Execution Dock

chapter Nine
Hester slept late the next morning, and was far less disturbed than usual to find that Monk had already left. There was a note from him on the kitchen table. Scuff was nowhere to be seen, so she assumed that he had gone with Monk.

However, she was halfway through her breakfast of tea and toast when the boy appeared in the doorway looking anxious. He was already dressed and had obviously been out. He was holding a newspaper in his hands. He seemed uncertain whether to offer it to her or not. She knew he could not read, but she did not want to embarrass him by referring to the fact.

"Good morning," she said casually. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"I 'ad some," he replied, coming a couple of steps into the kitchen.

"There is no reason not to have some more, if you would like it," she offered. "It's only toast and jam, but the jam is very good. And tea, of course."

"Oh," he said, eyes following her hand with the toast in it. "Well, I don't mind if I do."

"Then come and sit down, and I will make it for you." She finished her own toast and raspberry jam, holding it in one hand while she cut and toasted more bread with the other.

They sat at opposite sides of the table and ate in silence for some time. He took apricot jam, twice.

"May I look at your newspaper please?" she asked at length.

"'Course." He pushed it over towards her. "I got it fer yer. Yer in't gonna like it." He looked worried. "I 'eard 'em talkin' around the newsboy, that's why I got it. They're sayin' bad things."

She reached for the paper and looked at the headlines, then opened it and read inside. Scuff was right, she did not like it at all. The suggestions were veiled, but they were not so very far from the sort of thing that Phillips had said on the dockside the previous evening. There were questions about the River Police, their record of success suspiciously high. But were the figures honest? How had they come to recruit a man as obsessed with personal vengeance as Durban had been-and apparently not just once, but twice? Was the new man, William Monk, any better? What was known about him? For that matter, what was known about any of them, including Durban?

It was a dangerous state of affairs for the nation when a body of men such as the River Police had the kind of power they did, and there was no check upon the way they used it, or abused it. If the members of Parliament who represented the constituencies along the river were doing their duty, there would be questions asked in the House.

She looked up at Scuff. He was watching her, trying to judge what the paper said from her expression.

"Yes, they are saying bad things," she told him. "But so far it is just talk. I need to know whether they are true or not, because we can't deal with it until we know."

"Wot'll 'appen to us if it's true?" he asked.

She heard the fear in his voice, and the inclusion of himself in their fate. She wondered if he had meant her to notice that or not. She would be very careful to reply in the same tones, equally casually.

"We'll have to face it," she answered. "If we can, we'll prove that we're not like that, but if we aren't given the chance, then we'll have to find some other job. We will, don't worry. There are lots of things we can do. I could go back to nursing. I used to earn my own living before I married Mr. Monk, you know."

"Did yer? Like lookin' after the sick? They pay yer fer that?" His eyes were wide, his toast and jam halfway to his mouth.

"Definitely," she assured him. "If you do it well enough, and I was very good. I did it in the army, for soldiers injured in battle."

"When they come 'ome again?"

"Certainly not! I went to the battlefield and tended them there, where they fell."

He blushed, then he grinned, sure that she was making a joke, even if he didn't understand it.

She thought of teasing him back, then decided he was too genuinely frightened to absorb it right now. He had just found some kind of safety, perhaps for the first time in his life, people not only to love but also to trust, and it was slipping out of his hands.

"Really in the battlefield," she answered. "That's where soldiers need doctors and nurses. I went to the Crimea with the army. So did quite a few other ladies. The fighting was pretty close to us. People used to go out in carriages to the heights above the valley and watch the fighting. It's not dangerous, or of course they wouldn't do it. But we nurses sometimes saw it too, and then went to find those who were still alive, and who we could help."

"Weren't it 'orrible?" he asked in a whisper, toast still ignored.

"Yes, it was. More horrible than I ever want to think of again. But looking away doesn't solve anything, does it." That was a statement more than a question.

"Wot can yer do fer soldiers as are 'urt real awful?" he asked. "Don't they 'ave ter 'ave doctors, an' such?"

"There aren't enough doctors to attend to everybody at once," she told him, remembering in spite of herself the sounds of men in agony, the chaos of the wounded and dying, and the smell of blood. She had not felt overwhelmed then, she had been too busy being practical, trying to pack wounds, amputate shattered limbs, and save men from dying of shock. "I learned how to do some things myself, because it was so bad I couldn't make it worse. When it's desperate, you try, even if you don't know what to do to begin with. You can be a lot of help with a knife, a saw, a bottle of brandy, and a needle and thread, and of course as much water and bandages as you can carry with you."

"Wot's a saw for?" he asked quietly.

She hesitated, then decided that lies would be worse than the truth. To saw through jagged bones so you can make a clean cut, and sew it up," she told him. "And sometimes you have to take somebody's arm or leg off, if it's gone bad with gangrene, which is sort of like rotten meat. If you don't, it will go all through them, and they'll die."

