Execution Dock (3 page)

He was almost at the prow, ready to jump to the next barge, when he saw a flicker of movement. Then Phillips was on him, knife arcing high and wide. Monk kicked forward, low and moving sideways, almost overbalancing, then righting himself at the last instant.

Phillips missed his mark, expecting to strike flesh and meet resistance, but not meeting it. He teetered on one foot, whirled his arms wildly for an instant, and fell forward onto his knees, ignoring the pain of Monk's boot on his flesh. He lashed out again immediately, catching the very front of Monk's shin and ripping his trousers, drawing blood.

Monk was startled. The pain was searing. He had expected Phillips to be more taken aback, longer in recovering, a mistake he would not make again. He had no weapon but the pistol in his belt. He drew it now, not to shoot but to bludgeon. Then he changed his mind and kicked again, hard and high, aiming more carefully this time. He caught Phillips on the side of the head, sending him sprawling. But Phillips had seen it coming and moved back, and the impact was not so great.

Now Monk had to go forward, over the lumpy canvas, and he had no idea what was underneath it. The barges were all hit by the wake of a coal barge, sails set, passing upriver. They bucked and slewed, throwing the men off balance again. Monk suffered most because he was standing. He should have seen that coming. Phillips, younger and more agile, had. Monk swayed, staggered, and fell almost on top of Phillips, who twisted and squirmed away from him. He landed hard, feeling the kegs under the canvas bruise him, and the next moment Phillips was on top of him, arms and legs like steel.

Monk was pinned. He was alone. Orme might even be able to see what was happening, but he could not help, and the bargees were going to take no part.

For a moment Phillips's face was so close, Monk could smell his skin, his hair, the exhale of his breath. His eyes were glittering, and he smiled as he brought the knife up in his hand.

Monk headbutted him as hard as he could. It hurt-bone against bone-but it was Phillips who yelled, and his grip went suddenly slack. Monk threw him off and slid away, crablike, then spun around instantly, the pistol in his hand.

But he was too late to shoot. Blood smeared over his face and running from his mouth, Phillips had risen to a crouch and turned away, as if he knew Monk would not shoot him in the back. He launched himself from the barge and landed spread-eagle on the canvas of the one ahead.

Without a moment's thought Monk followed.

Phillips staggered to his feet and started along the central ridge of the canvas. Monk went straight after him, this time finding the balance more difficult. Whatever was under the tarpaulin rolled beneath his feet and pitched him forward harder and faster than he intended.

Phillips reached the prow and jumped again. Again Monk went after him. This time it was tight, canvas-lashed bales underfoot, which were easier to balance on. He jumped from one to the other, catching up, tripping Phillips who went down hard. Monk struck him in the chest, crushing the air out of his lungs and hearing the long, grating rasp as he tried to fill them again. Then he felt pain in his forearm and saw blood. But it was only a slice, too shallow to cripple. He hit Phillips again in the chest, and the knife fell from Phillips's hand. Monk heard it slide down the canvas and clatter on the decking.

The blood was making his hand slippery now. Phillips was squirming like an eel, strong and hard, elbows and knees all powerful bone and angles, and Monk could not hold on.

Suddenly Phillips was free, staggering towards the front, ready to leap to the next barge. There was a lighter about to cross ahead of them, just one. His intention was clear. He would jump to it, and there would be no boat in which Monk could follow him.

Monk clambered up and reached the prow, just as Phillips jumped and fell short. He went into the water and along the lighter's side in the white wash of the bow.

Monk hesitated. He could let him drown, easily. He needed to be only a moment late and it would be beyond anyone's skill to fish him out. Injured as he was, he would drown in minutes. It would be an end better than he deserved. But Monk wanted him alive, so he could be tried and hanged. Durban would be proved right, and all the boys Phillips had used and tortured would have a proper answer.

Monk leaned forward with both arms over the side and caught Phillips by the shoulders, felt his hands lock onto his arms, and used all the strength he possessed to haul him out. He was wet, heavy, and almost a dead weight. His lungs were already filling with water, and he made no resistance.

Monk took out the handcuffs and locked them on before he balanced to roll Phillips over and pump his chest to get the water out. “Breathe!” he said between his teeth. “Breathe, you swine!”

Phillips coughed, vomited up river water, and drew in his breath.

“Well done, Mr. Monk, sir,” Orme said from the lighter coming alongside. “Mr. Durban'd have been happy to see that.”

Monk felt the warmth spread through him like fire and music, and peace after desperate exertion. “It needed tidying up,” he said modestly. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Orme.”

