Execution Dock (17 page)

“What happened to the girl?” She felt a flood of warmth inside her, an easing of the ache of tension, then the chill again, and fear of the next answer.

“Nothing,” Palk told her, his eyes reading her emotions like print on the page. “That wasn't Durban 's way. He knew she was only doing what she had to, to get by. He had a hot temper, but he never took it out on women or kids. Soft, he was, in his own fashion, as if he knew what it was like to be poor, or hungry, or alone.” He smiled at the memory. “Beat the hell out of Willy Lyme for knocking his wife around, but gentle as a woman with old Bert when ‘e got daft and didn't even know who he was anymore. Went into the canal after the poor old sod drowned himself, and cried when he couldn't save him. Poor old Bert. Came to his funeral, Durban did. Never knew for sure, but I reckoned he paid for most of it. Bert hadn't sixpence to his name.”

He looked narrowly at Hester. “I don't know why yer want to know, Miss. You can't hurt Durban now, but there's a lot of folk won't take it kindly if you speak ill of him. Wouldn't be a good thing.”

“I'm trying to stop those who would,” she replied.

He looked puzzled, searching her face.

She smiled at him. “My husband took his place in the River Police, because Durban suggested him. We tried to solve Durban 's last case, and we failed so badly we can't go back and do it again. I want to show that the court was wrong and we were right, Durban and my husband and I.”

“Won't do any good,” Palk told her.

“Yes, it will. We'll know it, and that matters.”

“Is Monk the new fellow at Wapping?”

“Yes.”

“Won't be easy to follow Durban.”

“Depends where he was going.”

He looked at her without blinking. “Right and wrong,” he said. “No man's right all the time, but he was more than most.”

She stood up. “I hope so. But I need the truth, whatever it is.”

“And then you'll tell everybody?”

“Depends. I don't know what it is yet.”

He nodded. “That'll do. But be careful. There's plenty that'd kill to make sure you don't.”

“I know that.”

He hitched himself down off his chair, awkward, one shoulder almost half a foot higher than the other, and made his way to the door to show them out.

Unaware of Hester's mission, Monk started out again in the morning, with Scuff beside him, dressed as yesterday in the old boots. Very soon Monk would get him something better, but now he was compelled to go back to tracing Durban 's search for Mary Webber. He would rather have been alone. The effort of concealing his emotions and keeping up a civil conversation was more than the value of any help Scuff could give. But he had left himself no choice. Apart from wounding him by rejection, he dare not allow Scuff to wander around by himself now. He had endangered him, and he must do what he could to protect him from the consequences.

By midmorning, after several failed attempts, he was almost robbed by the very scuffle-hunter he was actually looking for. They were at the Black Eagle Wharf, between a cargo of timber and lightermen unloading tobacco, raw sugar, and rum. There was no breeze off the river to move the smell of it in the air. The tide was low again, and the water slurped over the weed on the steps and the lighters bumped against the stones.

An argument between a lighterman and a docker spread until it involved half a dozen men shouting and pushing. It was a form of robbery Monk had seen many times. Bystanders watched, a crowd gradually gathered, and while their attention was on the fighting, pickpockets did their silent job.

Monk felt the jolt, swung around, and came face-to-face with an old woman who grinned at him toothlessly, and at the same moment there was a touch behind him so light, the thief was a couple of yards away before Monk lunged after him and missed. It was Scuff who brought him down with a swift kick to the shins, which left him sprawling on the ground, yelling indignantly and hugging his left leg.

Monk yanked him to his feet without sympathy. Ten minutes later they were sitting on the top of the steps, the scuffle-hunter between them, looking uncomfortable, but willing to talk.

“I didn't tell ‘im nowt ‘cause I don't know nuffin’,” he said aggrievedly “I never ‘eard o’ Mary Webber. I said I'd ask around, an’ I did, I swear.”

“Why did he want her?” Monk answered. “What kind of woman was she supposed to be? When did he first ask? He must have told you something more than her name. How old was she? What did she look like? What did he want her for? Why ask you? Was she a pawnbroker, a money lender, a receiver, a brothel keeper, an abortionist, a whore, a procuress? What was she?”

