Execution Dock (32 page)

“You spend far too much time at that place,” he went on. “This is the third time in as many weeks that I have had to mention this to you. It will not do, Claudine. I have a right to expect certain duties of you, and you are not behaving appropriately at all. As my wife, you have social obligations, of which you are not unaware. Richmond told me you were not at his wife's party last Monday.” He said it as a challenge.

“It was to raise money for charity in Africa,” she replied. “I was working for a charity here.”

He lost his temper. “Oh, don't be absurd! You insulted a lady of considerable consequence in order to go fetching and carrying for a bunch of whores off the street. Have you lost absolutely all sense of who you are? If you have, then let me remind you who I am.”

“I am perfectly aware of who you are, Wallace,” she said as calmly as she could. “I have spent years…” She nearly said “the best years of my life,” but they were not. Indeed, they had been the worst. “I have spent years of my life performing all the duties your career and your station required…”

“And your station, Claudine,” he interrupted. “I think too often you forget that.” That was definitely an accusation. His face was reddening, and he moved a step closer to her.

She did not move back. She would refuse to, no matter how close he came.

“That station, which you take so lightly,” he went on, “provides the roof over your head, the food in your mouth, and the clothes on your back.”

“Thank you, Wallace,” she said flatly. She felt no gratitude whatever. Would it have been so bad to have worked for it herself, and owned it without obligation? No, that was a fantasy. One then had to please whoever employed you. Everyone was bound to somebody else.

He did not hear the sarcasm, or chose not to. But then he had very little sense of irony or appreciation of the absurd. “You will oblige me by writing a letter to Mrs. Monk and telling her that you are no longer able to offer your assistance in her project. Tomorrow.” He took a deep, satisfied breath. “I am sure that after her unfortunate appearance in criminal court she will not be in the least surprised.”

“She was a witness!” Claudine protested, and instantly knew from his face that it was a technical error.

“Of course she was a witness,” he said with disgust. “The kind of life she leads, the people she associates with, she is bound to see all sorts of crimes. The only miracle is that she was for the prosecution, not for the defense. I have been extremely tolerant so far, Claudine, but you have now exceeded the limit of what is acceptable. You will do as I have instructed. That is all I have to say on the matter.”

Claudine could not remember ever having been so angry, or so desperate to fight back. He was taking from her everything that had brought her the most joy in her life. She realized that with a shock of amazement. It was absurd, but working in Portpool Lane gave her friendship, purpose, and a sense of belonging, of being valued, even a sense of mattering. She could not allow him to simply remove it because he thought he could.

“I am surprised,” she said, controlling her voice as well as she could, although she was aware that it trembled.

“I do not wish to discuss it further, Claudine,” he said coldly. He always addressed her by name when he was displeased. “I have no idea why you should be surprised, except that I have allowed it so long. It is totally unsuitable.”

“I am surprised that you find it so.” She was attacking now, and it was almost too late to draw back. She plunged in. “And I admit, it frightens me.”

His eyebrows rose high. “Frightens you? That is a foolish thing to say. You are becoming hysterical. I have simply said that you are no longer to associate yourself with a clinic for whores. Forgive me for using the word, but it is the correct one.”

“That is immaterial.” She brushed it aside with a wave of her hand. She was not a beautiful woman, but her hands were lovely. “What alarms me is that I have allied myself with people who have publicly stood up against a man who traffics in children, small boys, to be precise, for the use of men in their more revolting appetites. Since we are using correct words,” she mimicked his tone exactly, “I believe the term is sodomy. This abuse of children is practiced by all sorts of men,” she continued, “of a bestial and debased nature, but this man caters to those with money, that is, largely of our own social class.” She saw the blood rush to his face in a scarlet tide. “It frightens me,” she continued relentlessly, her voice now quivering with real fear, although not of what she was claiming, “that you do not wish, very publicly indeed, to show yourself to be in the battle against it.”

She drew in her breath and let it out slowly, trying to control the shaking of her body. “I do not suspect you of such an appetite, Wallace, but I am more than slightly worried that you forbid me to continue in my support for Mrs. Monk, and all those who fought at her side. What will people think? It is bound to become even more public than it is now. I am not sure that I can oblige you by retreating from the conflict.”