Monk arrived home at Paradise Place in Rotherhithe before six, a time that was relatively early for him. He had walked rapidly up the street from where the ferry had landed at Princes Stairs, and walked all the way up to Church Street, then the dogleg into Paradise Place. All the way he was refusing to think that Hester might not yet be home and he would have to wait to tell her that they had Phillips at last. And yet idiotically he could not get the fear of it out of his mind.

The police surgeon had stitched up the gashes Phillips had made in his arm and leg, but he was bruised, filthy, and covered with blood. He had also bought an excellent bottle of brandy for his men, and shared it with them. It had been for all the station, so no one was the worse for wear, but he knew the flavor of it hung around him. However, he did not even think of such a thing as he skipped a step, ran the last few dozen yards up the short length of Paradise Place, and unlocked his own front door.

“Hester!” he called, even before he closed it behind him. “Hester?” Only now did he fully face the possibility that she was not yet home. “I got him!”

The words fell on silence.

Then there was a clatter at the top of the stairs and she came running down, feet flying. Her hair was half undone, thick and fair and unruly as always. She hugged him with all her strength, which was considerable, in spite of her slender frame and lack of fashionable curves.

He picked her up and swung her around, kissing her with all the joy and victory he felt, and the sudden upsurge of belief in everything good. Most of all his elation was due to the possibility that she was right to have had faith in him, not just in his skill but in his honor, that core of him that was good and could treasure and hold on to love.

And Phillips's capture at last meant that Durban was right to have trusted him too, which he realized now had also mattered.

On an evening nearly two weeks after the capture of Jericho Phillips, Sir Oliver Rathbone, arguably the best attorney in London, returned a little early from his offices at the Inns of Court to his elegant and extremely comfortable home. It was the middle of August, and the air was hot and still. It was much pleasanter in his own sitting room, with the French windows open onto the lawn and the perfume of the second flush of roses rather than the odor of the streets, the sweat and dung of horses, the dust and the noise.

Like Monk, Rathbone was in his late forties, but very different in appearance. He was slender, fair-haired, with the air of confidence of one who has long proved his worth. Margaret greeted him with the same pleasure she always had since their marriage not so long ago. She came down the stairs with a swirl of pale green and white muslin, looking impossibly cool in the heat. She kissed him gently, smiling perhaps still a trifle self-consciously. He found a pleasure in it that he thought might be tactless to show.

They talked of many things over dinner: a new art exhibition that was proving more controversial than expected; the queen's absence from the London Season due to the recent death of Prince Albert, and quite how much difference that was going to make in the future; and of course the wretchedly miserable matter of the civil war in America.

The conversation was sufficiently interesting to occupy his mind, and yet also supremely comfortable. He could not remember ever having been happier, and when he retired to read a few necessary papers in his study he found himself smiling for no other reason than his inner peace.

Dusk was already gathering, and the air was mercifully cooler when the butler knocked on the door and told him that his father-in-law had called and wished to see him. Naturally Rathbone accepted immediately, although somewhat surprised that Arthur Ballinger would specifically ask to see him, rather than including his daughter as well.

When Ballinger came in, hard on the servant's heels, Rathbone saw at once that the matter was professional rather than personal. Ballinger was an attorney of high standing and very considerable repute. From time to time they had had dealings, but so far no clients in common, Rathbone's practice being almost entirely in major cases of criminal law.

Ballinger closed the study door behind him to ensure their privacy, then walked over to the chair opposite Rathbone. Barely acknowledging the greeting, he sat down. He was a large, rather heavy man with thick, brown hair that had only touches of gray. His features were powerful. Margaret had gained all the delicacy of her face and bearing from her mother.

“I am in a difficult position, Oliver,” he began without preamble. “A long-standing client has asked a favor of me that I am loath to grant, and yet I feel I cannot refuse him. It is a business that frankly I would prefer to have nothing to do with, but I can see no honorable way of escape.” He gave a slight shrug, with one shoulder only. “And I suppose, to be honest, no legal way either. One cannot pick and choose in which matters you will act for people, and in which you will not. That would make a mockery of the entire concept of justice, which must be for all, or it is for no one.”