He stared at her. He felt as if he were seeing her for the first time, with all the lights on. Before it had been almost as if they were in the half dark. She was not as pretty as some of the women he had seen, certainly not as fancy as some of the ladies; in fact, the clothes she wore were downright ordinary. He'd seen just as good on women near the docks when they went out on Sundays. But there was something extra in her face, especially in her eyes, and when she smiled, as if she could see things other people didn't even think of.

He always used to think that women were nice, and certainly useful in the house, the best of them. But most of them had to be told what to do, and they were weak, and scared, when it came to fighting. Looking after important things was men's work; protecting, fighting, seeing that nobody stepped out of line had to be done by a man. And for clever things, it was always men, of course. That went without anybody needing to say it.

Hester was smiling at him, but there were tears in her eyes, and she blinked quickly when she talked about the soldiers dying, the ones she couldn't help. He knew what that felt like, the ache in your throat so big you couldn't swallow, the way you kept gulping breath, but it didn't get any better, nor did the tightness go out of your chest.

But she didn't cry. He hoped to goodness Mr. Monk looked after her properly. She was a bit thin. Usually real ladies had a bit more... softness... about them. Somebody should take care of her.

"Yer gonna 'ave another piece o' toast?" he asked.

"Would you like one?" She misunderstood him. He was not asking for himself.

"Will yer 'ave one?" he changed his approach. "I'll make it fer yer. I know 'ow ter make toast."

"Thank you," she accepted. "That would be very nice. Perhaps I should boil the kettle again?" She began to rise.

"I'll do it!" He stepped in her way so she had to sit down. "All I gotta do is move it over on ter the 'eat."

"Thank you," she said again, slightly puzzled, but willing to accept.

Very carefully indeed he cut two more slices of bread, a little thick, a trifle crooked, but good enough. He put them on the toasting fork and held them to the open door of the stove. This was not going to be easy, but he could look after her. It needed doing, and it was his new job. He would see to it from now on.

The toast started to smoke. He turned it round just before it burnt. He had better concentrate.

Hester had debated whether to take Scuff with her or not when she went back to look further into Durban 's history and whether the charges against him were in any part true. The matter was taken out of her hands by Scuff himself. He simply came.

"I'm not sure..." she began.

He smiled at her, continuing to look oddly important. "You need me," he said simply, then fell in step beside her as if that settled the matter.

She drew in her breath to argue, and found that she had no idea how to tell him that she did not really need him. The silence grew until it became impossible, and by default she had accepted that she did.

As it transpired, he helped her find most of the people she eventually wished to speak to. It was long and tiring walking from one narrow, crowded street to another, arguing, asking, pleading for information and then trying to sort out the lies and the mistakes and find the elements of truth. Scuff was better at that than she was. He had a sharp instinct for evasion and manipulation. He was also more prepared than she to threaten or call a bluff.

"Don't let 'em get away with nothin'!" he said to her urgently as they left one smooth-tongued man with a wispy black mustache. "That's a load o'..." He bit his tongue to avoid the word he had been going to use. "I reckon as it were Mr. Durban 'as pulled 'im out o' the muck, an' 'e's too... mean ter say it. That's wot that is." He stood in the middle of the narrow pavement looking up at her seriously.

A costermonger wheeled his barrow past them, knowing at a glance that she would not buy.

"Yer din't ought ter b'lieve every stupid sod as tells yer," Scuff continued. "Well, yer din't," he granted generously. "I'll tell yer if it's true or not. We better go and find this Willie the Dip, if 'e's real."

Two washerwomen barged past them, sheets tied around dirty laundry bouncing on their ample hips.

"You don't think he is?" Hester asked.

Scuff gave her a skeptical look. "Dip means 'e picks pockets. 'Oo don't, round 'ere? I reckon 'e's all guff."

And so it turned out. But by the end of the day they had heard many stories of Durban from a variety of people up and down the dockside. They had been discreet, and Hester believed with some pride that they had also been inventive enough not to betray the reason for their interest.

It was well after dusk with the last of the light faded even from the flat surface of the water when they finally made their way up Elephant Stairs just a few yards along from Princes Street. The tide was running hard, slapping against the stone, and the sharp river smell was almost pleasant in the air after the closed-in alleys they had walked all day, and the heavy, throat-filling odors of the docks, where men were unpacking all manner of cargoes, pungent, clinging, some so sweet as to be rancid. The quiet movement of water was a relief after the shouting, clatter of hooves, and clank of chains and winches and thus of heavy loads.

They were tired and thirsty. Scuff did not say that his feet were sore, but possibly he regarded it as a condition of life. Hester ached all the way up to her knees, and beyond, but in the face of his stoicism, she felt that it would be self-indulgent to let it be known.

