Execution Dock (24 page)

“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.”