The man squirmed. “Gawd! I don't know! ‘E said she were about fifty, or summink like that, so she weren't no ‘ore. Not any longer, anyway. She could ‘a been any o’ them other things. All ‘e said were ‘er name an’ that she ‘ad goldy-brown eyes an’ curly ‘air, little fine curls.”

“Why did he want her? When did he first ask you?”

“I dunno!” The man shivered and moved an inch or two away from Monk, shrinking into himself. “D'yer think I wouldn't ‘a told ‘im if I'd ‘a known?”

Monk felt the fear eat inside him also, for an utterly different reason. “When?” he insisted. “When did he first ask you about Mary Webber? What else did he ask?”

“Nuffin’! Were about two year ago, mebbe less. Winter. I mind because ‘e stood out in the cold an’ I were near freezin’. Me ‘ands were blue.”

“Did he ever find her?”

“I dunno! Nobody round ‘ere never ‘eard of ‘er. An’ I know all the fences and receivers, all the ‘ock shops an’ moneylenders from Wappin’ ter Blackwall, an’ back.”

Monk swiveled to face him and the man flinched again.

“Stop it!” Monk snapped. “I'm not going to hit you!” He heard the anger in his voice, almost out of control. The names of Durban and Mary Webber were enough to cause fear.

But the man either could not or would not tell him any more.

He tried other contacts along the water that he had made in the six months since he had been in the River Police, and names that had been in Durban 's notes, people Orme or any of the other men had mentioned.

“‘E were lookin’ for fat Tilda's boy,” an old woman told him with a shake of her head that set her battered straw hat swiveling on her head. They were on the corner of an alley a hundred feet from the dockside. It was noisy, dusty, and hot. She had a basket of shoelaces on her arm, and so far did not seem to have sold many. “Gorn missin’, ‘e ‘ad. Told ‘er ‘e'd possibly gone thievin’ an’ been caught, but she were ‘fraid that Phillips'd got ‘im. Could ‘ave. Daft as a brush ‘e is, an’ all.”

“What happened?” Monk asked patiently.

“Stupid little sod fell in the water an’ got fished out by a lighterman who took ‘im all the way down ter Gravesend. Come back three days later, right as rain.” She grinned at the memory as if she found acute satisfaction in it.

“But Mr. Durban looked for the boy?”

“Yeah, I said so. It were ‘im as found ‘im at Gravesend an’ brought ‘im back. Otherwise ‘e could ‘a been took ter sea an’ ended up dinner for some cannibal in the South Seas. That's wot I told my boys: do as I tell yer, or yer'll get run off an’ be boiled an’ ate up.”

Monk cringed inwardly at the thought.

“Reckon ‘e thought Phillips could ‘a got ‘im right enough,” the old woman said dourly, her smile vanished. “It's a bad shame Mr. Durban is dead. ‘E were the one as mebbe could ‘a done for Phillips. Didn't take no nonsense from no one, ‘e din't, but ‘e were fair, an’ nothin’ weren't too much trouble if yer was down.”

Scuff stood suddenly upright.

Monk swallowed. “ Durban?”

“‘Course, Durban,” she snapped, glaring at him. “‘Oo d'yer think I was talkin’ about, the Lord Mayor o’ London? ‘Ard man if yer was bad, but soft as muck if yer was sick or poor, or old, like me. ‘E wouldn't ‘ave stood ‘ere in the sun leavin’ me on me feet, an’ me mouth dry as a wooden boot. ‘E'd ‘a gave me a cup o’ tea, an’ bought a couple o’ pairs o’ shoelaces an’ all.”

“Why was he looking for Tilda's son?” Monk had to examine the moment of kindness, so it would not later fade and slip out of his grasp.

“‘Cause ‘e were afraid Phillips might ‘ave got ‘im, yer fool!” she said in disgust.

“Was that likely?”

“‘E knew. Tried ‘is ‘ardest ter get the bastard, then ‘e got killed ‘isself. Now them stupid sods o’ the river police in't good for nothin’ ‘cept smugglers, pickpockets, an’ a few ‘eavy ‘orsemen.” She was referring to the thieves who stole goods from the ships and brought them ashore in specially designed pockets inside their coats. The reproof stung less than Monk would have expected, and he shot a glance at Scuff to prevent him from leaping to his defense.

“Then he was going to catch Phillips?” he asked mildly.

She looked him up and down. “Yer want a pair o’ laces?” she asked.