"Thank you," she said as they started to walk up in the direction of Paradise Place. "You are quite right. I do need you."

"S'all right," he said casually, giving a little lift of his shoulder visible as he passed under the street lamp.

He took a deep breath. "'E weren't a bad man," he said, then looked sideways at her quickly.

"I know, Scuff."

"Does it matter if 'e told a few lies about 'oo 'e were or where 'e come from?"

"I don't know. I suppose it depends what the truth is."

"Yer think it's bad, then?"

They came to the end of Elephant Lane and turned right into Church Street. It was completely dark now and the lamps were like yellow moons reflected over and over again right to the end. There was a faint mist drifting up in patches from the water, like castaway silk scarves.

"I think it might be. Otherwise why would he lie about it?" she asked. "We don't usually lie about good things."

He was quiet.

"Scuff?"

"Yes, Miss."

"You can't go on calling me 'miss'! Would you like to call me 'Hester'?"

He stopped and tried to look at her. "Hester?" he said carefully, sounding the H. "Don't you think Mr. Monk might say I'm bein' cheeky?"

"I shall tell him I suggested it."

"Hester," he said again, experimentally, then he grinned.

Hester lay awake and thought hard about what steps she should take next. Durban had tried for a long time, well over a year, to find Mary Webber. He was a skilled policeman with a lifetime of experience in learning, questioning, and finding, and he had apparently failed. How was she to succeed? She had no advantages over him, as far as she knew.

Beside her, Monk was asleep, she thought. She lay still, not wanting to disturb him, above all not wanting him to know that she was thinking, puzzling.

Durban must have searched for all the families named Webber who lived in the area and gone to them. He would even have traced any who had lived there and moved, if it were possible. If he had not found Mary that way, then Hester would not either.

Then just as she was finally drifting off towards sleep, another thought occurred to her. Had Durban gone backwards? Had he found out where they had come from before that?

The idea did not seem nearly as clever in the morning, but she could think of nothing better. She would try it, at least until another avenue occurred to her. It would be better than doing nothing.

It was not particularly difficult to find the local families by the name of Webber who had a Mary of roughly the right age. It was simply tedious looking through parish registers, asking questions, and walking around. People were willing to help, because she embroidered the truth a little. She really was looking for someone on behalf of a friend who had died tragically before finding them, but whether Mary Webber was a friend or witness, help or a fugitive, she had no idea. If it had not been for Monk's sake, she might have given up.

After some time, she found what appeared to be the right family, only to discover that Mary had been adopted from the local foundling hospital. Her mother had died giving birth to her brother, and the adoptive family had no ability to care for a baby, the wife being handicapped herself. There was only one such hospital in the area, and it was no more than half an hour's bus ride to its doors. It was a further half hour before Hester, now with Scuff determinedly on her heels, was shown into the office of Donna Myers, the brisk and rather starched matron who ran it from day to day.

"Now, what can I do for you?" she asked pleasantly, looking Hester up and down, and then regarding Scuff with a measuring eye.

Scuff drew in his breath to protest that he needed nobody to look after him, then realized that that was not what Miss Myers had in mind, and let it out in a sigh of relief.

"We've got plenty of work," Mrs. Myers told Hester. "Wages are poor, but we'll feed you and the boy, three square meals a day, porridge and bread mostly, but meat when we have it. No drink allowed, and no men, but the place is clean and we don't treat anyone unkindly. I'm sure the boy could find something too, errands or the like."

Hester smiled at her, appreciating from her own experience in running the clinic just how strict one had to be, no matter how deep or how genuine your pity. To indulge one was to rob another.

"Thank you, Mrs. Myers. I appreciate your offer, but it is only information I'm looking for. I already have work, running a clinic of my own." She saw Miss Myers's eyes open wider and a sudden respect flickered alive in them.

"Really?" Mrs. Myers said guardedly. "And what is it that I can do for you, then?"

Hester wondered whether to mention that Monk was in the River Police, and decided that in view of the present highly unfavorable publicity, it would not be a good idea.

"I am seeking information about a woman who came here as a girl of about six, with her mother," she answered. "Perhaps about forty-five years ago. The mother died in childbirth, and the girl was adopted. I believe the baby remained here. I would like to know as much about them as your records show, and if there is anyone who knows what happened to them I would be most grateful."

"And why is it you wish to know?" Mrs. Myers looked at her more closely. "Are they related to you in any way? What was the mother's name?"

Hester had known that the question would be asked, but she still felt foolish that she could not answer. "I don't know her name." There was no choice but the truth; anything else would make her look dishonest. So much of what she was saying was no more than an enlightened guess, but it made the only decent sense.

