In the morning Hester went to see Oliver Rathbone at his office. She did not go to Portpool Lane first; she did not want to have to speak to Margaret. She felt guilty about that. They had been close friends, perhaps the closest woman friend Hester had known-at least in normal circumstances, away from the horrors of war. To avoid her now, because of Rathbone's part in the trial, and the fear and confusion she felt, added to her unhappiness.

Yet she could no longer put off facing Rathbone. She rode the bus along as far as London Bridge, then alighted and took a cab across the river to Rathbone's office near the Inns of Court. His clerk recognized her immediately and invited her in with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. She wondered what his own opinion was of the Phillips case, and Rathbone's part in it. Of course, it would be completely improper to ask him, and he could not possibly answer her.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Monk, but Sir Oliver has a gentleman in to see him," the clerk apologized. "I can't say how long it will be before he is free." He remained standing where he was. It was intended as a polite discouragement.

"If I may, I will wait," she replied, meeting his eyes squarely and not moving a step.

"Of course, ma'am," he conceded, reading her correctly that she intended to wait whatever he said, in the office, or even outside in the street, if that were forced upon her. "May I bring you a cup of tea, and perhaps a biscuit or two?"

She beamed at him. "Thank you. That would be most kind of you."

He retreated, knowing well when he was beaten, and in this case not minding at all. She did wonder fleetingly if she might be about to fight this battle for him, as well as for herself.

She had rather more than three-quarters of an hour to wait, because as soon as the first client left another arrived, and she had to wait for his departure also before being shown into Rathbone's office.

"Good morning, Hester," he said somewhat warily.

"Good morning, Oliver," she replied as the clerk closed the door behind her. She accepted the seat opposite his desk. "I am sure you are busy-in fact, I have already seen two clients come and go-so I shall not waste your time with polite conversation. You may take it for granted that I am interested in your health and happiness, and that I have assumed all the usual polite inquiries from you about mine."

He sighed very slightly and sat down behind his desk.

"And that I have already had tea," she added. "Most graciously served."

"Naturally." There was the very faintest smile on his lips. "Should I apologize for keeping you waiting, or is that to be taken for granted as well?"

"You did not keep me waiting," she replied. "I have no appointment with you."

"Oh, dear. I see we are to be honest to the point of... I am not sure. What are we being honest about? Or am I going to regret asking such a question?"

"I seem to remember you telling me, a long time ago, that a good lawyer-and you are extremely good-does not ask a question unless he already knows the answer," she replied.

He winced so slightly, she was not sure if she had seen it or imagined it. "You are not going to prompt me into assuming the answer, Hester," he replied. "You are very good yourself, but I have had rather more practice."

She gave a very slight shrug. "A great deal more. The people you deal with are captive in quite a different way from those that I do. And though they do not always realize it, I also have their interests at heart."

"That is easy to do," he rejoined. "Their interests do not conflict with each other."

"You are naive, Oliver. I have only so much money, so much medicine, so many beds. Of course they conflict with each other!"

He was caught off guard.

"I know that you were employed to defend Phillips," she said, leaning forward in her chair. "And that bound you to his interests, just as the prosecution was bound against them. Once you had accepted the case, unless he admitted his guilt, you had no choice but to defend him. Was that why you did not call him to the stand to deny that he killed Fig? You were certain in your own mind that he had?"

"No, I was not!" he said with sudden vehemence. "He did deny it. I simply did not think that the jury would believe him. He is not an attractive character, and if he had spoken that would very definitely have shown. The jury should weigh only the evidence, but they are people-passionate, vulnerable, full of pity and outrage for the crime, and intensely afraid both of doing the wrong thing and of one day being victims of crime themselves." He spoke so quickly he scarcely had time for breath. "They would have been led by dislike into believing him guilty. They could very easily have crossed the line from being convinced that he had committed other crimes, which I have no doubt he has, to believing that he had committed this one also. They do not have to give reasons for their verdict. I cannot argue with them and point out that their logic is flawed. Once they have spoken, I have to accept, unless there is a point of law on which I can argue. Illogic is not such a point."

"I know," she said drily. "Tremayne could have used emotion to sway them against Phillips, and you would have had no recourse because they would not have realized what he had done. They would have imagined that the feelings were entirely their own, not manipulated by counsel."

He smiled very slightly. "Exactly. I am pleased you see it with such a fair mind."