He stared at her as if she had grown horns and a tail.

She found herself gulping for air. She could never go back now, as long as she lived. She knew how Caesar must have felt when he crossed the Rubicon to declare war on Rome.

“Are you sure that is what you wish me to do?” she said softly.

“I don't know what has happened to you,” he said, looking at her with loathing. “You are a disgrace to your sex, and to all that your parents hoped of you. You are certainly not the woman I married.”

“I understand how that pains you,” she replied. She was well on the far bank of the Rubicon now. “You are the man I married, and that pains me, which perhaps now you also understand. There is little for us to do but make the best of it. I shall do what I believe to be right, which is to continue to help those in need, and fight with every ability I have to bring men like Jericho Phillips to justice before the law. I think you would find it in your best interests to pretend that you support me. You would be hard put to justify any other course to your friends, and I know you value their opinion. Whatever their private habits, they could not be seen to think differently.” And before he could reply, she left the room, and told her maid that she would take supper in her boudoir.

In the morning she left for the clinic very early indeed, before six. It was light at this time of the year, and when she arrived half an hour later, she found Ruby up and working in the kitchen. She had already decided that it was Ruby whose help she would ask.

“‘Mornin’, Mrs. Burroughs,” Ruby said with surprise. “Summink ‘appened? Yer look kind o’ upset, bit feverish. Like a cup o’ tea?”

“Good morning, Ruby,” Claudine replied, closing the back door behind her. “Yes, I would like a cup of tea. I have not had breakfast yet, and I imagine you haven't either. I brought some butter and a pot of marmalade.” She produced it and set it on the table. “And a loaf of fresh bread,” she added. “I wish for your advice, in confidence.”

Ruby looked at the excellent Dundee marmalade and the crusty bread, and knew that it must be serious. She was alarmed.

Claudine saw it. “There is no need to be concerned,” she said, going over to the stove and opening the door, ready to make toast. “I wish to do something that I hope will help Mrs. Monk. It will be uncomfortable, and possibly a little dangerous, so I imagine she would stop me if she knew, which is why I am speaking to you in confidence. Are you willing to help me?”

Ruby stared at her in wonder. She was very aware that Hester was in trouble; everyone knew it. “‘Course I am,” she said decisively. “Wot'd'yer want?”

“I want to sell matches,” Claudine replied. “I thought of bootlaces-that might also work-except people do not need to buy them very often. Flowers would be no use at all, nor would any kind of food.” She straightened up from the stove and began to slice the bread. The aroma of it filled the room.

Ruby pulled the kettle over onto the burner and reached for the tea caddy, her mind whirling. “Why d'yer wanter sell matches?” She was utterly lost. She knew it could not possibly be for money. Claudine was rich anyway.

“As an excuse for standing in the street outside the sort of shop where they would sell the photographs that Jericho Phillips takes of little boys,” Claudine replied. “We know the faces of some of his boys; perhaps I can find these photographs, or at least tell Commander Monk where they may be found. Then he will have another way in which to trap Phillips. Or he may trap some of the men who buy them…” The further she went in trying to explain her idea, the more desperate and foolish it sounded.

“Cor!” Ruby let out her breath in a sigh of amazement and admiration. Her eyes were wide and shining. “Then ‘e'd ‘ave the proof! ‘E could make ‘em split on Phillips, eh? It wouldn't be like ‘angin’ ‘im, but it'd make ‘im mad, for certain. An’ it'd make ‘is customers as mad as wasps in a fire, an’ all! I'll ‘elp yer, an’ I won't tell no one, I swear!”

“Thank you,” Claudine said with profound gratitude. “Now, shall we have breakfast? I trust you like marmalade?”

“Cor! Yeah, I do. Ta.” Ruby looked at the jar and she could almost taste it already. “Yer'll ‘ave ter ‘ave a blouse an’ skirt wot's right, an’ a shawl. I can get yer one. It'll smell, mind. But it should. Yer can't go lookin’ like that, or they'll con yer in a second. An’ yer'll ‘ave ter keep yer mouth shut as much as yer can. I'll tell yer wot ter say. Or better, pretend as yer deaf, an’ can't ‘ear nuffin’. An’ boots. I'll get yer some boots wot look like yer'd already walked ter Scotland an’ back in ‘em.”