"It is the baby who concerns me," she went on. "He would be in his fifties now, but he died over six months ago, and I want to trace the sister and tell her. Perhaps she would like to know what a fine man he was. He was doing all he could to find her, but he failed. I am sure you understand why I wish to complete that for him." She was leaping far to such a conclusion. If Durban had really been born in a foundling hospital, was that why he had invented for himself a gentler, more respectable background, and a family that loved him? Poverty was not a sin, but many people were ashamed of it. No child should grow up with nobody to whom he was important and precious.

Mrs. Myers's face was touched with pity. For a moment she looked younger, wearier, and more vulnerable. Hester felt a sudden warmth towards her, a momentary understanding of what her task must be to keep such a hospital functioning and not be overwhelmed by the enormity of her task. The individual tragedies were intensely real, the fear of hunger and loneliness; too many bewildered women were exhausted and at their wits' end to find the next place to rest, the next mouthful to give their children. The searing loneliness of giving birth in such a place stunned her, and ridiculously she found herself gulping and tears stinging her eyes. She imagined passing over your newborn child, perhaps holding it only once, and then bleeding to death alone, buried by strangers. No wonder Mrs. Myers was careful, and tired, or that she kept a shell around her to close out some of that tide of grief.

"I'll ask my daughter," Mrs. Myers said quietly. "I doubt she'll know, but it is the best place to try.

"Thank you," Hester accepted immediately. "I would be very grateful indeed."

"What year would that be?" Mrs. Myers inquired, turning to lead them through bare, clean corridors, sharp with the smell of lye and carbolic.

"About 1810, the best calculation I can make," Hester answered. "But I am going on memory of neighbors of the family."

"I will do what I can," Mrs. Myers replied dubiously, her heels clicking sharply on the hard wooden floors. Maids with mops and buckets redoubled their efforts to look busy. A pale-faced woman hobbled out of sight around a corner. Two children with straggling hair and tearstained faces peeped around a doorway, staring as Mrs. Myers, followed by Hester and Scuff, striding past without looking to either side.

They found Stella in a warm room facing the sun, sharing a large, enamel pot of tea with three other young women, all dressed in what looked like a simple uniform of gray blouse and skirt, and short black boots. All of their boots were dirty and worn lopsidedly at the heels. It was one of the younger women who stood up to lift the heavy pot and refill all the cups, while Stella remained seated.

Hester assumed that was the privilege of being the matron's daughter until they were level with the table and she saw that Stella was blind. She turned at the sound of unfamiliar footsteps, but she did not speak or rise.

Mrs. Myers introduced Hester without mentioning Scuff, and explained what she had come for.

Stella considered for several moments, her head raised as if she were staring at the ceiling.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I can't think of anyone who would remember that far back."

"We have our people the right age," her mother prompted.

"Do we? I can't think who," Stella said very quickly.

Mrs. Myers smiled but Hester saw a sadness in it that for a moment was almost overwhelming.

"Mr. Woods might recall..."

"Mina, he barely remembers his name," Stella cut in, her voice gentle but very definite. "He gets terribly confused."

Mrs. Myers stood quite still. "Mrs. Cordwainer?" she suggested.

There seemed to be a complete silence in the room. No one moved.

"I don't know her well enough to ask her such things," Stella replied huskily. "She's very... old. She might..." She did not finish the sentence.

"Perhaps," Mrs. Myers conceded. She appeared to hesitate, then came to a decision. "I will leave Mrs. Monk to talk with you. You may be able to think of something else. Excuse me." And she walked away, gathering speed, and they could hear her footsteps fading away.

Hester looked at Stella, wondering if the blind girl were aware of her scrutiny. Did she read voices as other people read expressions on a face?

"Miss Myers," Hester began. "It really is of very great importance to several other people, as well as to me. I did not tell your mother the full extent of how much this matters. If I can find her, she may be able to clear away certain suspicions I believe to be urgent, but without her help I cannot prove it. If there is anyone at all you can think of to ask, I have no other source left to try."

Stella turned towards her, her brow puckered. She was clearly struggling with some decision she found intensely difficult. There was pity in her expression as sharp as if she had not just seen Hester's face but also read the emotions behind her eyes. It was strange to be looked at so perceptively by someone who had no sight.

"Mrs. Monk, if... if I take you to see Mrs. Cordwainer, will you be discreet about anything you may see or hear in her house? Will you give me your word?"

Hester was startled. It was the last sort of request she had expected. What on earth could Mrs. Cordwainer be doing that required such a promise? Was Hester going to be asked to do something that would trouble her conscience? Was the old woman being cheated or abused in some way? Looking at Stella, she did not think that likely.

"If I give you such a promise, am I going to regret it?" she asked.

Stella's lip trembled. "Possibly," she whispered. "But I cannot take you if you don't promise."