It was her turn to smile with the same chilly humor. "Of course I do, now," she replied. "Unfortunately, I didn't see it so plainly when you were manipulating me. Nor, I'm afraid, did Mr. Tremayne. You are better at it than either of us. But then I dare say you are right in that you are more practiced."

The color washed deep red up his face. "I had no choice, Hester. Should I have done less than my best for him, because you were the witness? If I had when defending someone you liked, you would have been the first to call me dishonorable. You can't have justice dealt one way for those you like and another for those you don't."

"Of course not," she agreed, her voice tighter than she had meant it to be. It gave her away, and she knew he would hear it. "I followed the case because I believed passionately that Phillips was an evil man who tortured and murdered a child who had the courage to stand up against him. I still believe it. But I know that I let my emotions rule me instead of my intelligence. I was not impartial in my judgment, and it let me down. You took advantage of my weakness because you knew me well enough to do so."

She ignored the flare of anger, and perhaps shame in his eyes. "I am not sure whether I know you well enough or not, Oliver. I used to think I did, but people change, and those closest to them do not always see it. Was it love of justice, or emotion that caused you to take up the defense of Jericho Phillips?"

He was startled.

She did not stop to allow him the chance to interrupt her. "Did you defend him because you thought no one else would do it adequately or even at all? Perhaps you are right if you think no one else would have done it as well. Or did you do it to pay a debt to some friend to whom you owe a loyalty a pity, or a matter of honor, past or future?" She swallowed. "Or to show off, because it seemed impossible, and yet you accomplished it?"

He was very pale now. "Is that what you think of me, Hester?"

She did not flinch.

"It is not what I wish to think. Before the trial I would have stood in that witness box and sworn that you would not." She thought of mentioning money, and decided against that ultimate insult. "Do you even know who actually paid you?" she said instead. "Are you certain it was not Phillips himself? Isn't he clever enough to have done it through so many other avenues you could not trace it back to him? Then the question is, if he had come to you directly, not through a client, and a friend, would you still have taken the case?"

"I don't know. That is not how it happened," he replied. "I cannot explain it to you because it is in confidence, as are all legal consultations. You know that, and you knew it when you came here. You are not usually impractical enough to waste time and energy railing against the past. What is it you want?" It was blunt. His eyes were hard and hurt. He was also surprised that she had outmaneuvered him.

"I would like to know who paid you..." she began.

"Don't be foolish," he said sharply. "You know I cannot possibly tell you that!"

"I didn't ask you that!" she answered equally sharply. "I know you cannot. If either you or they were willing to own up to it you would have done so already." She allowed her fear to show through, brittle and bright. "I wanted you to know that because of the doubt cast on Commander Durban's honor, now the whole of the Thames River Police is under suspicion to the degree that they may even be taken over completely, as a separate arm of the Metropolitan Police. All their specialist experience will be lost. And don't bother to tell me that that is as much my fault as yours. I know it is. I am not concerned with blame. As you said, it is a waste of time to cry over the past, which cannot be changed. I am concerned for the future."

She leaned towards him. "Oliver, between us we have come close to destroying something that is good. You can help us save Durban 's reputation without damaging your own."

"And Monk's, of course," he said cruelly.

Again she did not flinch. "Of course. And mine too, for that matter. Is helping us a reason for not doing it?"

"Hester, for... no, of course it isn't!" he protested. "I didn't expose any of you because I wanted to. You left yourselves wide open. I did what I had to do, to uphold the law."

"So now do what you can to uphold justice," she returned. "Jericho Phillips killed Fig, although it is pointless to prove that now, even if we could. He killed others too, and we'll be a lot more careful about our evidence next time. But in order to do that, the River Police have to survive with their own command, not broken up into a dozen different entities, each just part of their local station."

She stood up slowly, careful to straighten her skirt-something with which she did not usually bother. "We have all done something ugly, all three of us. I am asking you to help us mend it, as much as it can be mended. We may never catch Phillips, but we can do all that is possible to prove to London that the River Police need and deserve to remain a separate department, with their own command."

He looked at her with what for him was an extraordinary sense of confusion. Emotions conflicted with intellect: loneliness, dismay, perhaps guilt, breaking apart his usual sanctuary of reason.

"I'll do what I can," he said quietly. "I have no idea if it will be of use."