Rathbone was startled by such a speech; it suggested a lack of confidence quite uncharacteristic of Ballinger. Something had clearly disturbed him. “Can I be of help, without breaking your client's privilege of discretion?” he asked hopefully. It would please him to assist Margaret's father in a matter that was important to him. It would make Margaret herself happy, and it would draw him closer into the family, which was not a situation he found naturally easy. He had a deep instinct for privacy. Apart from an intense friendship with his own father, he had found few ties in his adult years. In some ways William Monk, of all people, was the truest friend he had. That excluded Hester, of course, but his feeling for her had been different: stronger, more intimate, and in ways more painful, he was not ready to examine it any more closely.

Ballinger relaxed a fraction more, at least outwardly, although he still concealed his hands in his lap, as if they might have given him away.

“It would break no confidences at all,” he said quickly. “I am seeking your professional skills to represent a case I fear you will find repellent, and have very little chance of winning. However you will, of course, be properly paid for your time and your skill, which I regard as unique.” He was wise enough not to overpraise.

Rathbone was confused. His profession was to represent clients in court; very occasionally he prosecuted for the crown, but not as a habit. Why was Ballinger nervous about this, as undoubtedly he was? Why come to Rathbone at home, and not in his office, as would be far more usual? What was so different about this case? He had defended people accused of murder, arson, blackmail, theft, almost every crime one could think of, even rape.

“What is your client accused of?” he asked. Could it be something as contentious as treason? Against whom? The queen?

Ballinger gave a slight shrug. “Murder. But he is an unpopular man, unsympathetic to a jury. He will not appear well,” he hastened to explain. He must have seen the doubt in Rathbone's face. He leaned forward a little. “But that is not the problem, Oliver. I know you have represented all manner of people, on charges that have had no public sympathy at all. Although I deplore everything about this particular case, it is the issue of justice that is paramount in my client's mind.”

Rathbone found a wry irony in the remark. Few accused men phrased their attempts to be defended successfully in such general and rather pompous terms.

Ballinger's eyes flickered and something altered in the set of his features.

“I have not explained myself fully,” he went on. “My client wishes to pay your fees to defend another person entirely He has no relationship to the man accused, and no personal stake in the outcome, only the matter of justice, impartial, clear of all gain or loss to himself He fears that this man will appear so vile to average jurors that without the best defense in the country, he will be found guilty and hanged on emotion, not on the facts.”

“Very altruistic,” Rathbone remarked, although there was a sudden lift of excitement inside him, as if he had glimpsed something beautiful, a battle with all the passion and commitment he could give it. But it was only a glimpse, a flash of light gone before he was sure he had seen it at all. “Who is he?” he asked.

Ballinger smiled, a small bleak movement of the mouth. “That I cannot disclose. He wishes to remain anonymous. He has not told me his reasons, but I have to respect his wish.” From his expression and the peculiar, hunched angle of his shoulders, it was clear that this was the moment of decision, the trial in which he was afraid he might fail.

Rathbone was taken aback. Why would a man in so noble an endeavor wish to remain anonymous even from his attorney? From the public was easy enough to understand. They might well assume that he had some sympathy for the accused, and it would be only too clear to see why he would avoid that. “If I am bound to secrecy, I shall observe it,” Rathbone said gently. “Surely you told him that?”

“Of course I did,” Ballinger said quickly “However, he is adamant. I cannot move him on the subject. As far as you are concerned, I shall represent the accused man to you, and act on his behalf. All you need to know is that you will be paid in full, by a man of the utmost honor and probity, and that the money is earned by his own skills, which are in every way above suspicion. I will swear to that.” He sat motionless, staring earnestly at Rathbone. In a man of less composure it might even have been thought imploringly.

Rathbone felt uncomfortable that his own father-in-law should have to plead for the professional assistance he had always been willing to give, even to strangers and men he profoundly disliked, because it was his calling. He was an advocate; his job was to speak on behalf of those who were not equipped to speak for themselves, and who would suffer injustice if there were no one to take their part. The system of the law was adversarial. The sides must be equal in skill and in dedication; otherwise the whole issue was a farce.

“Of course I will act for your client,” he said earnestly. “Give me the necessary papers and a retaining fee, and then all we say will be privileged.”

Ballinger relaxed fully at last. “Your word is good enough, Oliver. I shall have all that you need sent to your office in the morning. I am extremely grateful. I wish I could tell Margaret what an excellent man you are, but no doubt she is already perfectly aware. I am delighted now that she had enough sense not to allow her mother earlier to push her into a marriage of convenience, although I admit I was exasperated at the time.” He smiled ruefully. “If you are going to have a strong-minded woman in the house, it is better to have two, preferably of opposing views. Then you can back one or the other, and achieve the goal you wish.” He sighed, and there was a momentary sadness in his face, in spite of the relief. “I cannot say how much I appreciate you, Oliver.”