"Is Mrs. Cordwainer suffering in some way? Because if she is, I should find it very hard indeed not to do what I could to help."

Stella almost laughed, but she choked on the sound. "She is not, that I can say absolutely."

Hester was even more puzzled, but the only alternative to accepting the conditions was to give up altogether. "Then I give you my word," she replied.

Stella smiled and stood up. "Then I shall take you to see Mrs. Cordwainer. She lives in a small house on the hospital grounds. She'll be asleep at this time of day, but she won't mind being woken up if it's to ask questions about the past. She likes to tell tales of times back then."

"Can... can I 'elp yer?" Scuff offered hesitantly.

It was her turn to consider her answer. She decided to accept, although Hester realized she must know her way around the hospital more easily than Scuff. She followed as side by side they made their way out of the room and down the corridor, Stella pretending she did not know where she was going, and Scuff pretending that he did.

They left the main building of the hospital and made their way along a well-worn path, up a short flight of steps, and to a row of cottages. Stella knew her way by the exact number of paces. Never once did she hesitate or miss her footing. She could have done it in the pitch-dark. Then Hester realized with a jolt that in fact that was what she was doing, always, and she felt almost guilty for the bright sunlight and the color she could see.

Stella knocked on the door of one of the cottages and it was immediately opened by a man in his middle forties, shy and plain, but with an acute intelligence in his eyes, and his whole countenance lit with pleasure when he saw Stella. It was a moment before he even realized that there was anyone else with her.

Stella introduced them, and explained their purpose. The man was Mrs. Cordwainer's son. If she were as old as Mrs. Myers had suggested, then he must have been born to her late in life.

"Of course," he said, smiling at Hester and Scuff. "I'm sure Mama will be pleased to tell you whatever she can." He led them through into a small, sunlit room where an ancient woman sat in an armchair, wrapped around with a light shawl, quite obviously asleep. Mr. Cordwainer's book, a translation of the plays of Sophocles, was lying faceup where he had left it to answer the door.

It was only as Stella sat down in one of the other chairs that Hester realized with amazement, and then a wave of understanding, that Cordwainer had not guided her in here, nor had he indicated to her where the chair was. She must be sufficiently familiar with the room not to need such assistance, and he knew that. Perhaps for her, they were careful never to move anything even a few inches from its accustomed place.

Was that the secret that she must not tell? Cordwainer was perhaps twenty years older than she, and quite clearly he loved her.

There was no time to think of such things. Mrs. Cordwainer had woken up and was full of interest. With very little prompting, she recalled Mary and her mother, and the birth of the baby.

"'Ard thing it were," she said sadly, blinking sharp gray eyes. "She weren't the last I seen die, but she were the first, an' I dint never forget 'er, poor soul. Just young, she were, for all that the little girl were about five, near as we could tell." She sighed. "Got 'er adopted out in a year or so. Nice family as were keen to 'ave 'er. Webb, they was called, or something like that. But they couldn't take the babe, couldn't manage a babe. Woman were crippled. We don't like ter split 'em up, but we got too many mouths ter feed as it were, an' they really wanted 'er."

"What happened to the little boy?" Hester asked softly. She could imagine him, growing up motherless, one of many, cared for but not special to anyone; fed, clothed, possibly even taught, but not loved. It was so desperately easy to see why he had invented a happiness that had never existed.

"Nice little lad, 'e were," Mrs. Cordwainer said dreamily. "Curly 'air, 'andsome enough, even if 'e were a bit of a scrapper now an' then. But that int something I mind in a boy. Bit o' spirit. Used ter make me laugh, 'e did. I were young-then. Got away wi' all sorts, 'cause 'e made me laugh. An' 'e knew it."

"What happened to him?" Hester said again.

"I dunno. 'E stayed 'ere till 'e were eight, then we let 'im go."

"Where to? Who took him?"

"Took 'im? Bless you, nobody took 'im. 'E were old enough to work for 'isself I dunno where 'e went."

Hester glanced at Scuff, who seemed to understand perfectly. He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. She realized he had almost certainly been more or less alone since he was that age. Perhaps Durban had been a mudlark as well.

"Was Durban his mother's name?" she asked aloud.

"We never knew 'is mother's name," the old lady replied. "Can't recall as we ever asked 'er. We called 'im Durban after a man from Africa 'oo gave us money one time. Seemed like a good enough name, an' 'e din't mind."

"Did he ever come back?"

"Went ter Africa again, far as I know."

"Not the man, the boy?"

"Oh. Not as I can think of. Went to look fer 'is sister, little Mary, but she'd gone. 'E did tell us that. Don't know nothin' else. Sorry. Were all a long time ago."

"Thank you so much. You've been very helpful," Hester said sincerely.

Mrs. Cordwainer looked at her, her face puckered. "Wot 'appened to 'im then? D'you know?"