She did not argue. "Thank you," she said simply. Then she smiled at him. "I thought you would."

He blushed, and looked down at the papers on his desk, overwhelmed with relief when the clerk knocked on the door.

***

She considered returning home to change from her most flattering dress, which naturally she had worn to see Rathbone, before going to Portpool Lane, but decided that it was a waste of the fare. She always kept clean working clothes at the clinic in case of accidents, which happened quite often.

She found the clinic busy with its regular affairs, tending to the few who were sick enough to require days in bed, and the walking patients with knife or razor wounds who needed stitching, bandaging, general comfort, and a little respite from the streets, perhaps a decent meal. The regular chores of cleaning, laundry, and cooking never stopped.

She offered words of approval and encouragement, a minor criticism here and there, then went to find Squeaky Robinson in his office. He had taken his bookkeeping duties very seriously this last year or so. She had not recently heard him complain about having been cheated out of the building, which, when it was his, had been the most successful brothel in the area. His new vision of himself, more or less on the right side of the law, seemed to please him.

"Good morning, Squeaky," she said as she closed the door, giving them privacy in the cluttered room with its shelves of ledgers. The desk was scattered with sheets of paper, pencils, two inkwells, one red, one blue, and a tray of sand for blotting. This last was seldom used; he just liked the look of it.

"Mornin', Miss 'Ester," he replied, searching her face with concern. He did not ask her how she was; he would make the judgment himself.

She sat down in the chair opposite him. "This whole business is becoming extremely ugly," she said frankly. "There are whispers of accusation that Mr. Durban was procuring boys for Jericho Phillips, and the River Police in general are being dirtied with that accusation. There seem to be several incidents where he found boys stealing and deliberately did not charge them. There may be other explanations as to why that happened, but the worst is being assumed."

He nodded. "Looks bad," he agreed, sucking air in through his teeth. "In't nobody 'oo int tempted by summink, whether it's money or power or pleasure, or just 'avin' people owe 'em. I've seen some where it's just feelin' superior as does it. Specially women. Seen some awful superior women. Beggin' yer pardon."

She smiled. "So have I, and I wanted to slap them, until I realized that's probably all they had. A friend of mine used to say that there are none as virtuous as those who have never been asked."

"I like that," he said with profound appreciation. He mulled it over, like a good wine. "Yeah, I do."

"Squeaky, I need to know how Phillips gets his boys."

There was a tap on the door, and as soon as Hester answered, Claudine came in. "Good morning," she said cheerfully. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Both Hester and Squeaky knew that she had come because she could not bear to be left out of the detection. She desperately wanted to help, but she had not yet let down her barriers of dignity enough to say so outright.

"Thank you," Hester declined quickly. "But I need to go out, and I think I need Squeaky with me. He knows people that I don't."

Claudine looked crestfallen. She tried to hide it, but the feeling was too deep to conceal it from her eyes.

"In't summink you would know about," Squeaky said brusquely. "Don't s'pose you even know why girls take ter sellin' theirselves on the streets, let alone kids."

"Of course I know," she snapped. "Do you think I can't hear what they're saying? Or that I don't listen to them?"

Squeaky relented a fraction. "Boys," he explained. "We don't get no little boys in 'ere. If they get beat no one knows, 'ceptin' 'ooever's keepin' 'em, like Jericho Phillips."

Claudine snorted. "And what is going to be so different about why they take to the streets?" she asked. "Cold, hunger, fear, nowhere else to go. Lonely, someone offers to take them in, easy money, at first."

"You're right," Hester agreed, surprised that Claudine had apparently listened so closely to what was voiced, including the words themselves, which were often shallow and repetitive, sometimes full of excuses or self-pity, more often with a bitter humor and an endless variety of bad jokes. "But I need to prove that it wasn't Commander Durban procuring them, so it has to be specific."

"Commander Durban?" Claudine was clearly horrified. "I never heard anything so wicked. Don't worry I'll look after everything here. You find out all you can, but be careful!" She glared at Squeaky. "You look after her, or I shall hold you accountable. Believe me, you will be sorry you were born." And with that she turned around, whisking her very plain gray skirt as if it had been crimson silk, and marched out.

Squeaky smiled. Then he saw Hester and assumed instant gravity. "We'll be goin', then," he said flatly. "I'll put on me oldest boots."

"Thank you," she accepted. "I will wait for you by the door."