“Thank you,” Claudine said quietly. She was beginning to wonder if she really had the courage to go through with this. It was an insane idea. She was totally incompetent to carry off such a thing. It would be humiliating. They would see through her disguise in an instant, and Wallace would have her committed as a lunatic. He would have no trouble at all. What other explanation could there be for such behavior?

Ruby shook her head. “Yer got some guts, Missus.” Her eyes shone with awe. “I reckon even Miss ‘Ester'd be proud o’ yer. ‘Course I won't tell ‘er!” she added hastily. “I won't never give yer away.”

That sealed the decision. There was no escape now. She could not possibly forfeit Ruby's faith in her, and that burning admiration. “Thank you,” Claudine said again. “You are a loyal and excellent ally.”

Ruby beamed with pleasure, but she was too thrilled to speak.

Naturally Claudine did not go until it was dusk, when she had far greater chance of being unrecognized. Even so, she walked with her head down, shuffling a little in unfamiliar and extremely uncomfortable boots. She must have looked dreadful. Her hair was greased with oil from the kitchen, the smell of which she found distasteful, like a stale pan. Her face was carefully smeared with grime, similarly her hands and as much of her neck as showed. She had an old shawl around her, and was glad to hold it tight, not for warmth, because the evening was mild, but to conceal as much of herself as she could. She carried a light tray that would be hung around her neck on a string, and a bag full of matchboxes to sell. She also had about one and sixpence worth of change, mostly in pennies and halfpennies. Ruby had told her that more would be suspicious.

She began on the dockside beyond Wapping and walked slowly until she found a corner between a good tobacconist and a public house, then stood there with the tray resting just below her bosom and felt as conspicuous as a squashed fly on a white wall, and about as useful.

She also felt afraid. As darkness settled she could see only the short stretches under the street lamps clearly, or wedges of broken pavement where light spilled out a window, or a suddenly opened door. There was noise all around. In the distance dogs were barking above the clatter of hooves from the traffic on the busy cross street seventy yards away. Closer to her people were shouting, and above it was the occasional burst of laughter.

She was ridiculously grateful when someone bought matches, and actually spoke to her. Just that they had seen her and acknowledged her as a human being broke the loneliness that had hardened around her like imprisoning glass. She smiled, and then with a shock of shame remembered that Ruby had also blackened two of her teeth. She said they were beautiful, far too even and white for the sort of woman she was pretending to be.

What was even stranger and more disconcerting was that the man did not even notice. He took her for exactly what she was pretending to be, a street woman too old and too plain to be a whore, but still needing to earn perhaps a shilling or two, standing alone in the night on a street corner selling matches, mild or freezing, wet or dry. She was relieved, but oddly
“puzzled
also. Was that really the only difference, clothes and a little dirt, the way she carried her head, whether she dared meet his eyes or not?

She could stand here all night, and those who were sorry for her might buy matches, but she would learn nothing. She needed to move closer to the shops that sold books and periodicals, tobacco, the sort of things a man would buy without arousing any interest or comment. Ruby had told her where they were, and what they were like. Maybe she should be closer to Jericho Phillips's boat? She wanted to catch his trade in particular. Maybe it was like most other trades; people had their own areas. One did not trespass. Certainly she was growing cold and stiff here, and achieving nothing except a little practice.

She began to walk back towards the river and the stretch half a mile or so to the south of Execution Dock. That was one of the places where Phillips had been known to moor his boat. Another was further south again, on the Limehouse Reach. There was another where the curve of the Isle of Dogs bends back to the Blackwall Reach, opposite the Bugsby Marshes. Too far for rich men to go for their pleasures, and certainly a less profitable place to sell books and pictures. Was she being intelligent? Or merely too stupid to know just how stupid she was? Wallace would have said the latter, if he were not too apoplectic with rage to say anything at all. She could not bear for him to be right; that would be almost as bad as letting Ruby down.