"He grew into a fine man," Hester replied. "Joined the River Police, and died about six months ago, giving his life to save others. I'm looking for Mary Webber, to tell her, and give her his things, if she's his sister. But she's hard to find. He was looking for her before he died, but he never found her."

Mrs. Cordwainer shook her head, but she said nothing.

They declined a cup of tea, not wishing to put them to trouble, and Mr. Cordwainer escorted them to the door. When they reached it and Scuff and Stella were already outside, he put his hand on Hester's arm and held her back.

"You'll not find Mary," he said very softly. He looked acutely unhappy. "It's a long story. Carelessness a bit, lonely, wanting to please, and maybe a bit too trusting, but not fault, not really."

Hester was lost again. "What are you talking about?" She found that she was whispering in turn.

"Mary," he replied. "She's in prison. My mother kept up with her, for the boy's sake. Then when she got old, I kind of took her place."

"Which prison is she in?" Hester felt the knot of pain tighten inside her. No wonder Durban had not found her. Or had he? And the end of his search was tragedy? How that must have hurt him. Was that how she was connected to Jericho Phillips? Suddenly she wished with a passion that she had not asked Mrs. Myers, or old Mrs. Cordwainer. It was too late now.

"Holloway," he replied. He was watching her, seeing the hurt and the disillusion in her face. "She's not a bad woman," he said gently. "She married a chandler named Fishburn. He was killed when a dray came loose and crushed him. Left her the house, but not much else. She sold it and bought another one miles away, in Deptford. Turned it into a lodging house. Called herself Myers, to get away from Fish-burn's debts. Seems he'd been a bit of a gambler." He sighed. "One of her lodgers was a thief. She didn't know it, but when he slipped, she got caught with the things he'd taken. She'd kept them against his rent, but the police wouldn't believe that. She got six months for it, and lost the house, of course."

"I'm sorry." She meant it. "What'll happen to her when she gets out?"

The sadness in his expression answered her.

"Maybe I can find a job for her," she said before thinking what it would involve. She might not like her. She had only Cordwainer's word that she was not really a thief or a receiver.

He smiled, and nodded slowly.

Stella and Scuff were waiting. She thanked Cordwainer again, and followed after them.

Back in the hospital she thanked Stella, who looked at her anxiously, and reminded her of her promise. Hester assured her that she had not forgotten, and took her leave.

But as she approached the main door out she encountered Mrs. Myers again. She hoped profoundly that she was not going to have to lie to her, but she was perfectly prepared to if necessary. She had given Stella her word not to disclose anything of her romance. However, she had been gone so long she could not pretend not to have seen old Mrs. Cordwainer. She was also acutely aware of Scuff at her elbow, and his opinion of her honesty, which she found mattered to her even more than she had expected it would.

Mrs. Myers smiled. "Did Stella take you to see old Mrs. Cordwainer after all?" she asked.

"I prevailed upon her," Hester replied, thinking how she could word her reply so that it would sound as if the old lady had given her all the information, and not even suggest that Mr. Cordwainer had been present at all. Nothing clever came to her. She was left with simply lying. It would have been so much easier had Scuff not been there.

Mrs. Myers nodded. "I don't imagine it was difficult."

Hester said nothing. It was more uncomfortable than she had expected.

"Was she able to help?" Mrs. Myers asked.

Another lie. But it was either that, or admit that he had been there. The lie was the better of the two evils. "Yes, thank you. I now have a better idea at last where to look."

"I don't mind, you know," Mrs. Myers said gently.

"I beg your pardon?" Now Hester was at a loss and knew she must look foolish.

"I think John Cordwainer is a very decent man, and exactly right for Stella," Mrs. Myers said frankly. "I just wish she would stop assuming I disapprove, and accept him. She is quite old enough not to mind what I think. She owes me no more than to make the very best of her life."

Hester felt a great weight slip from her, and found herself smiling idiotically. "Really?" she said with feigned innocence, as if she had no idea what they were talking about.

"Your smile gives you away," Mrs. Myers said drily. "But I am glad you kept your word. Although if you hadn't, it would make it easier for me to broach the subject. How on earth do I say something, without letting her know I have intruded on her privacy?"

Hester thanked her again for her help, and went down the steps, smiling even more widely.

Of course it was not so easy to gain admittance to Holloway Prison, or permission to see any particular person held there. Her first instinct was to ask Monk to obtain it for her, then she bit the words back and grasped for something else to say. Her whole purpose was to protect him.

She asked instead what he expected to do the following day, and when he told her, she chose a time when he would be alone, away from the Wapping Station, in which to go there and see if she could speak with Orme. She could explain to him exactly what she wanted, and he would understand why.