They spent a miserable afternoon well into the early evening moving from one to another of Squeaky's contacts in his previous life as a brothel owner.

They continued the next day, going deeper into the network of alleys in Limehouse, Shadwell, and the Isle of Dogs on the north bank of the river, and Rotherhithe and Deptford on the south. Hester felt as if she had walked as far as from London to York circling the same narrow byways crowded with doss-houses, taverns, pawnshops, brothels, and all the multitudinous traders associated with the river.

Squeaky was very careful, even secretive about their search, but his whole manner changed when it was time to bargain. The casual, rather inconspicuous air vanished, and he became subtly menacing. There was a stillness about him, a gentleness to his voice that contrasted with the noise and bustle around him.

"I think yer know better than that, Mr. Kelp," he said in almost a whisper. They were standing in what was ostensibly a tobacconist's shop, darkly wood paneled, one small window, its glass ringed like the base of a bottle. The lamps were lit or they would not have been able to see the wares laid out, although the pungent aroma was powerful enough to drift out into the alley and tempt people, even above the stench of rotting wood and human waste.

Kelp opened his mouth to deny it, and reconsidered. There was something about Squeaky's motionless figure in its faded, striped trousers and ancient frock coat, his stringy hair and lantern face that frightened him. It was as if Squeaky somehow knew himself to be invulnerable, in spite of not apparently having any weapon, and no one with him but one rather slightly built woman. It was inexplicable, and anything he could not understand alarmed Mr. Kelp.

He swallowed. "Well..." he prevaricated. "I heard things, o' course, if that's wot you want, like?"

Squeaky nodded slowly. "That's wot I want, Mr. Kelp, things you've 'eard, accurate things, things you believe yerself An' yer would be very wise indeed not ter tell anybody else that I 'ave asked, an' that yer 'ave been good enough ter 'elp me. There are those with long an' careful ears who would not be pleased. Let us leave them in their ignorance, shall we?"

Kelp shuddered. "Oh, yes, Mr. Robinson, sir. Very definitely." He did not even glance at Hester standing a little behind Squeaky. She was watching with growing surprise. This was a side of Squeaky she had not imagined, and her own blindness to its possibility was disturbing. She had grown accustomed to his compliance in the clinic, and forgotten the man he used to be. In fact, she had never really known more than the superficial fact that he had owned the brothel that had occupied the Portpool Lane houses.

Squeaky was approximately in his fifties, but she had thought of him as old, because he sat in a bent, hunched position, and his hair was long and gray, hanging thinly down to his collar. He had complained vociferously about being cheated and abused, as if he were a man of peaceful habits wrongfully treated. The man she saw here in the tobacconists' was nothing like that. Kelp was afraid of him. She could see it in his face, even smell it in the air. She felt a shiver of doubt at her own foolhardiness, and forced it from her mind with some difficulty.

Kelp swallowed what appeared to be a lump in his throat, and proceeded to tell Squeaky everything he knew about the procuring of boys for men like Jericho Phillips. It was sad and very ugly, full of human failure and the opportunism of the greedy who preyed on the weak.

It also included Durban catching boys, some no more than five or six years old, stealing food and small articles to sell. He had seldom charged them, and the assumption was that he had bought them from their parents in order to sell them to Phillips, or others like him. There was no proof, one way or the other, but too many of them had not been seen again in the usual places, nor was anyone saying where they had gone, or with whom.

"I'm sorry," Squeaky said as towards evening they walked along the path close to the river on the Isle of Dogs. They were making for All Saints Stairs to catch a ferry across to the pier on the south side, and then a bus to Rotherhithe Street, from which it was a short walk to Paradise Place. Squeaky had insisted on seeing her home, even though she frequently rode the bus or a cab by herself. "Looks as if yer Durban could 'a been bent as a pig's tail," he added.

She found it difficult to speak. What was she going to tell Monk? She needed to know before he did, so that she could do something to soften the blow. But what? If this were true, it was worse than she had imagined. "I know," she said huskily.

"D'yer want ter keep on?" he asked.

"Yes, of course I do!"

"That's wot I thought, but I gotter ask." He glanced at her, then away again. "It could get worse."

"I know that too."

"Even good men 'ave got their weaknesses," he said. "An' women too, I s'pose. I reckon yers is believin' people. It's not a bad one ter 'ave, mind."