He fished tuppence out of his pocket and passed it to her.

She gave him the laces. “Yer in't man enough to do it,” she responded. “Yer gotter ask an old woman like me the way?”

Scuff could take it no more. “You mind yer gob, yer ol’ mare!” he said furiously. “Mr. Monk's strung up more murderers than yer've ‘ad ‘ot dinners or like ter ‘ave! Mr. Durban never got Phillips neither, an’ you in't no ‘elp. Where's ‘is boat, eh? ‘Oo goes on an’ off it? ‘Oo puts burns on them boys when they get out o’ line? ‘Oo kills ‘em, an’ why, eh? D'yer even know wot yer talkin’ about, yer ol’ bag o’ bones?”

She darted her hand out and gave him a swift, hard slap around the ear. Monk winced as he heard the crack of skin on skin.

Scuff let out a howl.

“Wot'd I tell you lot fer?” the old woman demanded furiously. “Yer wouldn't do nothin’. Yer wouldn't take no risks ter keep the little bastards safe, not like ‘e did.”

“Risks?” Monk asked, gulping down hope and trying to keep his voice steady. He must not let her know it mattered. She would play every advantage. He even tried to invest his tone with some skepticism.

She was still angry. Her contempt was bitter in the deep lines around her eyes and mouth. “‘E got Melcher, dint ‘e?” She gave a toothless sneer. “Real clever sod ‘e were, when ‘e wanted. And ‘e conned Melcher every time, if ‘e din't keep an eye on other boys, an’ Phillips knew it. Pearly Boy too. Weren't till after Durban were dead that Reilly went. But wot'd yer know? Bloody useless.” She spat on the dusty ground. “Yer don't make me laugh like ‘e did. An’ don't give me nothin’ ter eat.”

He walked away with Scuff, thinking deeply. The insults did not bother him, it was the information whirling in his head that he needed to order. Melcher he knew was a heavy horseman, one of the roughest. According to the old woman, Durban had held something over him. Pearly Boy was an opulent receiver, a fence of the more elegant and expensive goods stolen and resold along the river, a man whose reputation for ruthlessness and greed was well enough known to keep him insulated from the usual dangers and irritations of rivalry in his particular trade. It seemed Durban had somehow manipulated him too. Phillips would not have liked that.

But who was Reilly? Or if the old woman was right, who had he been, and what had happened to him?

Scuff was worried. He glanced at Monk now and again, then away quickly.

“What is it?” Monk asked eventually as they crossed the narrow bridge on the Wapping Basin and moved west.

“She dint ought ter ‘ave talked to yer like that,” Scuff replied. “Yer shouldn't ‘a let ‘er get by wi’ it. Takes ‘erself liberties, she does.”

Scuff was right. Monk had been too relieved to hear someone speak so well of Durban that he had ignored the fact that he had allowed her to disparage him, and done nothing to assert his authority. It was an error that would have to be corrected, or he would pay the price later. He conceded the point to Scuff, who was satisfied, but took no pleasure in his victory. In his own way, he was worrying about Monk, afraid he was not fit to do the job, or to look after himself in the dangerous alleys and docksides of his new beat. There was a very strict hierarchy, and Monk was letting his place in it slip.

“I'll deal with her,” Monk repeated firmly.

“You watch Pearly Boy.” Scuff looked up at him. “I in't never met ‘im meself, careful not ter. But I ‘eard ‘e's real nice to yer face, an’ tear yer gizzard open the moment yer in't lookin’.”

Monk smiled. “You haven't heard what they used to say about me when I was in the regular shore police.”

“Yeah?” But the anxiety in his manner did not diminish at all. Was he being tactful? Afraid for him, a little pitying? It hurt. Monk was allowing his concern for Durban to erode his skill at his own job. It was past time he amended that.

“I will be very careful of Pearly Boy,” he assured Scuff. “But I need to find information about him, and at the same time let him know that I am no easier to deal with than Durban was, and no pleasanter.”

Scuffs shoulders straightened a little, and his step became a trifle cockier, but he did not answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monk did not interrupt him.

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

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

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

Rathbone was now very pale. There was no trace of friendship in his eyes. “Did you say ‘bribed’?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

He walked over to his desk.

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

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

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

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

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

“Even police,” Rathbone said tartly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, not yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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