Orme chose to go with her and ask permission on the spot. It might have been out of kindness to her, but she felt that his own curiosity was also urgent. And perhaps he wanted to meet the only sister of a man he had known, respected, and cared for for a great deal of his adult life.

It was this last that troubled Hester. She did not know how to say to him that she preferred to see Mary alone, and his presence might inhibit her from being open. Also, as deeply felt, if not as important to the case, she was afraid that it would be an emotionally distressing experience for him. She had seen his face when they had uncovered facts about Durban that were ugly, that threw doubt on his honesty, his morality, even the kindness that had long been part of his character. Orme had tried desperately to hide such unpleasantness, to drown it out with loyalty, but it was there, growing slowly.

She turned to face him in the bleak stone corridor.

"Thank you, Mr. Orme. I could not have done this without you, but I need now, at least the first time, to speak with her alone. You knew Mr. Durban for years. Far better than she ever did. Think how she will feel. She may care too much what you think of her to be frank. We need the truth." She said that firmly, emphasizing the last word, holding his gaze. "If we lose this chance, there will not be another. Please let me speak to her alone the first time."

He gave a funny, lopsided little smile. "Are you protecting me too, ma'am?"

She realized that perhaps she had been. Would he be pleased, or offended? She had no idea. The truth had at least the advantage of easing her conscience. "I'm sorry," she admitted. "I suppose I was."

He blinked very faintly; she could barely see it in the flat light, but she knew he was not displeased.

She was shown into a plain cell with a wooden table and two chairs, and a moment later the wardress brought in a woman in her middle fifties. She was of average height and a little gaunt in the face, causing Hester to look a second time before realizing that she was handsome beneath the pallor and the fear, and her eyes were golden brown, just as Durban's had been.

She sat down when Hester invited her to, but slowly, stiff with anxiety.

Hester sat also, as the wardress said she would be immediately outside the door, if she were needed, and they had thirty minutes. Then she left.

Hester smiled, wishing she knew of a way to ease the woman's fear without at the same time jeopardizing her mission.

"My name is Hester Monk," she began. "My husband is now head of the Thames River Police at Wapping, the position your brother held." Then suddenly she wondered if Mary knew of his death. Had she been incredibly clumsy? How long was it since she and Durban had met? What were the emotions between them?

Mary moved her head minutely, less than a nod.

It was time to stop prevaricating. She lowered her voice. "Did anyone tell you that he died, heroically, at the turn of last year? He gave his life to save the lives of many others." She waited, watching.

Mary Webber nodded, and her eyes filled with tears, running unchecked down her thin cheeks.

Hester took her handkerchief out of her small purse and placed it on the table where Mary could take it. "I'm sorry. I wish I did not have to bring this up. He was looking for you, frantically, but as far as I know he didn't find you. Did he?"

Mary shook her head. She reached out to the white cotton handkerchief, then hesitated. It was dazzlingly clean compared with her gray prison sleeve.

"Please..." Hester urged.

Mary picked it up and pressed it to her cheek. It was faintly perfumed, but such a thing may have been far from her mind now.

Hester continued, mindful of the minutes ticking into oblivion. "Mr. Durban was a hero to his men, but there are other people now who are trying to destroy the River Police, and they are blackening his name to do it. I already know where he was born and spent the first eight years of his life. I spoke to Mrs. Myers..." She saw a smile touch Mary's lips, but dim, struggling against grief. "I know that you saved money and sent him all you could. Do you know what happened to him after he left the hospital?"

Mary blinked and wiped the tears off her cheeks. "Yes. We kept in touch for a long time." She gulped. "Until I realized what kind of man Fishburn was." She looked down. "After that, I was ashamed, and I kept out of my brother's way. When Fishburn was caught stealing and went to prison, I changed my name and moved away. When he died I sold the house. I didn't dare before that, in case he got out, or he had one of his friends come and find me." Her voice was very low and she did not once look up at Hester.

Then I kept a lodging house, an'..."

"You don't need to tell me," Hester stopped her. "I know how you came to be here. I imagine that was why your brother couldn't find you."

Mary looked up. "I didn't want him to know I was here. I s'pose the few people that knew me lied to him to cover it up. They'd have known how I didn't want him even to... to know I'd come to this. He used to look up to me... when he was little. We..." she looked down again. "We were close then... close as you can be, when we scarce saw each other. But I never stopped thinking of him. I wish..."

Without thinking, Hester reached out and put her hand on Mary's where it lay on the rough tabletop. "I think he might have understood. He was a good man, but he knew none of us were faultless. He hated cruelty, and he wasn't above bending the law a little to stop people hurting women, or especially children. A lot of people admired him, but there were some who hated him, and a good few were scared half silly if you even said his name. Don't put him on a pedestal, Mary, or think that he put you on one."