"Am I supposed to be grateful for that?"

"No. I reckon it 'urts yer. But if yer knew everythin' yer'd be too cocky ter be nice."

"Not much chance of that," she replied, but she did smile, faintly, even though he could not see it in the fitful street lighting.

They made their way down towards the top of the All Saints Stairs. Just before they reached them, a figure stepped out of the shadows of a crane, and the light from the street lamp showed his face like a yellow mask, wide, thin mouth leering. Jericho Phillips. He looked at Hester, ignoring Squeaky.

"I know you've been looking for Reilly, Miss. Yer don't want ter do that."

Squeaky was taken aback, but he hid it quickly. "You threatenin' 'er, Mr. Phillips?" he asked with exaggerated politeness.

"Spot of advice," Phillips replied. "Friendly, as it were. Reckon I owe 'er a lot." He smiled, showing his teeth. "Might be swingin' on a gibbet by me neck, if it weren't for 'er evidence at me trial." He laughed softly, his eyes dead as stones. "Yer would find out a lot o' things yer'd be 'appier not knowin', seein' as you admired Mr. Durban so much. Yer find Reilly, poor boy, an' you'll like as not find out what 'appened to 'im. An' believe me, Miss, yer won't like that at all."

There was a ferry making its way across the oily black surface of the water, oars dipping in and out rhythmically.

"Brave boy, Reilly," Phillips added. "Foolish, mind. Trusted those 'e shouldn't 'ave, like River Police. Found out more'n it's good fer a boy like 'im ter know."

"So you killed him, just as you killed Fig," Hester said bitterly.

"No reason to, Miss," Phillips told her. "It weren't me Reilly were goin' ter tell on. I treat my boys very well. Stupid not to. Ask 'em! You won't find one as'll speak against me. I don't beat 'em, don't forget me-self an' 'oller and scream at 'em. I know me business, an' I look after it proper."

She looked at him with total loathing, but she could find no answer with which to retaliate.

"Think about it, Miss," Phillips went on. "Yer been askin' a lot o' questions about Durban. Wot did yer find out, eh? Liar, weren't 'e? Lied about everythin', even where 'e came from. Lost 'is temper something rotten, beat the tar out o' some folks. Covered up crime in some, lied about it in others. Now me, I might do that, but then yer'd expect it o' me." He smiled utterly without humor. " Durban 's different. Nobody trusts me, but they trusted 'im. That makes it somethin' else, a kind o' betrayal, right? Fer 'im ter break the law is bad, very bad. Believe me, Miss, yer don't want ter know all about Mr. Durban, yer really don't. Neither does your good man. Saved my life twice over, 'e did. Once in the river... oh?" He raised his eyebrows. "Din't 'e tell you that?"

She stared at him with hatred.

His smile widened. "Yeah, could 'a let me drown, but 'e saved me. An' then o'course all that evidence of 'is in court. Reckon without that I would've 'anged, fer sure. Not a pretty way ter go, Miss, the rope dance. Not at all. You don't want ter know what 'appened ter poor Reilly, Miss, nor all about Mary Webber neither. Now here's a ferryboat come ter take yer 'ome. Yer sleep well, an' in the mornin' go tend to yer clinic, an' all them poor 'ores wot yer bent on savin." He turned and stalked away, consumed almost immediately by the shadows.

Hester stood on the steps shivering with rage, but also fear. She could not refute a single thing Phillips had said. She felt helpless, and so cold in the summer night that she might as well have fallen in the dark, swift-moving water.

The ferry was now bumping on the steps, the oarsman waiting.

"Yer want ter leave it, Miss 'Ester?" Squeaky asked.

She could not see his face; they had their backs to the light now. How could she read his emotions from his voice? "Can it get any worse?" she asked. "Hasn't anything got to be better than accepting this?"

"'Course it can!" he said instantly. "It can get a lot worse. Yer could find out that Durban killed Reilly, an' Phillips can prove it."

"No, he can't," she said with a sudden burst of logic. "If he could prove that, he would have done so already, and destroyed Durban 's evidence without having to hope Rathbone could discredit us. It would have been much safer."

"Then if yer want, I'm 'appy ter go on. Nailin' that bastard'd be better than a bottle o' Napoleon Brandy."

"Do you like Napoleon Brandy?" she said in surprise.

"No idea," he admitted. "But I'd like ter find out!"