Rathbone did not know how to answer; he was even a trifle embarrassed by Ballinger's regard. He directed the conversation towards the practical. “Who am I to defend? You said the charge was murder?”

“Yes. Yes, regrettably so.”

“Who is he, and who was the victim?” He knew better than to warn Ballinger not to tell him of any confession, which would jeopardize his standing as an officer of the court.

“Jericho Phillips,” Ballinger replied, almost casually.

Rathbone suddenly became aware that Ballinger was watching him intently, but beneath his lashes, as if he could conceal the fact. “The man charged with killing the boy found down the river at Greenwich?” he asked. He had read a little about it, and already he was unaccountably chilled.

“That's right,” Ballinger replied. “He denies it. Says the boy ran away, and he has no idea who killed him.”

“Then why is he charged? They must have some evidence. River Police, isn't it? Monk is not a fool.”

“Of course not,” Ballinger said smoothly. “I know he is a friend of yours, or at least he has been in the past. But even good men can make mistakes, especially when they are new to a job, and a little too eager to succeed.”

Rathbone felt more stung on Monk's behalf than he would have expected to. “I haven't seen him lately. I have been busy and I imagine so has he, but I still regard him as a friend.”

Regret and contrition filled Ballinger's face. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply otherwise. I hope I have not placed you in a position where you will have to question the judgment of a man you like and respect.”

“Liking Monk has nothing to do with defending someone he has arrested!” Rathbone said hotly, realizing exactly how much it could, if he allowed it to. “Do you imagine that my acquaintance with the police, the prosecution, or the judge, for that matter, will have any effect on my conduct of a case? Any case?”

“No, my dear chap, of course I don't,” Ballinger said with profound feeling. “That is exactly why my client chose you, and why I fully concurred with his judgment. Jericho Phillips will receive the fairest trial possible if you speak for him, and even if he is found guilty and hanged, we will all be easy at heart that justice has been done. We will never need to waken in the night with doubt or guilt that perhaps we hanged him because his style of life, his occupation, or his personal repulsiveness moved us more than honest judgment. If we are fair to the likes of him, then we are fair to all.” He rose to his feet and offered his hand. “Thank you, Oliver. Margaret is justly proud of you. I see her happiness in her face, and know that it will always be so.”

Rathbone had no choice but to take Ballinger's hand and clasp it, still with a faint trace of self-consciousness because he was not accustomed to such frankness in matters of emotion.

But after Ballinger had gone, he was also pleased. This would be a supreme challenge, and he would not like losing, but it was an honorable thing Ballinger had asked him to do-obliquely, dangerously honorable. And it would be intensely precious to have Margaret truly proud of him.

It was several more days before Rathbone actually went to Newgate Prison to meet with Jericho Phillips. By this time he had a much greater knowledge of both the specific crime he was charged with and-far more worrying to him-Phillips's general pattern of life.

Even so, he was still unprepared for the acute distaste he felt when they met. It was in a small, stone room with no furniture other than a table and two chairs. The single window was high in the wall and let in daylight, but there was nothing to see beyond it but the sky. The motionless air inside smelled stale, as if it held a century's sweat of fear that all the carbolic in the world could not wash away.

Phillips himself was little above average height, but the leanness of his body and the angular way he stood made him look taller. He possessed no grace at all, and yet there was a suggestion of power in him in even the simple act of rising to his feet as Rathbone came in and the guard closed the door behind him.

“Mornin’, Sir Oliver,” Phillips said civilly. His voice was rasping, as if his throat were sore. He made no move to offer his hand, for which Rathbone was grateful.

“Good morning, Mr. Phillips,” he replied. “Please sit down. Our time is limited, so let us use it to the full.” He was slightly uncomfortable already. He felt an unease almost like a brush of physical fear. And yet Phillips was no threat to him at all. As far as he knew, to Phillips he was the one man on his side.

Phillips obeyed, moving stiffly. It was the only thing that betrayed his fear. His hands were perfectly still, and he did not stammer or shake.

“Yes, sir,” he said obediently.

Rathbone looked at him. Phillips had sharp features and the pallid skin of one who lives largely away from the sunlight, but there was nothing soft in him, from his spiky hair to his glittering eyes, his strong hands, and his narrow, bony shoulders. He had the physical build of poverty-thin chest, slightly crooked legs-and yet he had learned not to show the usual limp of deformity.