"Too late, now," Mary replied with self-mockery

"It's not too late to help clear his name," Hester said urgently. "I'll fight as hard as I can, and more important, so will my husband. But I can't do it without the truth. Please tell me what you know of him, his character, good and bad. It will spoil everything if I try to defend him from an accusation, and then make a fool of myself because it was true. After that no one would believe me, even if I were right."

Mary nodded. "I know." At last she met Hester's eyes, shyly, but without flinching. "He was good, in his own way, but he had things to hide. He grew up pretty rough. Had to beg and scrounge, and I shouldn't wonder if he stole a bit. The hospital had to put him out when he was eight. Had no choice. I was the lucky one. It wasn't till the Webbers lost their money that I even knew what it was like to be hungry, I mean the kind of hungry when you hurt inside, and all you can think of is food... any kind, just so you can eat it. He always knew."

Hester cringed. She did not have to imagine it; she had seen it in too many faces. But she did not interrupt.

"He ran with some pretty rough people," Mary went on. "I know, because he didn't hide it. But I didn't ever ostracize him. All I wanted was that he would stay alive." She took a deep breath. "But I didn't know how bad it was, or I'd have been much more scared."

Hester moved without thinking, her muscles knotted.

Mary nodded imperceptibly. "He had some bad friends up and down the river, mostly Linehouse, and the Isle of Dogs. A bank was robbed, and three of them were caught. They were sent up to the Coldbath Fields. One of them died there, poor creature. Only twenty-three, he was. The other two got broken in health, and one of them at least drunken out of his mind. When they got sent down was when Durban joined the River Police. I never asked him if he was in on the bank job, and he never told me. I didn't want him to think I even thought it of him, but I did. He was pretty wild, an' a temper on him like one of those snapping eels."

She sighed. "It was all different after that. He got a fright, and he never went back to the old ways. Reckon maybe that's what made him such a good policeman, he knew both sides of the road. You may not be able to help, or make anyone see that there was so much good in him, but I'd be grateful to you all my life if you'd try."

Hester looked at the sad woman in front of her, broken and alone, and wished she could offer her something more than words.

"Of course I'll try, every way I can. My husband liked Durban more than anyone else he knew. I liked him myself, although we didn't meet very often. But apart from that, the reputation of the River Police depends on proving that Jericho Phillips and anyone to do with him are liars."

" Jericho Phillips?" Mary said quietly, her voice tight in her throat. "Is he the one doing this?"

"Yes. Do you know anything about him?"

Mary shivered and seemed to shrink further into herself. "I know better than to cross him. Does he know... who I am?"

" Durban 's sister? No. I don't think anybody knows that." Suddenly a great deal more was clear to Hester, the urgency with which Durban had looked for her, and yet would tell no one why, not even Orme, the fear that must have consumed him for her. If Phillips had found her before he did, it would be a threat even more vivid than to kill another of the boys. "And he won't know anything I do," Hester added aloud. "I mean to see Phillips hang, so by the time you are out of here he will be dead, and you can start a decent life without giving him a thought. You'll have a little money, because Durban would have wanted you to. We have it safely for you. You are his only relative, so it has to be yours. And if you would like a job, and don't mind some hard work, I'd like to have your help in the clinic I run in Portpool Lane. At least think about it. There'd be a room for you, good work to do, and some decent friends to do it with."

Hope flared in Mary's tired eyes, so bright and sharp that it hurt to see it. "You be careful of Phillips," she said urgently. "He isn't alone, you know. He started that business on his boat with money, quite a lot of it. Looks like nothing on the outside, but I heard Fish-burn say it was like the best bawdy house on the inside, comfortable as you like. And photograph machines don't come for nothing."

"An investor?"

Mary nodded. "Not just that, he's very well protected. There's a few people who wouldn't like anything bad to happen to him, and at least one of them is in the law, and stood up for him in court. A really top lawyer, not one of them that hangs around the courthouse hoping to pick up business, a Queen's Counsel, all silk robes, wigs, that kind of thing."

Suddenly Hester was ice-cold, imprisoned in something terrible, without escape, as if the iron door were locked forever. She could kick and scream forever, but no one could hear her. A Queen's Counsel, one who had defended Phillips in court.

"I'm sorry," Mary said apologetically. "I can see I've scared you, but you have to know. I can't sit by and let something happen to you when you've been so kind to me."

Hester found it hard to speak; her lips seemed numb, her mouth full of cotton batting. "A lawyer? Are you sure?"

Mary stared at her, struggling towards a dark understanding. She had no trouble recognizing the pain. "Phillips has power over lots of people," she said, lowering her voice as if even in prison she was afraid of being overheard. "Maybe that's why my brother never caught him. Lord knows, he tried hard enough. Be careful. You don't know who he's got in his pocket, who'd like to escape but can't."

"No," Hester whispered back without knowing why. "No, I suppose you can't."